MURDER ON THE OXFORD CANAL

by Faith Martin

  He was fobbing her off, and they both knew it.

  At his desk, Frank grinned widely.

  Hillary gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  Mel took the two Vice officers into his office. Janine sidled over. Meeting Hillary’s grim stare, she seemed to hesitate.

  ‘I was wondering, boss, if you could give me a place to start. With tracing boats, I mean.’

  ‘Sure,’ Hillary said, guessing her dilemma and deciding to let her off the hook. She was determined not to be petty.

  What was it Mel had said? Oh yeah. Be thorough. My, what a pearl of wisdom that was.

  ‘First you can check on the fees. For a start there’s mooring fees, which are paid yearly. Then you can check on licences — you get them from British Waterways, also paid yearly. The bigger the barge, the larger the fee. If that fails, there’s always insurance. It’s mandatory, and has to be third party. I’d check with Thrupp Boat Club to begin with — there’s probably insurance companies that specialise in that sort of thing.’ For her part, she was still living off her uncle’s insurance, though no doubt she’d have to pay the next premium. ‘Then there’s a Safety Certificate — that might not help so much as it’s only issued every four years, and if Fletcher’s bought his boats second-hand, they’ll still be in place. Oh, and check with any private boat clubs. Mooring there is extra, and I should think Fletcher would like the privacy they offer more than public towpath mooring.’

  Slightly glassy-eyed, Janine nodded. ‘Right, boss.’

  Tommy, who was already busy at his terminal, looked up at her with a tea-and-sympathy smile, but Janine was in no mood for it.

  She was thinking about her date with Mel. If it was still on. She sat at her desk, tapping her pen absently on her pad. He hadn’t said it was off. Things were hotting up, though, getting busy.

  Still, a date was a date.

  She turned her mind to the usual problems, multiplied in her case by the fact that her date was also her boss.

  He hadn’t mentioned dinner afterwards, but if they did go somewhere, she couldn’t dress as casually as she would if she was just going to watch a film. On the other hand, if he turned up in jeans and turtleneck, she’d feel a right wally wearing a little black number. And what about the goodnight kiss? Awkward or what?

  She sighed heavily and turned to her screen. Boat yards. As good a place to start as any.

  Just another exciting day in the life of a Thames Valley detective sergeant. When, oh when, was she actually going to see some action? She'd joined the police force so she could kick ass. As it was, she might just as well have become a secretary, like her mother had always wanted.

  * * *

  Hillary, feeling even more cheesed off than Janine, and without even the prospect of a mildly problematical date to relieve the monotony, read through the latest reports.

  Some of them were standard, things that had been implemented without her go-ahead. The Pit’s mother, for example, had been traced and interviewed at her home. The constable’s report was scrupulous, though it told her nothing. A little postscript, almost apologetic, stated that, in the constable’s opinion, Mrs Pitman was afraid of her son. It did little to enhance her mood.

  Pitman, rapist and all-round thug, was somebody that she assumed even his mother would be afraid of. It meant that, even if the poor old soul had known where her son was or what he’d been up to, she’d never talk. Even with him dead, no doubt he still cast a long shadow.

  She sighed and pencilled her in for another interview. Then shook her head. She’d be damned if she’d go over the leavings of a constable. Not even to suit Mel Mallow.

  No, if she was stuck with the booby prize, she’d bloody well make the best of it. Even Frank Ross had a better assignment, with far more chance of getting a shot at glory.

  She picked up her bag and, deliberately not telling Mel where she was going, marched out of the office.

  Tommy was the only one to see her go.

  The address she had for Dave Pitman’s first suspected rape victim was nearly ten years old, and she didn’t hold out much hope.

  The house, in Banbury, was nice enough, one of those Victorian villas converted into flats. Sure enough, the flat number had a different name beside it. No knowing where the victim might be now. Rape victims, and victims of violent personal assault, often moved away, as if they could outrun the nightmares. But as Hillary well knew, a change of scene doesn’t do a thing to alter what is in your head.

  She ran her eyes down the six names by the door, pausing on the third. Miss E Carmichael. It sounded like the name of a spinster aunt. Probably she’d turn out to be a thirty-something highly efficient PA for some advertising firm.

