MURDER ON THE OXFORD CANAL

by Faith Martin

  She shrugged, stepped onto the boat and knocked loudly.

  Tommy hovered anxiously on the towpath, ready to leap on board should he be needed.

  Janine, feeling sick, glanced up and down the towpath nervously. If only they weren’t so isolated. There was nothing but rows of willow trees on one side and a row of sedge bordering a wheat field on the other. Not a sign of civilisation. A group of jackdaws were having an argument in the trees, and the noise was getting on her nerves.

  Her back hurt.

  She felt sick.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  Her mind snapped back from its precarious descent into self-pity as a snicking sound told her someone was opening the barge door.

  She saw Hillary standing looking down into the face of Alfie Makepeace.

  * * *

  ‘And you think she’s gone there?’ Mel’s voice was dangerously tight. He stared down at the piece of paper Frank had just handed to him. It was Hillary’s handwriting all right, and the directions were quite clear.

  ‘Well, guv, she took Tommy Lynch with her. And Janine,’ he added slyly, watching his DCI closely. His antenna had been telling him for a while that randy old Mel had his eye on the luscious Janine.

  Mel’s expression didn’t move by so much as a millimetre.

  ‘I thought Sergeant Tyler was on sick leave.’

  ‘She was in casualty for a while, but came back here.’ Frank didn’t want to say anything that might put Janine Tyler in a good light and was eager to drop her in it. ‘DI Greene seemed keen to have her along.’

  Mel looked up. Unconsciously his hand was forming itself into a fist, ready to smash right into Frank’s soft, piggy little face.

  ‘Really?’ he said casually. ‘In that case, we’d better go and check it out, just in case they need backup.’

  He’d have to inform Regis.

  Well, perhaps later, if it turned out to be the boat they were all after.

  It never occurred to him that he was doing exactly the same thing that Hillary had done, namely, trying to hog the good stuff for himself. And even if it had, it would have done nothing to cool the anger simmering under the surface.

  Nothing was going to stop him from giving Hillary a right bollocking.

  * * *

  ‘Yes?’ Alfie Makepeace asked. He was chewing on something. A digestive biscuit, as it turned out, when a moment later he took another bite.

  He looked the very epitome of a boatie, laid back, taking his time over a cuppa and a biscuit, and lazily raising one shaggy white eyebrow.

  Hillary felt like sitting down with a bag of popcorn and applauding the show. Makepeace was certainly some actor. She smiled and showed him her badge. ‘Mr Makepeace?’ The old man’s eyes glinted. ‘That’s me,’ he said, after a fraction of a second’s hesitation. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can we come aboard?’ Hillary asked.

  Makepeace hesitated again. Hillary could almost sympathise with his dilemma. On the one hand he wanted coppers aboard his boat about as much as a pedigree Persian wanted fleas. Yet he was reluctant to refuse. To make things difficult would put backs up and rouse suspicions that were already sky-high. Besides, Makepeace most likely wanted to know how much they knew. And he could only gauge that from the questions they asked him.

  Eventually he shrugged and stood to one side. ‘Course. Come on in. I’ve just made some tea. Want a cup?’

  ‘I’d prefer coffee, if you have it.’ Hillary threw her two juniors a significant glance.

  Tommy was on board at once, his bulk surprisingly graceful, and she noticed Makepeace running an expert eye over him. Janine was much more careful, obviously uncomfortable in both body and spirit.

  Hillary Greene watched Alfie Makepeace with thoughtful eyes. For a second, the two seasoned pros looked uncannily alike. They seemed to acknowledge one another, and almost nodded.

  Alfie went into the kitchen and reached for the instant. Hillary glanced quickly down the narrow passage, with a single thought in her mind.

  Where the hell was Gascoigne?

  * * *

  Frank Ross lit up a fag and Mel wound down the window pointedly. The two hapless uniforms he’d picked up on the way out sat in the back, quiet as church mice, probably wondering just what Mellow Mallow wanted with them. Neither would mind that their shift had been due to end in another quarter of an hour or so — Mel was the man of the moment, and every uniform welcomed any way of getting in on even a little of the action. It was a pleasant change from assisting at RTAs and doing paperwork.

