by Faith Martin
‘Hell, what a depressing dump,’ Curtis said flatly. ‘Come on.’
* * *
In the old pig house, Hillary stared at a row of bikes. They gleamed. In fact, they seemed to ooze with the smugness she usually associated with extremely well looked after cars. They had that same pride-and-joy air about them. Except for one bike that was in pieces by the wall. What was it with men and machinery? Hillary wondered vaguely. Why did they always want to pull stuff apart?
The pig house was utterly bare. There wasn’t an old cupboard, a tatty stuffed chair, a wooden bench or even a cardboard box anywhere. Just the bikes, a toolbox, a tarpaulin covering the ground around the dismantled bike, and a few old-time farm implements hanging, neglected, from the rafter beams.
Great. All this time and energy to find this. She sighed and went towards the gleaming bike. The scrambling bikes looked less impressive but not a scrap of mud trespassed on any of them.
She moved over to the bike that lay strewn on the tarpaulin and squatted down disconsolately beside it. What the hell was she doing checking out barns and bikes when Mel and Mike Regis were back at the Big House, questioning her witnesses and taking the juiciest bites out of her case?
She prodded the exhaust, which fell over with a clang and bounced off the empty fuel tank, making it roll over ponderously onto its side.
Inside it, something thudded.
Hillary frowned. The fuel tank was painted a bright scarlet and had a painted finger of flame down each side. A silver petrol cap rested on top. She rolled it back, and this time felt, as well as heard, something thud inside. Not slosh. Not like old petrol or water would slosh. It was something firm and solid. Like a brick. Except it didn’t clang against the metal. Something padded?
Hillary, her pulse rate quickening, got down onto her knees and pulled the petrol tank around further into the light coming through the open doorway.
And saw it.
A faint line, all around the middle of the petrol tank. In the dim light, it had been impossible to see. Now she could tell that at some point the petrol tank had been cut apart. And soldered together? No. There was no tell-tale thickening along the line.
Pulling on one side, keeping the other firmly anchored between her knees, Hillary grunted and strained and swore. When the two parts suddenly separated, she nearly punched herself on the chin with her knuckled hand.
Something solid and wrapped in white fell out onto the tarpaulin.
She stared at it hard. Another drugs find? She reached for it, noticing it was wrapped in that stiff white paper you found between stacks of sugar in supermarkets.
She should take it back for forensics. Let it be opened by a lab officer. At the very least, inform Mel.
Yeah, right. And have this taken off her as well.
Slipping on a pair of tissue-thin latex gloves that she always kept in her pocket, she slipped her finger under one end and carefully, patiently, disturbing it as little as possible, began to open the package.
At last she was able to look inside.
And blinked.
Money.
Lots and lots of money, all in fifties judging from the colour. A solid cube of it. There must be, what? A hundred thousand? More.
‘Well, well, looks like you finally struck hubby’s gold,’ a voice drawled from the doorway.
Hillary, slack-jawed, looked up and saw Curtis Smith smiling at her like a wolf spotting deer spoor. Behind his shoulder, Paul Danvers looked worried.
And disappointed.
Hillary stared at the pile of cash in her lap, and then up at the Yorkie Bars.
And suddenly remembered that old saying about Murphy’s Law. She really should have known that a day that started as full of crap as this one had could only get crappier.
* * *
Hillary couldn’t believe she was being driven into the parking lot of the Big House in the back of the Yorkie Bars’ car, practically under arrest. She wondered if Tommy would be able to get a lift back to Kidlington OK, then realised that the abandoned PC was the least of her worries.
Paul opened the back door for her, but the gesture had nothing to do with courtesy. For shit’s sake, what did they think she was going to do? Try and do a runner right here, right now, with half the force looking on? Hell, she wasn’t even wearing flats.
She shot him a fulminating scowl, and watched as Curtis Smith pulled the bag of money, now safely ensconced in an evidence bag, from the back seat.
Great. Right in full view. She wondered how many eyes were now peering down from the windows. She sighed heavily and resisted the impulse to applaud Smith. Danvers might have the looks, but Smith sure as hell had all the theatrical talent.
