by Faith Martin
The novel was a Dick Francis thriller. He glanced inside, surprised to see an inscription from Hillary. He’d give it her back. Who knows, she might want a small keepsake.
Yeah. Right. She’d probably burn it. When he was alive, his father had given her nothing but grief. And now that he was dead, he still couldn’t seem to get out of the habit.
* * *
Tommy was back on the towpath, miles from all the excitement of Oxford. Right now, the Kraken was cordoned off and being gone over by jubilant cops from the Oxford station.
When he’d got back to the Big House, feeling the usual washed-out lethargy that came after an adrenaline rush, Hillary, far from coming it with the compliments, had rather sourly reminded him they still had a suspicious death to investigate, even if Regis and Mel seemed to have forgotten all about The Pits.
Her grim reminder had sent him back to his notebook, where he came across his reminder to go and question the missing boaties from up Dashwood Lock way. In particular, the artist who liked elephants, and who, according to one witness, had seen everything.
The day was overcast now, the earlier sun having slunk off over the horizon, but in other respects he was in luck. A door on the elephant-bedaubed boat stood open, and the sound of a radio floated out.
With nothing to knock on, he stood outside and coughed. Nothing. ‘Er, excuse me. Hello in the boat!’ Tommy began to feel like an extra from a pirate movie. Well, at least he hadn’t said ‘Ahoy there!’
The radio went silent, and a second later a mass of blond hair poked out. Somewhere in the middle of it was a face. The long hair fell to bare shoulders, the long beard lay on a bare chest, and a furry blond caterpillar crossed a lip and made inroads into the cheeks. A pair of dark brown eyes twinkled out of the hairy mass. A moment later, the rest of him followed. He was covered in paint smears and something that looked like sawdust.
Tommy hadn’t expected a walking cliché. Didn’t this guy know that the sixties were like, gone, man? Or was this the ‘new age’ look? Tommy had no desire at all to know what he’d been doing down in the boat. He tended to shy away from anything to do with paint.
He introduced himself and showed his warrant card. He tried not to notice that the artist was running his eyes over him like he was a prime Aberdeen Angus at a cattle show.
Tommy said his piece about a body having been found. ‘So I was wondering if you noticed anything unusual that night.’ He tried hard not to sound accusing, but if the artist had taken offence, he didn’t show it. Instead he seemed to crinkle up his eyes and think. It looked painful.
A long silence ensued. Tommy cleared his throat. ‘For instance, did you notice a boat going faster than it should, or travelling after dark?’
‘Oh yeah. The Time Out it was. I thought it was rather twee.’ The artist, who hadn’t given his name, spoke for the first time in a thick, Welsh accent. For a second, Tommy had trouble deciphering the singsong words, then grasped their significance.
‘The boat was called Time Out? And it was definitely the night of the eighth?’
‘It surely was. The lady who was moored a few berths down complained about the bow wave the next morning. I noticed it too — I was trying to paint an elephant’s eye at the time. You try doing that when your boat suddenly starts rocking.’ He laughed. ‘Talk about someone rocking your boat, look you.’
The combination of all that pale hair, his singsong voice, and the way he kept looking at him, as if imagining him stretched out in a big bad bed, was enough to make Tommy break out in a sweat.
But DC Tommy Lynch was made of sterner stuff. ‘Did you notice who was driving?’ He tried to assume his most constabulary tone.
‘Navigating? Yeah, sure, an old bloke. About sixty, I should say. Silver hair, and lean as a whippet, he was. Good facial bones. If I was into portraiture, see, I might have been interested.’
Tommy blinked, hoping his facial bones were of the common or garden variety. Real common or garden.
‘I see. Did you notice anyone else on the boat?’
‘Oh no. They had the curtains drawn, look you. Floral ones.’ He shuddered, and it set all his hair rippling. Tommy managed to keep his eyes averted.
‘Did you hear any conversation from the boat?’ he pursued doggedly.
‘Not a dickie bird.’
