by Faith Martin
Just then the door to the interview room opened and Frank Ross stuck his fat head through the door.
‘Guv, a word,’ he said, ignoring Mel’s miffed expression.
Regis shot him a look, and Mel got up. ‘I’ll have to leave you alone with DI Regis for a short while, Mr Makepeace,’ he said, hoping for any sign, however minute, of unease in the suspect at this less than happy news.
Makepeace didn’t so much as look up from the table top, which he seemed to find utterly fascinating.
‘Frank looks fit to bust a gut,’ Tommy said, transferring Hillary’s attention to her nemesis.
Tommy was right. Frank appeared to be fizzing.
‘Come on,’ she said quickly, slipping out the door. Normally Mel would have given her a rollicking for looking in on his interview, but he was too busy listening to Frank to care.
His expression went through incredulous, then tight, then furious, then thoughtful.
Hillary felt her heart leap.
She moved closer, just as Ross finished speaking. ‘. . . in that layby, not far from Sturdy’s Castle, heading north.’
Mel looked beyond Ross’s shoulder, saw Hillary, and nodded curtly.
‘We’ve found Gascoigne,’ he said simply. And, before she could ask why that should be such a cause for celebration, added curtly, ‘Dead.’
* * *
Hillary’s ancient Volkswagen pulled in at the side of the road. Since the building of the nearby motorway, this Banbury to Oxford A road was nowhere near as busy as it used to be, and even at 5.30 on a weekday, traffic wasn’t too bad. It was an added bonus that the body had been found in a layby, as it meant that the police tape cordoning wasn’t disrupting traffic. Nevertheless, what with police cars and assorted paraphernalia parked up on the side of the road, plus the usual drive-by gawkers slowing down to get a thrill, there would inevitably be a bottleneck sooner or later.
To make matters worse, the coroners’ pick-up men were already there, plus the exhibits officer, who was in charge of overseeing the removal of the victim’s clothes and personal belongings, ready to bag them for forensics. It was unusual for him to be already in situ.
CHAPTER 13
Tommy, however, knew crime scenes were never usually this crowded. But he also knew why this one was different. It was the magic name, of course. Luke Fletcher. Everybody wanted in on this case.
He saw Hillary climb out of her car, looking good as usual, but with no Mel in tow. He’d probably had to stay behind to report to Superintendent Donleavy. He imagined Mike Regis, the Vice man, would also be pretty busy. Perhaps it was just as well the two senior men weren’t on the scene yet. Things weren’t looking good.
‘Janine? Tommy? What have we got?’ Hillary asked crisply. She didn’t need to ask what they were doing there ahead of her. She was not the SIO anymore.
‘Boss,’ Janine said. ‘One Peter Cornis, an estate agent from Banbury, pulled in to get some fish and chips roughly forty-five minutes ago. It’s a bit early, but he said he had an evening showing out in Chipping Norton, and missed lunch due to a no-show in Summertown. He bought the standard cod and chips from Fred Cummings’s mobile van.’
Hillary paused to look at the van in question. It was the usual specimen. White-painted, with a big service hatch in the centre side panel. Cummings Fish & Chips was painted, rather unimaginatively, on the side, with a rather lacklustre laughing cod painted beneath it.
‘Cummings is a regular here, he says. The pub up the road doesn’t like it, and thinks it’s a bit cheeky, but even with the motorway and all, Cummings still seems to make a bit on this stretch. Enough to make it worthwhile, at any rate.’
Hillary nodded. Others, she knew, would probably chivvy Janine to get on with it, but she’d found that getting a picture of the background was always useful.
‘Anyway, after Peter Cornis bought his dinner, he wandered up and down eating it. Said he’d been sitting in an office all afternoon, and fancied some exercise.’
Hillary raised an eyebrow, and Janine grinned. ‘Yeah, I know. My guess is he didn’t want to get fish-and-chip smells in his motor.’ She pointed with her pen.
Hillary glanced over to a new Alfa Romeo and rolled her eyes. Oh, men and their cars.
‘Right.’
Janine smiled at Tommy, who was gazing longingly at the car.