They walked into the station, past the bulging eyes of the desk sergeant and on up the steps. Everyone they passed watched in silence.
For the first time Hillary felt scared. Oh, not about her ability to prove that the damned money wasn’t Ronnie’s infamous “stash,” it was her realisation of what it felt like to have everyone assume your guilt. As a police officer, receiving a lesson on how it felt to be a prime suspect was really something she could have done without.
Mel’s jaw dropped when he saw the two Yorkie Bars escort Hillary across the office to his door.
Over by his desk, Frank’s face was so gleeful it looked as if it was about to pop loose from his skin. The grin, so wide it split his face almost in two, was even more sickening to watch.
His office door opened, and Mel’s gaze went immediately to the transparent evidence bag and the money showing clearly through it. He stared into Hillary’s furious eyes, then, his own expression hardening, looked at Paul Danvers.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Mel immediately wished he could have come up with something more original, but was feeling too sick to think of one. ‘Hillary?’
She glowered at him. ‘Sir.’ This was hardly helpful.
‘We found DI Greene in possession of this money, in a barn outhouse just outside Woodstock,’ Paul Danvers said heavily. ‘So far, DI Greene has refused to discuss it. I suggest you get her the office eagle.’
Hillary knew this meant the solicitor and legal expert whose job it was to protect the rights of police officers accused, or about to be accused and/or charged, with a criminal offence.
‘I didn’t discuss it because it’s part of an ongoing case that’s no damned business of yours,’ Hillary snapped. And because, if she were honest, she felt too stubborn. From the look on their faces it was evident what they thought, and she was damned if she was going to gabble out the truth like some piss-scared good little girl.
No, far better to let them think they had her, and then pull the rug out from under their interfering feet.
‘By all means call in the eagle,’ she said sweetly. ‘He might just be able to think of something I can charge you two with. Like false arrest. Impeding an officer in the course of her duty, oh, stuff like that.’
‘You’re not under arrest,’ Paul said automatically, and she gave him a jeering smile.
‘Not yet,’ Curtis corrected him smoothly.
Hillary turned thoughtful eyes on him, then smiled slowly. Oh boy was she going to enjoy this.
‘Sir, if we can discuss this alone,’ she began, but already both Paul and Curtis were shaking their heads.
‘Hillary,’ Mel snarled. ‘Just spit it out.’
So Hillary did. Starting with her interview with The Pits’ mother, the photograph, co-opting Tommy to help and the search of the barn.
‘I think you’ll find Dave Pitman’s fingerprints all over the bag and the money, sir,’ she finished, shooting the Yorkie Bars a triumphant smile. ‘Besides, if it had been Ronnie’s dough, it would have been a hell of a lot more than that.’
With that nice little parting shot, she leaned casually against the wall and studied her nails. Curtis Smith wasn’t the only one with theatrical talent. She’d done a stint in the college drama group way back when. OK, a non-speaking part, but the critics
had raved. Well, mentioned her name in the list of characters, anyway.
Mel leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh and wishing he could haul her out. She had no business opening that package before he and forensics had had a look at it, but he certainly wasn’t going to say so in front of the Yorkie Bars. Not after that wonderful piece of entertainment. Smith, in particular, looked ready to spit tin-tacks.
Besides, it had been damned good police work on her part.
‘I think we’d better get that down to forensics right away,’ Mel said, pointing at the evidence bag. Curtis Smith’s fingers closed around it protectively.
‘I’ll take it over personally,’ he said, with distinct disrespect. ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, would we, sir?’
‘Sergeant!’ said Paul Danvers.
Curtis took a deep breath, then looked from Mel, who looked fit to bust a gasket, to Hillary who looked, suddenly, bored. ‘We want you to be available for a line-up,’ he said flatly. ‘Our wit from Scotland now tells us that he once saw a second person in your husband’s car during one of his operations.’
‘Fine,’ Hillary snapped back. ‘Just let me know when and where.’
The air was thick with tension and mutual dislike. When he left, Paul tried to catch her eye but she wasn’t having it.