  But no. The voice that came over the intercom was reassuringly old. And wary.

  Hillary introduced herself. ‘Detective Inspector Hillary Greene, ma’am. I was wondering if you knew Diana McGraw? She lived here about a decade ago.’

  The lobby door buzzed, and she pushed through, walking across cracked linoleum and up one flight of stairs. She turned the bend into a gloomy corridor, and saw that the door at the far end was already ajar. She was glad, and sad too, to find the chain was still firmly attached. Had Miss Carmichael been the victim of a forced entry? Or did she just read the papers?

  Hillary had her warrant card ready, and showed it carefully through the gap.

  A moment later, the door opened. Miss Carmichael was old, but she wasn’t little. She was a good inch or two taller than Hillary. But she had white hair, weak blue eyes, and an air of vulnerability. Hillary wondered, uneasily, if she might not herself wear such a look, in another twenty — oh, OK, thirty years’ time.

  ‘Come in, Inspector. Yes, I knew Diana.’

  Ten minutes later, Hillary was sitting on a settee, sipping Darjeeling and admiring the canary. It wasn’t hard. The tea was good and the bird could sing prettily enough. Since she was in no hurry to get back to the Big House and watch Frank smirking his triumph at her or dodge Mel’s hangdog, not-my-fault looks, she was prepared to take her time.

  And it had been a while since she’d done any interviews. Getting out of touch with the public was an occupational hazard as you climbed the ladder, one that could be a grave mistake.

  ‘Poor Diana. She never was the same after . . . the incident. It didn’t help that her mother was dead. It might have made a difference, having a mother to talk to.’ Obviously Miss Carmichael had known the McGraws well — unless she was just the resident busybody. ‘And then her dad died a couple of years ago. But by then, Diana was gone. To London, or so her father said.’

  Hillary sighed. That was one potential suspect out of the way then. She’d known fathers who’d tried to kill men who’d attacked, raped or robbed their loved ones. Though in this case, the timing was all wrong. Usually, if a family member was going to take revenge, it happened while the attacker was out on bail, if bail had been granted, or when they first got out of jail.

  In this case, the alleged rape had happened too long ago.

  ‘I daresay her brother keeps in touch,’ Miss Carmichael said, momentarily raising Hillary’s hopes before dashing them again. ‘He’s in oil. An engineer in Saudi Arabia. His father was that proud of him.’

  Hillary lingered for a few more minutes. Outside in her car she made some notes in the margin, then checked the details of the one rape victim who’d at least succeeded in getting The Pits jailed. Not every woman was prepared to testify in open court.

  But she’d been in care, she read, and had had priors for prostitution since then. She’d also disappeared into the city’s underbelly long ago. Either moved on, married or ended up dead somewhere. Probably from an overdose, Hillary supposed grimly.

  Not the kind, anyway, to have an avenging angel hovering in the wings.

  That just left Sylvia Warrender.

  * * *

  Deirdre Warrender flung open the door and staggered forward. Hillary found herself holding up a hand to stop her lurching over, bef
ore the woman caught herself and stared at her.

  ‘You’re not Brenda.’

  Hillary agreed that she wasn’t, and held up her warrant card. The usual look of disconcerted guilt crept across the woman’s face. Hillary could almost hear her sorting through her mind for any misdemeanours she may have committed. She looked like the sort who might shoplift the occasional bottle of gin or packet of fags. She was certainly the worse for drink now.

  ‘Oh.’ Deirdre blinked at the warrant card. She had frizzy blonde hair, very much dyed, and a once-good figure running to fat. Too much make-up badly applied. And she was wearing what was probably her best dress, a floral tent-like construction.

  ‘I thought you was Brenda,’ she said, her words carefully enunciated like someone not quite drunk. ‘We was going to Mecca.’ Hillary blinked. With her nearly-Oxford educated brain, her first thought was that Deirdre Warrender made an unlikely Muslim, let alone one who even knew which way Mecca faced. ‘Bingo,’ Deirdre said helpfully.

  ‘It’s really your daughter I wanted to see, Mrs Warrender. Sylvia. Is she here?’