‘Anyway, he was walking past a gap in the hedge.’ Janine pointed over to where SOCO were already hard at work. ‘He noticed what he thought was a tramp, sleeping it off in the ditch.’
Hillary nodded. The usual. This was the point where she usually began to feel sorry for the witness. Although most cops tended, automatically, to regard any finder-of-the-body with deep suspicion, nine times out of ten the witness was innocent. And it was hard to see why an estate agent from Banbury should kill Jake Gascoigne, then buy fish and chips the next day, right by his body, and be on the scene when the cops were called in.
‘Right. Go on.’
Janine read from her notes. ‘He says he called out, but the tramp didn’t stir. Something about him seemed “off.” His words, not mine. Anyway, it was enough to make him step off the tarmac, push aside the bushes and bend down to give the “tramp” a poke.’
Hillary nodded. She’d heard the same thing many times before from witnesses. ‘Something didn’t seem right.’ ‘I had this funny feeling.’ ‘Something made me look closer.’
In nearly all cases there was a simple explanation. In this case, for instance, she was sure that the hapless Peter Cornis’s subconscious had noted that the clothes were too good for those of a tramp. Maybe he had noticed Jake Gascoigne’s dark hair. Most members of the public thought tramps were all old men, winos, and such. Perhaps, who knew, the busy Peter Cornis’s subconscious had failed to pick up the scent of booze or meths. Whatever. It had all gone back into the fabulous computer called a human brain, and sent back the message to Peter Cornis that “something was off.”
‘When the body didn’t move, he looked closer,’ continued Janine, ‘and lost the fish and chips he’d already eaten.’
Hillary groaned. ‘Don’t tell me — not all over the crime scene?’
Janine wrinkled her nose. ‘No. He managed to stumble away and upchuck in a patch of dock.’
Charming.
Hillary sighed. ‘Go on.’
‘After he’d got over it, he says he went back to his car and called us on his mobile. In the meantime, two lorries had pulled in, and their drivers were champing away, oblivious. Thought Cornis was either just sick, or maybe a drunk trying to throw up some excess booze. Whatever, it never occurred to them that Fred’s fish and chips might be tainted. They’d all but finished their last chip when the first of the squad cars showed up. They’re not happy at being detained. One said he’s hauling perishables — lettuces, I think — and has to meet a deadline.’
Hillary groaned. ‘Right. Better get on with interviewing him first. The usual. Tommy, take the other lorry driver. I’ll take Cornis. He’s in his car?’
Janine nodded.
Another late night, working long past shift end. With no overtime, natch. Her back hurt. She wanted to be home. Instead, she trudged towards the big navy blue lorry. The driver’s eyes visibly lit up at her approach.
Janine groaned inwardly.
* * *
On her way to the Alfa Romeo, Hillary saw two more cars arrive, Mike Regis in one of them.
She dragged her mind firmly back from thoughts of the Vice man and tapped on the window of the Alfa. It slid down with such ease that she felt a deep resentment towards the man inside. Her own Volkswagen had windows that wound down with elbow power — and then only if they felt like it. The passenger window wouldn’t even have responded to an Arnold whats-is-face.
‘Mr Cornis? I’m Detective Inspector Greene. Would you like to step out, or would it be easier if I sat in?’
Peter Cornis shrugged. He was a twenty-something, in the estate agents’ uniform of fashionable haircut, “good” suit, fake Rolex and
the latest car toy hanging from the mirror. The only thing that didn’t scream “man on the way up” was the look in his eyes. Feeling a lot less anti, Hillary went round to the passenger door and slipped inside.
The interior smelt of leather and wood. And a car freshener. Hillary, who didn’t even bother to buy air freshener for the boat, sighed softly.
‘Mr Cornis. I’m sorry about this, but I need to ask you some more questions . . .’
* * *
By the time she left the car, Peter Cornis was fighting back tears. Reaction, of course — another one of those things the TV detective shows didn’t go into much. People who found bodies tended to cry about it. And have nightmares afterwards. And feel all sorts of things, from fear to anger and resentment to depression.
Even estate agents.
She saw at once that Mel had arrived and was taking over. By his side, Frank looked particularly gleeful. Hillary felt even more depressed.