  * * *

  Ross puffed happily and warmed himself on the thought of Hillary’s face when Mel showed up, breathing thunder.

  * * *

  Jake Gascoigne climbed the stile, cursing the milk cartons which squashed against the wood, threatening to spill their precious cargo. Trust Alfie, the useless bastard, to run out of milk miles from the nearest shop.

  He caught his foot in a tuft of grass, nearly went over, and cursed yet again. He was still swearing graphically when he climbed out onto the towpath a few yards short of the boat.

  * * *

  ‘So you don’t remember Dashwood Lock?’ Hillary said, wishing that he’d put in a more generous amount of sugar in the coffee. Without her artificial sweetener, it was bitter.

  Tommy Lynch stood with his back to the passage, blocking the entrance. Hillary only hoped that he had his ears turned up to their highest notch. They both ought to notice if anyone tried to sneak up behind him.

  She was sitting on a deckchair that had been folded away against a wall, giving the second of two padded seats to her sergeant, who was beginning to look decidedly peaky.

  ‘Well, not particularly, like,’ Alfie said. ‘I mean, if you say so. I know we must have gone through it, but there was nothing to make it stand out.’ He shrugged. ‘Once you’ve been through one lock, you’ve been through ’em all.’ He was busy making a meal of his biscuit, knowing it was annoying the policewoman.

  He was beginning to relax, somewhat. Unless she had a whole squad of helpers concealed behind the willow trees on the bank (and he didn’t think she had), these cops were just fishing. They wouldn’t have sent just two females and a humble PC if they suspected anything important.

  And the younger girl didn’t look fit enough to even scratch and bite, if it came to a scrap. He wondered, uneasily, what had happened to her. He didn’t like to think of violence and women at the same time. To his mind, they didn’t go together.

  Women, to Alfie, meant either those of his mother’s generation, plump, homely, cheerfully practical and to be cherished, or bed bait, to be used but never abused.

  The DI he could respect, in a way. The pretty, hurting blonde girl, however, made him feel deeply uneasy.

  She was the only thing Alfie was worried about. The stuff was long gone, so even if the boss woman had got a warrant to conduct a search (and again his instinct told him that she hadn’t) they’d come up empty-handed.

  Besides, so far all she’d asked about was Dashwood Lock.

  ‘We?’ Hillary said now, casually. Very casually. ‘You’re not alone?’

  Makepeace sighed. ‘Me and a pal.’

  ‘Only two of you?’ Hillary sounded surprised. ‘Makes for an expensive holiday, doesn’t it? With the rental, I mean?’ She glanced around. The boat was well though not expensively outfitted.

  Makepeace shrugged. ‘It’s worth it. Peace and quiet is like gold nowadays.’

  Hillary suddenly began to feel frustrated. This sod isn’t ever going to admit that The Pits was on board. Almost certainly, any drugs would have been offloaded the moment Fletcher heard about that morning’s raid. They’d had hours to get rid of it, along with any evidence of David Pitman. If only she knew for sure whether his death had been an accident or murder, she might at least have a solid starting point from which to prise open this old oyster.

  It was no good just assuming it was murder. Even villains had accidents. They were just as pro
ne to pitfalls and bad luck as the rest of humankind.

  The PM had come back that morning, but she’d barely had time to glance at it after the raid. She knew he’d been drinking, but whether or not he’d had enough to make him lose his balance and fall overboard depended on his drinking habits. Some men could drink ten pints of beer and still be perfectly compos mentis.

  The PM had stated that David Pitman had been very severely mangled between his lower stomach and upper thighs, and propeller damage hadn’t been ruled out. What it meant, she wasn’t yet sure, but an accident still had to be high on the list of possibilities.

  According to Frank’s snout, this old man had specifically asked for Pitman. Why? One thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to get any answers here.

  She felt suddenly foolish and ill prepared. She’d let her pique at Mel and being removed from heading the case affect her judgement. Worse, she was too tired to think on her feet. Which was a cardinal sin for a copper.

  Just as she was thinking this, she heard Janine give a little squeal.