Tommy tried a few more questions, but got nothing more. Still, it was a starting point. Of course, the Time Out might be a boat with nothing more to its discredit than breaking the four miles an hour speed limit — although Makepeace, one of Fletcher’s gang, was supposed to be in his sixties.
It was something to take back to Hillary, anyway.
* * *
Frank liked scaring his stool pigeons — he refused to call them narks, let alone informers. The specimen now in front of him was particularly loathsome. He’d pulled him from one of his regular haunts at the dog races, and a little light slapping around, plus the offer of a twenty to put on the four thirty-seven, had produced results, of a kind.
But nothing earth-shattering.
‘Look, I don’t know nothing about no drugs, honest, Mr Ross. Only what I already said,’ he snivelled.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Frank turned away in disgust, and lit up a foul-smelling cigar. ‘Word has it that Alfie Makepeace asked for The Pits specially. For this holiday of his. Don’t suppose you know the name of the boat he was going on holiday in, d’ya?’
He slapped the little runt around some more, but he wouldn’t even admit to knowing that Makepeace had rented a canal boat.
‘I thought he was off to Tenerife or somewhere. You know.’
Frank did. A lot of Fletcher’s lads went on holiday abroad, and came back via Amsterdam. Very lucrative.
‘So why did he ask for Dave Pitman special, like?’ Frank pressed, but the snitch wasn’t saying. After a while, Frank believed he really didn’t know, and reluctantly tossed the little git a twenty.
He drove back to the Big House in a pensive mood. He’d been left out of the raid on the Oxford boat, ostensibly because they didn’t need another sergeant there. They had the likes of Mel and Hillary bloody Greene, and Regis’s sidekick, plus the muscle boys. Frank thought Hillary had probably put the boot in, and made sure he was out of the action just for spite.
So he was already in a foul mood by the time he got to the office. Word was beginning to filter out about the size of the bust, and the brass were all beaming. The atmosphere of celebration still hung in the air, so when he got to his desk and found that Tommy Lynch, of all people, might have come up with the name of the boat they were now all hot to get their hands on, his cup of happiness really overflowed.
Not.
* * *
Now they had a name, it wasn’t long before two sharp-eyed constables from Banbury way spotted the Time Out moored north of the market town. It was unusual to find a boat there at all. Most boaties either liked to stay in the town, where they had close and easy access to the shops, or else get right out into the countryside to the peace and quiet. So finding a boat moored up far from the shops, but still not quite out in the sticks, struck them as unusual, even before they’d confirmed the name. They radioed back their find to their station, who got on to the Big House at Kidlington.
The switchboard put the call through to Mel, who wasn’t answering, mainly because he was having his ego massaged by Marcus Donleavy up in the superintendent’s office.
No doubt they were both licking their chops over the press conference they were about to give. It would go down a treat on the six o’clock news.
Hillary, who happened to be walking by, answered it instead, and took down the details gleefully. When she got back to her desk, she was surprised to see Janine Tyler’s fair head drooping over her computer terminal. She went over to speak to her.
‘Have you been discharged, then?’ she asked. Her sergeant swung around to face her, looking nervous.
‘Sure. You know how it is. The usual six-hour wait in casualty, followed by ten mi
nutes of a quack prodding and poking you about, then another two-hour wait for an X-ray only to be told nothing’s broken, given some painkillers and told to go home. Who says the NHS isn’t wonderful?’
‘So why aren’t you at home?’ Hillary could tell from the way Janine’s pupils were working (or rather, weren’t working) that she’d taken the painkillers all right.
Janine started to shrug, remembered just in time that she really didn’t want to move her shoulders, and smiled instead. ‘Nothing there. Besides, I thought I’d just call in for a while. Shift’s nearly over.’
‘Yeah,’ Hillary said thoughtfully. Obviously, her sergeant didn’t want to be alone. Understandable. Being attacked, no matter how hard-bitten a copper you were, always left you feeling shaky. It was only human. So was the desire to get back on the horse before you had time to become afraid of falling off again.