The moment the door shut, Hillary slumped into the chair opposite Mel and began to laugh.
He watched her for a while, knowing she needed the release, and wished he kept a bottle of the hard stuff in his drawer.
He didn’t, of course. Not correct.
When her chuckles had finally subsided, he leaned forward and asked her, in a voice stiff and icy, just what the hell she’d been thinking of, opening the packet in situ. But he knew as well as she did just what she’d been thinking, and he couldn’t really blame her. She’d been working her arse off on this investigation, even though she’d been well and truly shafted, and every lead she got was taken away from her.
She apologised. Mel felt guilty enough to be magnanimous. Then they both began to think.
‘What was Pitman doing with that much dough?’ Mel said, wondering just how long he could put off telling Mike Regis about this latest development. After all, it wasn’t necessarily drugs-related, right? Not strictly Vice’s business.
‘He’s obviously the one who was skimming,’ Hillary said, snapping his mind back from thoughts of staking out his territory and bringing it back sharply to the real matter in hand.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said cautiously. ‘The Pits could have been doing some petty dealing on the side.’
Hillary snorted disbelievingly. ‘Right. As if Fletcher would stand for that.’
‘Could be proceeds of a robbery.’
‘What, a bit of private enterprise?’ Hillary said. ‘If you were working for Fletcher, would you be up for doing a bit of pilfering? Come on, we know somebody had been skimming from Fletcher, right? It wasn’t much of a secret if even Frank’s stoolies knew about it. We’d assumed it was Gascoigne, but what if it was Pitman all along?’
Mel leaned forward on the desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal a light matting of dark hair and a plain, expensive-looking watch. Hillary wondered if it was deliberate, or if Mel was just like one of those women who seemed to “do” elegant as automatically as they breathed.
‘So the fact Pitman was killed never was a mystery. Or an accident. He was meant to be bumped off all along?’ Mel offered tentatively.
Hillary frowned. ‘Yeah,’ she said, equally doubtful. ‘But in that case, why was Gascoigne killed later?’
Mel scowled at her, as if all this uncertainty was her fault. ‘Perhaps they were both in on it.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Hillary scoffed. ‘You’re not going to tell me that Fletcher had two bad apples? But supposing, just for a moment, that he did, and that he knew they were both skimming. Why get one to wipe out the other?’
‘Why not? There’s no honour among thieves. Perhaps Gascoigne jumped at the chance of offing his partner. More for him then.’
Mel’s heart wasn’t really in it, though. It sounded way too far-fetched. But with Hillary he always felt on the defensive, almost compelled to fight his corner, no matter how much of a schmuck it made him feel.
‘But why take the chance?’ Hillary shot back. ‘Fletcher, I mean? What if Gascoigne tells Pitman he’s been hired to bump him off, or vice versa? What’s to stop them getting together, decide things are getting too hot and, what the hell, just make one final big score and leg it?’
‘Too risky.’
‘Yeah, but if they’re skimming, they’re not the brightest bulbs in the light factory anyway, right? But the real question is, why would Fletcher take that sort of risk, when all he had to do was farm out the contract to an independent and off them both. No pain, no comeback, and no risk.’
Mel sighed heavily. ‘You’re right. It’s just not fitting together. So, let’s backtrack. Pitman was definitely the one skimming, yeah? The dosh proves that.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Sounds reasonable.’
‘Fletcher knows that it’s one of his mules. But suspects Gascoigne?’ he offered tentatively.
Hillary nodded cautiously. ‘OK. Let’s go with that.’
‘So he tells Makepeace, his eyes and ears, to watch Gascoigne, catch him out maybe, and sends The Pits along to act as his muscle just in case things get rough.’
‘That’s what the word on the street says,’ she agreed, thinking of Frank Ross and his nose for dirt. ‘And, so far, it fits all the facts.’
‘OK. But something goes wrong,’ Mel continued, warming to his theme now. ‘Perhaps Gascoigne finds Makepeace searching through his things, or doing something fishy. And Pitman, coming to the rescue, gets offed by Gascoigne. Perhaps — who the hell knows — accidental-like.’