  Someone had just walked past the window.

  * * *

  Jake was halfway along the boat when he heard voices. He froze.

  Unless Alfie had finally gone senile and taken up talking to himself, he had company.

  It couldn’t be the lads come back. Luke Fletcher himself had called him that morning, told him about the disaster at Oxford, and to be prepared to offload the cargo ASAP. A load of men had soon descended from transit vans parked up in the woods, and hastily hauled the drugs from the boat.

  He and Alfie had then spent the rest of the day up to their necks in bleach, scouring every surface on the boat just in case the rozzers came calling with sniffer dogs.

  Fletcher would have wanted to keep as much distance between himself and the boat as possible, so there was no way he would have had any of the lads return. What for? As far as Luke Fletcher was concerned, neither he nor any of his own had ever even heard of the Time Out.

  Jake knew that, if questioned, he was to say that he and Alfie had hired the boat themselves to take a break. The coppers would laugh themselves sick over that, for sure, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything else.

  He stepped warily onto the prow of the boat and peered in through the door window.

  A black face stared back at him.

  Jake leapt off the boat and onto the towpath. He had taken two running steps before he forced himself to stop.

  Tommy Lynch was just unbending his height from the back of the boat when Jake turned and walked cautiously back towards him.

  * * *

  Mel turned off down the same rutted path that Hillary had taken half an hour before. He spotted her parked car and muttered something under his breath.

  In the back, the constables perked up. Frank Ross grinned and chucked his fag out the car window.

  ‘Put it out,’ Mel snapped at him savagely. ‘The last thing we want is for you to start a bloody fire.’

  Frank slammed out of the car, and glanced back. Neither of the uniforms were sniggering at him behind his back. They knew better.

  Mel climbed out, wondering what the hell he had to do to get Hillary reined in. He wished now Marcus had never assigned her the case. Of course, if he had known what it would lead to, he never would have.

  With a sigh, and a sign to the uniforms to follow, he set off up the towpath. The sun was beginning to shine. It was going to be a lovely evening. Pity nobody was in the mood to appreciate it.

  * * *

  Tommy wondered why Gascoigne had changed his mind about running for it. It was obvious that was what he’d been about to do. Now he watched, warily, as the curly-haired, dark-eyed geezer walked reluctantly back.

  Behind him, Hillary stood a little way up the steps, not wanting to leave Janine alone with Makepeace but needing to watch Tommy’s back as well.

  ‘Mr Gascoigne, isn’t it?’ She had to get control of this situation, and fast. ‘I’m DI Greene, and this is Detective Police Constable Lynch. Inside is Sergeant Tyler. We were just having a few words with your friend, Mr Makepeace. Care to join us?’

  Taking his cue, Tommy moved aside to let Gascoigne past. Gascoigne stepped, wary as a cat, onto the boat, and went through to the lounge. He looked surprised to see Janine, probably because she was young, blonde and pretty.

  She was on her feet, looking paler than ever, but succeeding, just, in hiding her fear. Hillary knew she could do nothing to help her — she had to find her own way through it.

  ‘Please, have a seat, Mr Gascoigne. Alfie was just telling me about Dave Pitman,’ she lied.

  Well, it was worth a try.

  ‘Dave who?’ Makepeace said at once, shooting Jake a telling glance.

  Jake, making a great show of it, sat down in the chair that Hillary had been using, legs arrogantly splayed. He reached to the fruit bowl for an apple.

  ‘Do you remember the night of the eighth?’ Hillary asked, without much hope.

  Gascoigne crunched noisily.

  As if on a signal, Makepeace reached out for the packet of digestive biscuits and took a handful. Together the two crooks munched away in harmony, regarding Hillary quietly.

  It was enough to make her want to spit.

  * * *

  Mel found the boat five minutes later. He heard voices, female and grumbling male. They all stopped as he, Ross and the two constables passed the window. Mel read the name of the boat with a mixture of triumph and chagrin.

  Trust Hillary to come up trumps. And trust her to try and nab it for herself.

  He didn’t bother to knock before he let himself in.