‘Looks like we got sod all,’ Mel said to Hillary, without preamble. ‘The doc’s here. He reckons the body’s been there all night, of course.’
Hillary snorted. She hadn’t really expected anything else. In fact, she’d been unconsciously working on the supposition that Gascoigne had been murdered sometime in the dark hours of the night. Why else had he slipped off the boat and done a runner? He had nothing to fear from the police.
‘Think Fletcher gave him a buzz and arranged a meet?’ she asked casually.
‘Not in person,’ Mel responded, just as offhandedly. ‘No doubt another of his gofers did the actual dirty.’
‘Perhaps Frank can check into that,’ Hillary slipped in, with a nice warm feeling inside.
Frank looked furious. ‘Like hell,’ he growled. ‘As if any snout is going to be talking now. Everyone will have headed for the hills long since. I can think of better ways to waste my time than—’
‘Well, I can’t,’ Mel snapped. ‘You’re always boasting about being an old-fashioned copper, a real hard man who knows where all the bodies are buried. Well now’s your chance to show what you can do.’
Frank shot Mel a killer look and stomped off.
Mel sighed heavily. ‘Every day I pray I’ll get into the office and find Frank Ross has applied for a transfer.’
Hillary laughed. It was a genuine, lovely sound, and had Tommy Lynch’s head swivelling in her direction. Mike Regis, talking to the doc, also looked over, and wondered how much fallout she was still carrying from her ex.
If he should chance his arm.
‘It would have been well dark when the body was dumped, probably in the wee small hours,’ Hillary speculated.
‘The road wouldn’t have been busy,’ Mel put in.
‘And the layby bends away from the road, with plenty of bushes between it and the main road,’ she concluded glumly.
Mel shook his head. ‘Let’s face it, our chances of a wit are practically nil.’
For a moment, the two of them were silent. Then Hillary sighed. ‘Who’s with Makepeace?’
‘Regis’s man.’
‘He talks, then?’
Mel smiled. ‘On occasion. Not that he’ll get anything out of Makepeace.’
Hillary contemplated Makepeace and the taciturn Vice sergeant facing each other in total silence. What a pair they must be making, back at the Big House.
Mel glanced over at the hedge and its group of interested people. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
Hillary wondered when hawthorn, squitch-grass, dock and dandelions had ever received such intense scrutiny from humans. ‘Was that a hint to go home and take it easy, sir?’ she asked cockily.
Mel smiled tiredly. ‘Why not? No reason for us both to be here.’
Hillary winced. Ouch. Still, Mel was right — he was the SIO, and could do without her.
She turned and walked away.
Mike Regis and Tommy Lynch were the only ones who seemed to notice.
* * *
Back on the boat, she poured herself a glass of white wine. It was Riesling, and had been left, opened, in the fridge since last Sunday, when she’d had a glass to go with her chicken dinner.
She sat down, felt the boat move ever so slightly beneath her, and leaned her head back against the wall. It was fast coming on to twilight, and through the half-open window she could hear a blackbird singing, beautifully, in one of the willows on the opposite bank.
The pub down the way was beginning to murmur, as pubs did, but here on the boat, the sound was muted, as was that of the cars passing by on the road beyond. A fish rose and plopped outside, sending widening circles across the surface of the dirty water.
She sipped her wine and tried to unwind.
So Fletcher had had Gascoigne bumped off. Because he was skimming? Probably. Makepeace had been given the task of proving him dirty. Had he failed or succeeded? She frowned. And did the answer to that have anything to do with Dave Pitman winding up dead in Dashwood Lock?
Somehow she couldn’t seem to make it fit.
If Gascoigne had been skimming, as Luke Fletcher had suspected, and Makepeace had found him out, why was it Pitman who had died first?
Had the two men had a fight? Gascoigne was known to use the knife, almost exclusively, but the ME’s report on The Pits had found no knife injury at all.
Accident, then? Accidents happened to people all the time, including bad guys. Coincidences, too. In real life, coincidences abounded. It was only in detective novels that you couldn’t get away with them. Because readers didn’t like it, or so she assumed. But in real life, coincidences didn’t give a sod whether you wanted to believe in them or not.
Even so, she didn’t like it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.