  ‘No, she ain’t, see.’ Deirdre Warrender spoke aggressively, the mother hen instantly aroused to clucking fury over a threatened chick.

  ‘At work, perhaps,’ Hillary said mildly.

  ‘No,’ Deirdre said, reluctantly. ‘Got made redundant last month. She’s on the social.’ She sounded ashamed of it.

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Hillary wondered if she was ever going to get invited in. ‘It’s about her,’ she looked around, lowering her voice, but she needn’t have bothered. The street, lined with poor terraced houses on either side, was as deserted as a pub after closing time. ‘Trouble a few years back. The attack.’ Hillary wasn’t sure she was getting through. She deliberately avoided the word “rape.”

  ‘Oh,’ her mother said blankly, and swayed back into the hall. ‘You’d better come in, then.’ She led the way to a tiny and cold lounge. ‘Didn’t think you rozzers were still on that. Bugger got away with it, didn’t he?’

  She fell, rather than sat, on to an overstuffed sofa, and stared belligerently up, rather cross-eyed. Hillary wondered if she was seeing double.

  ‘Your daughter accused David Pitman of the attack, didn’t she, Mrs Warrender?’

  The older woman’s eyes, clear blue and set in puffy, red-veined cheeks, narrowed. Suddenly she looked very sober indeed.

  Hillary had her down for a mother who was loving but useless at the job. She’d have been furious at anybody who’d hurt her lamb, but basically impotent. She might have, on the spur of the moment, attacked Dave Pitman with her handbag, or bottle of gin, or whatever she happened to be holding, had she run across him in the courthouse or on the street. But she couldn’t see this woman planning or executing a cold-blooded revenge killing.

  She was also the type who stayed close to home. Home being, in this case, Cowley. She doubted if Deirdre Warrender had even been outside her portion of the city, let alone ventured into the countryside. In fact, she probably despised the country, and all it stood for. A city sparrow down to her marrow, if ever Hillary saw one.

  Pity the daughter wasn’t in. Still, if she took after her mother . . .

  ‘What’s the story, then?’ Deirdre asked, but Hillary was not about to fill her in. If her daughter did have something to do with it, she didn’t want her forewarned.

  She’d have to come back later and interview the daughter separately.

  ‘Just routine enquiries, Mrs Warrender. Was Sylvia your only child?’

  ‘Yeah, she was. Only wanted the one. Had such a bad time with her, I thought never again. Not like some round here. Have brat after brat. All of them up to no good. My Sylvie’s a good girl. She did typing at school. Worked as a receptionist, she did. Well, before they gave her the push.’

  The tone had become whining now, and Hillary nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s done well for herself. How about her dad? I’ll bet he’s as proud of her as you are.’

  Deirdre snorted. ‘Huh. Him! Don’t know if he’s even still alive. Ran off, didn’t he, as soon as he heard I was up the duff.’ A cunning, curiously humorous look crossed her face. ‘Joined the French Foreign Legion or something, I ’spect.’ She began to laugh raucously.

  So bang goes another possible suspect, Hillary thought morosely, and then, with a nasty jolt, caught Deirdre Warrender looking at her with knowing eyes. She suddenly felt her hackles rise. She really was getting out of practice if she couldn’t read a witness better than this.

  She asked a few more desultory questions, but was soon forced to call it quits. She got back into her car, feeling out of sorts. Then she laughed. People such as Deirdre Warrender and her poor bloody daughter just didn’t like cops, it was that simple. And since they’d failed to jail the man who’d raped Sylvia, who could blame them?

  Besides, it was obvious that whoever killed The Pits had something to do with Luke Fletcher and one or other of his crooked schemes.

  She was just wasting her time with this personal angle stuff.

  But thanks to Mel bloody Mallow, it was all she had to play with. Unless she wanted to linger around the Big House and get pounced on by the Yorkie Bars.

  Which she didn’t.

  CHAPTER 7

  It wasn’t George Clooney but Brad Pitt. Janine didn’t seem to mind, though.