Hillary thought back to the autopsy reports, and about Gascoigne’s reaction to Makepeace during their time on the boat.
She shook her head. ‘Still doesn’t feel right.’
Mel sighed. ‘OK. So perhaps Fletcher knew all along that it was Pitman who was skimming, and it was Gascoigne’s job to off him. Which he does, making it look like a boating accident.’
‘Yeah. But then why is Gascoigne dead? You’re not trying to say that hit didn’t have Fletcher written all over it?’
Mel sighed. ‘Perhaps Gascoigne botched it. Perhaps Fletcher wanted to know where The Pits kept his stash. Perhaps he wanted to know if he had help. Perhaps Gascoigne didn’t follow orders, resulting in The Pits dying before he could talk.’
‘That’s a bloody lot of “ifs”. If I may say so.’
‘Can you think of anything better?’
But Hillary couldn’t. That was the problem.
* * *
When she left Mel’s office a half hour later, Tommy was back, and looking worried. Of course, word had spread about her run-in with the Yorkies, and half the station seemed to expect her to be led down to the cells in cuffs.
Frank Ross beamed at her, looking happy, happy, happy. It had set him up for the next month, seeing her being escorted into Mel’s office like she had. He only hoped the shit, when it hit the fan, stuck to her like Superglue.
Ignoring him, Hillary asked Tommy to drive her back to Woodstock to pick up her car. She was still too deep in thought about this latest development and where it left them to bother wiping the smirk off Ross’s face.
She wished she could talk to Mike Regis about it. She was forming the distinct impression that she and the Vice man had minds that worked very much alike.
* * *
Curtis Smith and Paul Danvers watched them pull out of the car park from an upper storey window.
‘She didn’t seem too scared about standing up in an identity parade,’ Paul said, wanting to rub Curtis’s nose in it.
He felt like a right prat, and blamed his sergeant for it.
‘That only means she never went to Ayr,’ Curtis said stubbornly. ‘Not that she wasn’t in on
it.’
Paul sighed heavily. ‘You think this suspect’s fingerprints of hers are going to be on the money?’
Curtis nodded gloomily. Yeah, he thought so. She’d been too damned smug for it to be a bluff. Besides, she was right. Her hubby must have made on or around a million with his dirty animal trading scam. And, if he’d stopped to think about it, he’d have known Ronnie Greene wasn’t the cash-hidden-in-an-old-barn kind of guy.
No. Once word got around about this fiasco, they were going to be the laughing stock of the Big House.
Which only made him more determined than ever to nail her.
CHAPTER 16
‘We have to let Makepeace go,’ Mel said.
Hillary was just getting ready to go home. ‘Perfect,’ she said sourly. Really. The perfect end to the perfect day.
Mel smiled sympathetically. ‘Time’s a-wasting, his brief is screaming blue bloody murder and we’ve got no evidence to hold him on. So far we’ve not been able to prove that David Pitman was even on that boat when it went through the lock. With Gascoigne dead, Makepeace can say whatever he likes, and we’ve got nobody to say any different. Besides, as his brief was at such pains to point out, Makepeace has form, but none of it is for violence. Even his age is working against us. Can’t you just see the press — Thames Valley’s finest pick on an OAP?’
Hillary shrugged. Mel didn’t need to convince her. She knew as well as anyone that their case was going down the toilet. The euphoria of the earlier huge drugs bust was starting to wear off, and how.
‘Fletcher’s fuming.’ Frank Ross’s voice oiled across the office, and he walked towards them. Gloomy, he looked even worse than when he was smirking — and that took some doing. He nodded back to his desk, and the phone he’d been on all afternoon. ‘Nobody’s talking. He’s got everything buttoned down so tight his people aren’t even wearing shoes that squeak. We’ve about as much chance of finding the take-out artist who offed Gascoigne as England has of winning back the Ashes.’
Mel, who quite liked cricket, winced. ‘Go home, people,’ he said wearily (he’d always wanted to say things like that).