Her eyes fell on the book Gary had brought her, and she picked it up, frowning. Dick Francis’s Bonecrack. She wasn’t much of a reader nowadays, and certainly not this kind of thing. When she did read, she liked something decent. One of the Brontes. Austen. Eliot, maybe. Give her a classic any day.
She opened the book and read the inscription more closely.
‘To Stud. It takes one to know one. Hillary.’
Stud.
She snorted. When the hell had she ever called Ronnie “Stud”? Never, that’s when. Oh, she got the pun, of course. Weren’t Dick Francis’s books always about racehorses and stud farms? And wasn’t the hero always some macho man who could stand any amount of pain? Just the sort of book Ronnie would go for.
She frowned. The writing looked vaguely like hers. But—
Her phone rang. She tossed the book back onto the shelf and picked it up. ‘DI Greene,’ she said sharply, only realising then how tense she still was.
‘It’s me, guv,’ Tommy Lynch said. ‘Just thought you’d like to know. Doc’s preliminary says Gascoigne was killed somewhere between eleven and four last night. Cause of death, subject to full post-mortem, natch, is multiple blows to the head and neck with our old friend, blunt instrument.’
Hillary sighed. It figured. A typical “lesson” murder. Anybody else skimming from Fletcher was going to think twice about it now.
‘Right,’ she said wearily. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Right, guv,’ Tommy said warmly, and hung up.
* * *
Back in the lay-by, Tommy thrust his mobile into his trouser pocket and wondered what she was doing now. Probably drinking a glass of wine, maybe watching telly. No, reading, probably. He knew she’d gone to Ruskin. What had she read? English? History? Sociology? He wished he was there with her, drinking wine and being able to talk to her about . . . whatever. Instead he drove out of the layby and back home to his mother. As soon as he reached the house, he knew that Jean was there. And that his mother had probably invited her.
He was smiling manfully when he walked through the door.
* * *
A load of reports waited for Hillary the next morning, piled ominously on her desk like a paper mountain about to topple. Hillary regarded them with a jaundice
d eye and sighed. Already her day was mapped out. Paperwork. Break for coffee. More paperwork. Break for lunch. Paperwork.
‘Hill, can I have a minute?’ Mel popped his head through the door, looking like a man who’d been working all night.
Hillary, who’d finished off the bottle of wine, ran a tongue that felt like it could line a snooker table over dry lips and followed him into his office.
‘How’s the background work on Dave Pitman coming along?’ Surprised, Hillary shrugged. ‘Fine. I ran down the previous rape cases. No joy. I’m due to see his mother today.’ She paused, thought about the paperwork, and amended, ‘No, tomorrow, maybe.’
Mel nodded. ‘Well, push on. Regis is overseeing Frank Ross and the Fletcher end of things.’ He was trying to make it sound casual, but if she’d been in a cartoon, a lightbulb would have abruptly appeared over her head.
Ah. So that was it. Mike Regis was in charge of the drugs aspect, leaving poor old Mellow Mallow out in the cold.
‘Right,’ she said, leaving the room.
Hillary spotted Janine and Tommy walking through the door and decided to spread the sunshine even further.
‘Janine, Tommy, just the job. I want you to re-interview Deirdre Warrender and her daughter, Sylvia. Actually, Sylvia will be a first interview. She wasn’t there when I talked to her mother.’
Janine looked at her blankly. Tommy, who had a better memory, nodded. ‘Pitman’s last rape victim?’ he said quietly.
‘Alleged rape victim, if you please,’ Hillary corrected. ‘He wasn’t brought to trial for it, remember?’
‘Right, boss,’ Janine said flatly.
Hillary, reading her far more easily than a Dick Francis, could have told her that there were worse jobs. Much worse.
* * *
‘Her poor titties.’ Deirdre Warrender stirred her cup of tea and shook her brassy red curls.
Janine wondered vaguely what sort of hair dye she used.
Tommy wondered if he’d misheard her.
‘That’s what I remember most about it, you know,’ she said, looking up at the handsome black policeman. ‘The state of her poor titties. Black and blue, and scarred. Poor girl can’t take her top off on any beach now, I can tell you.’