Still, she wished Janine hadn’t chosen to come back to work just now. She glanced at Mel’s still empty office, and knew she was about to do something stupid.
Knew it, but didn’t intend to do a damn thing about it.
‘We’ve got a lead on the second boat,’ she said casually. ‘I was about to nab Tommy — and probably Frank — and go check it out.’
She didn’t really want to take Frank, but still he was a very useful ally to have in a scrap. He was a vicious little jerk, and after this morning, if the Time Out really did prove to be the boat they were looking for, things might get hot. She should, at the very least, tell Mel about it, but she knew what he’d say. Or rather, do. Take control. Call out a small team and do things by the book.
And it might all be for nothing. The boat might contain nothing more dangerous than a granddad who liked to go to the wire by speeding in his boat, two grandkids bored out of their mind with only an overexcitable dog for company, and a grandma who resented cooking on a tiny stove.
‘Yeah?’ Janine said, and something in her voice caught Hillary’s attention.
Tommy, obviously sensing something afoot, sidled over, his face tight with leftover excitement, and obviously open for more.
Shit, Hillary thought. Why the hell not?
CHAPTER 10
‘Right. We’re going to check out a possible lead on the second boat, the one our victim might, and I stress the word might, have come from. You think you’re up to it?’ Hillary added.
Her sergeant nodded. She couldn’t possibly say “no” to a question like that. She wondered uneasily how hot the lead was. Although she’d felt satisfactorily macho when leaving the hospital, and had enjoyed laughing off solicitous questions and making sure everyone knew just how tough she was, she’d planned on taking it easy today. ‘Course, boss,’ she said, and reached for her bag.
‘Right. I suppose we’d better bring Frank.’ Hillary glanced over at Ross’s desk. He was hunched over some paperwork, unsuccessfully pretending to read it.
Tommy Lynch audibly groaned.
Reluctantly, the trio ambled over to Ross, who looked up, smiling widely, looking for all the world like a beatific cherub.
‘I hear you got whacked, love,’ he said to Janine, eyeing her pretty face eagerly for signs of bruising. But apart from a scraped red patch on her cheek, there was nothing to be seen.
‘It was nothing,’ Janine said curtly. Her shoulders ached abominably, and she hoped that the slight weak feeling at the back of her knees was only due to the painkillers.
‘You lot off to the pub, then?’ Ross said, smirking unpleasantly. ‘No doubt you and ol’ Mellow have got some celebrating to do.’ He addressed Hillary with such obvious meaning that Janine stiffened, then bit her lip as the pain pulled tight across her back.
What was it with Ross? Did he think everyone was at it like rabbits, as he no doubt wished that he was?
‘That’s right, Frank. Want to come?’ Hillary asked sweetly. ‘I’ll even buy you a pint.’
For a moment, Frank looked surprised, then he scowled ferociously. ‘Nah, don’t think so. Not in on the raid, so not in on the party afterwards.’ He turned his back dismissively, ostentatiously flipping over a page on a fingerprint report from SOCO.
Hillary abruptly turned and headed for the door, knowing she was being an idiot. She was going to a possibly dangerous interview with one injured sergeant and one solitary DC.
Not smart. Why did she persist in letting Ross push all her buttons?
Frank waited until they’d gone, then chucked his pen down in disgust. It was all right for some. The shift still had — he checked his watch — half an hour or more to run, and here she was, the heroine of the hour, swanning off with her little gang of arsehole creeping acolytes to live it up at the pub.
It made him feel sick. But there was no way he was going to let the bitch buy him a pint.
* * *
Hillary drove, fast and skilfully, towards Banbury, conscious of the way Janine, sitting beside her, leant forward so as to prevent her back resting against anything. In the rear, Tommy sprawled massively, and reassuringly, across nearly all the back seat, still looking ready to take on anything.
She drove through the centre of the town, negotiating the nightmare roundabout marked by the famous Banbury Cross, and thought of the description of Gascoigne.
And his handiness with a knife.