  * * *

  Makepeace picked up on the friction at once, even though Mel pretended that Hillary had always known he’d be along, and Hillary pretended that, yes indeed, she always had.

  ‘Mind if my lads look around your boat?’ Mel asked Makepeace, but didn’t give him the chance to answer.

  ‘You got a warrant?’ Gascoigne snarled.

  Mildly, Mel admitted that they didn’t.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Makepeace said, glancing at Gascoigne with apparent contempt. He, obviously, knew how to treat coppers.

  They found nothing, of course.

  Hillary, reluctantly responding to Mel’s hints, followed him outside. Frank Ross hovered, ears flapping, but was to be disappointed. Mel merely told her that he’d be applying for a warrant, and seeing as she was on the scene, and was so obviously keen, she could supervise the search.

  But she was being punished, and everyone knew it. Including Makepeace, who seemed to regard the tension among the ranks with appreciative amusement.

  * * *

  It was getting dark by the time they got back. Janine, feeling like something the cat wouldn’t even bother to drag in, all but collapsed at her desk. It had been a bad day — the stark fear and pain of the morning, followed by the dispiriting hospital visit, culminating in the slow Chinese water torture of the abortive interviews on the boat.

  She knew, as well as Hillary and Mel, that they’d find nothing on the boat, and as for Makepeace and Gascoigne, they couldn’t be made to admit that they even knew Pitman. The only thing they’d admitted to was going through Dashwood Lock on the evening of the eighth.

  Big sodding deal.

  Tommy was morosely typing up reports, checking his watch, knowing his mother would be worrying about him not being home to eat his evening meal. He kept throwing worried glances at Hillary, who was obviously in deep shit. He hadn’t realised that she’d followed up the lead without checking with Mel beforehand. He didn’t really blame her, but even so, he knew Mel had a right to be miffed.

  To make matters worse, the Yorkie Bars were about. Hillary spotted them the moment they walked in.

  Unfortunately, Mel didn’t. Frank had gone home, so he had no reason now to hang fire.

  ‘Just what the bloody hell did you think you were playing at?’ he exploded, the moment he was within yelling distance, causing the heads of the ot
her workers to dip over their desks.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Hillary began, trying to warn him of the approach of Smith and Danvers.

  But Mel was in full flow. ‘Damn it, you know Gascoigne’s reputation with a knife! And did you have to take Janine? She’s been wounded, for Pete’s sake!’

  At this, Janine had to interfere. ‘Sir, I volunteered.’ She sounded pathetically tired, but being in on the scene at the Time Out had done her, psychologically at least, the world of good. Soon she’d be congratulating herself on holding up, on doing her job.

  ‘And why didn’t you at least take along some backup? Even a uniform or two wouldn’t have hurt,’ Mel thundered on.

  ‘Sir,’ Hillary put in firmly, not liking the interested look on Smith’s face, and especially not the sympathy on Paul Danvers’s, ‘at the time we didn’t even know if the Time Out was the boat we were looking for, let alone that Makepeace or Gascoigne would be on board. You were at the press conference, so I didn’t want to interrupt you.’ Mel opened his mouth to speak, but Hillary rushed on before he could. ‘Time was obviously of the essence. If it was the boat, I wanted to make sure we got to it as soon as possible. Yes?’ This last word was uttered with unspeakable contempt, and seemed to be directed over his shoulder.

  Mel spun around, saw the Yorkie Bars, and scowled.

  ‘We’ll be needing to re-interview DI Greene tomorrow.’ It was Curtis, the junior officer, who spoke.

  Mel swore. He shot Hillary a half-furious, half-supportive look and shrugged helplessly.

  Hillary smiled sweetly at Paul Danvers. ‘Of course,’ she said reasonably. ‘Any time you like.’

  In their dreams.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, Regis read the report on the search of the Time Out with a certain amount of gloom. As nice as it was to have the success of the Oxford boat raid still wafting around like a newly cooked birthday cake, it would have been even nicer to have the cherry on top of the icing too.

  Next he read DI Greene’s report on her interviews with the suspects, easily reading between the lines. He knew her DCI had given her a bawling out for going off to investigate the lead without telling him, but he understood her reasons.