  Mel watched the action up on the big screen, and found himself wondering idly how the actor would react if he’d really been hit in the gut like that. One thing was for sure — he wouldn’t bounce back like a bloody rubber ball and proceed to vault a six-foot-high wall. He’d probably bend over and groan, then be spectacularly sick all over the street. Maybe even cry a bit. He’d seen men, punched in the stomach, do variations on all three, be they big bad villains, or bigger badder policemen. He’d even done some himself, in his younger days back on the beat. Pain brought tears to the eyes, and a fist to the stomach after a plateful of fish and chips was a recipe for disaster for anyone.

  Except Brad Pitt, of course.

  Beside him, he felt rather than saw Janine Tyler smile. He focused on the screen again, where the scene had changed to a romantic interlude.

  What had made him suggest a film anyway? Why not dinner? That was far more his line. He hadn’t been to the cinema in years. Perhaps it was because, unconsciously at least, he’d realised that Janine would prefer the cinema to a dinner in a smoky little jazz club. And why would he have thought that? He followed this line of thought wryly, like a man with a toothache compulsively and painfully probing the cavity with his tongue. The answer came back loud and clear. Because she was just the age to enjoy big Hollywood blockbusters and to find escapism in them rather than world-weary scepticism.

  She was, in fact, just the age to be nearly twelve years his junior.

  He sighed heavily. He felt old. Very old.

  * * *

  In the Boat, one of Thrupp’s two pubs, the night was hotting up. Hillary resolutely refused to patronise the Jolly Boatman. She might have been forced to become a boatswoman, but jolly she sure as hell wasn’t. Of course, in Thrupp hotting up meant somebody had a darts match going.

  She walked through to the bar, intending to order a very large vodka. She didn’t get the chance to so much as open her mouth. Sitting at the other end of the nook was a Yorkie Bar.

  The good-looking one. The one who fancied her.

  He saw her, of course, and a brief look of consternation, followed by wry guilt, chased across his even, eye-pleasing features.

  No wedding ring, she’d noticed, but she bet there was a girlfriend somewhere. She could just see him in ten years’ time — probably a DCI or even a super by then, married with the mandatory two point four kids, a new car and a crippling mortgage.

  Paul Danvers came over to her and indicated the bar with a nod of his fair head. ‘DI Greene. Can I get you a drink?’

  Hillary snorted. ‘Don’t you have to watch that sort of thing?’ She heard herself jeering like a bellige
rent teenager, but who the hell cared? ‘What if your DS caught you buying me a pint — wouldn’t he begin to look at you sideways too?’

  Paul laughed. ‘I’ll risk it.’ Though, now he came to think about it, he could imagine Curtis raising a knowing eyebrow.

  He uncomfortably ordered a cider for himself, and Hillary, reluctantly, asked for and received her vodka. They took one of the tables at the back, away from the rowdy darts game. Those women from the Tea Emporium could get rough, especially when they took on the toughs from the Baker’s Oven.

  Hillary smiled wickedly. ‘So, found out anything interesting about me and my nefarious and highly suspicious activities? Or are you going to say you don’t know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,’ he said, with discomfiting seriousness. ‘You’ve had no recent fancy holidays abroad, no luxuries coming onto the boat, so far as anybody’s noticed. You’ve not even bought a newer second-hand car.’

  ‘I’ve got a Volkswagen. I won’t need another new car until . . . oh, at least another ten years’ time.’

  Paul smiled but Hillary didn’t. The fact was, she really could see herself still driving her VW when she was fifty.

  ‘So, how’s the investigation going?’ she asked, then immediately held up a hand. ‘I know. Sorry I asked.’ It occurred to her briefly to wonder why she was being such a prat. Still, the vodka helped her push the thought away.

  Paul looked back at her steadily from across the table. ‘So why did you ask?’

  Hillary looked away, feeling somehow ashamed, like a kid who’d been caught pulling wings off a butterfly. Great. Just what she needed. To be psychoanalysed by a Yorkie Bar over a vodka at the Boat. Surely there wasn’t anybody in the city having a better time than her right now?

  * * *

  Mel opened the gate to a small, weedy little garden, and looked around nervously. Terraced, converted, Victorian. Say that, and you’ve said it all. He knew what went on in bedsit-land. Beans on toast, and the laundry basket always full. He had lived in digs like these himself.

  Years ago. Years and years ago.