She glanced at the radio, wondering if she should call back to base and tell Mel where she was and what she was doing. But he’d still be in with Donleavy, and by now the press conference would be underway. She smiled to herself. She could hardly interrupt her boss in the middle of a press conference, now, could she?
Once she reached the northern part of town she slowed to consult the map. Only then did she realise that she wasn’t quite sure how far north of the town the Time Out was moored, or even if it was still there. Going on a guess, she turned down the next narrow, rutted path that the map told her ended at the canal.
It was still overcast, but warmer now, and the cloud was thinning. It was hard to believe this was all one day, so much had been crammed into it.
Over in a wheat field, a skylark was bursting its lungs in the usual fashion, and May blossom dotted the hedgerows.
Tommy was first onto the towpath. He looked up and down, but there wasn’t a single narrowboat in sight.
‘Which way, guv?’ he asked, not unreasonably.
Hillary nodded north. Well, she had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.
* * *
Frank only realised that the press conference had started when two DCIs came in, talking enviously about it. Which meant, of course, that Mel and Superintendent Donleavy, and probably a CC or two must be down in the media room right now.
So where the hell had Hillary Greene gone off to with her band of merry men?
Curious, he got up and wandered over to Hillary’s desk, where he read the message that had come in from Banbury.
She’d gone off on a lead. Without him.
He went dark red and ugly with rage.
Then he began to smile.
* * *
They didn’t, as it turned out, have to walk far. Just to the next bridge, in fact. The narrowboat was blue and red, one of the more popular colour schemes, and was moored with its back to them. There was no name on the stern, which meant they’d have to walk past it to where the name would be painted on one of the side panels or on the prow of the boat. Then they would alert anyone inside that they had company.
Worse, there was no village nearby, so this far along the towpath walkers would be rare.
Ah well. Nothing for it.
Hillary didn’t have to warn Tommy or Janine to stop talking, and they approached the barge in silence.
Hillary’s heart sank. The only thing painted on the side panels were stylised flowers, in typical canal-ware style. They walked past the first window, a round porthole, and glanced inside. Net curtains obscured the view. Almost certainly a bedroom, Hillary thought, for she could see bigger, oblong windows at the front. That would be the lounge/kitchen area, and
where anyone on board was likely to be sitting.
As she approached, craning her neck forward to try and catch the first letters of wording on the prow, she thought she heard a noise from inside. It sounded like movement rather than a television or radio.
She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise, but didn’t alter her stride.
The word “Time” was now clearly visible.
It had to be the boat.
* * *
Mel Mallow was feeling good. The press conference had gone well. As a rule, journalists went in for the kill but even they, hardened bunch of barracudas that they were, had been impressed by the size of the haul, and were willing to paint the police in a good light for a change.
One or two cheeky sods had made pointed references to Luke Fletcher, and asked questions they must have known nobody was going to answer, but on the whole Mel and Marcus tended to think that was a good thing. At the very least, it put pressure on Fletcher, and told him that everybody and their granny knew what a dirty little crook he was.
Donleavy had been expansive in his praise, and the assistant chief constable obviously had Mel marked down as someone to remember.
So he was feeling particularly happy when he walked back into the large, open-plan, empty office. Where was everyone? Then he realised it must be the change of shift. Perhaps he’d ask Janine out on another date. They were grown-ups after all, and should be able to handle any little awkwardness that came along. His heart had leapt when he saw her lying on the towpath that morning. He’d been scared. Even when she moved, and the ambulance men made it clear there was nothing too seriously wrong with her, he’d felt sick to his stomach.
But now his equilibrium had returned. He was looking forward to getting off home. A bath and perhaps a phone call to one of the boys, followed by a nice big glass of Southern Comfort.
Then he saw Frank Ross zeroing in on him like a determined pouter pigeon, and his good mood abruptly vanished.
Ross was looking pleased with himself — never a good sign.
* * *
Hillary glanced at Janine, and then at the closed door which, no doubt, led to two or three steps that in turn deposited a visitor inside the tiny space that passed for a narrowboat lounge.
