by Faith Martin
‘She’s not had an easy life, has she,’ Hillary mused. ‘Firstly she loses her husband, then she’s diagnosed with, well, I’m assuming it’s cancer?’ Hillary fished delicately, but the doctor merely raised his eyebrows at her again. ‘And now her father is murdered. Have you ever noticed how tragedy seems to plague some people? I notice it a lot in my profession.’
‘Mine too,’ the GP agreed gloomily. ‘And of course, in Rachel’s case, there was also that other trouble she went through, when only a youngster herself.’
Hillary blinked. ‘Trouble?’
‘Yes, surely you remember the case. Linda Quirke.’
The name rang a very faint bell. ‘I’m not sure I follow you, Doctor,’ Hillary prompted.
‘Linda Quirke went missing — oh, it must be twenty-five years ago now. They never found her.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Yes. I remember now.’ She hadn’t been in the force at the time, as she recalled, but it had made a splash in the papers, and along with everyone else at the time, the picture of Linda Quirke’s long dark plaits and plaintive dark eyes had tugged at her heartstrings. ‘But how did this affect Rachel Warner?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Oh they were best friends, Inspector,’ the GP explained. ‘They went to the same primary school, and had just gone up to secondary school at the time of the incident. They were, by all accounts, virtually inseparable.’
Hillary nodded. So the officer in charge of the missing child’s case would have questioned the young Rachel Philpott quite closely.
And something like that was bound to leave a mark.
Of course, there had been so many other similar cases since then. They broke into the public consciousness with a scream of outraged media attention and gut-wrenching misery on the part of the parents, only, over the years, to fade back into obscurity until the next tragedy happened to bring it back to mind.
But for people affected by it, people like Rachel, and Linda Quirke’s parents, there would be no forgetting.
‘They never found her, as you said,’ Hillary mused thoughtfully. ‘I think the general opinion at the time was that she’d almost certainly been abducted and killed.’
‘Yes. Alas, that nearly always seems to be the case,’ the doctor said heavily.
‘Not always, Doctor. I’ve known several cases where missing children have been found, unmolested and unharmed, quite some time after they’d gone missing,’ Hillary contradicted. ‘In one case, a young lad of six had crawled into a washing machine in a dump near his home and had been locked in. Sniffer dogs found him, as I recall. Then there was another case where a young girl of ten, I think it was, was found by a farmer who was uprooting a tree blown down in a gale. The young girl had taken shelter underneath it, and become trapped in the roots when it toppled over.’
‘Happy endings, Inspector,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But alas, Linda Quirke was never found. Her parents moved from the area some years ago now.’
‘It must have affected Rachel tremendously,’ Hillary agreed. ‘Losing a best friend in those circumstances, and at that age, must have had a long-lasting psychological effect on her.’
‘Yes,’ the doctor agreed, somewhat cautiously. ‘But don’t forget, she put that all behind her, got married and had a family. Most people are resilient, you know.’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘It’s a good thing they are, Doctor, isn’t it?’ she agreed.
* * *
Outside, they hurried through the rain to her car, and Hillary sat shivering slightly as Barrington turned on the ignition. She reached across to the dashboard and pulled the lever on the heater down to maximum. Obediently, a vague waft of warm air eddied around her feet.
‘It makes you wonder why some people seem to have so much misery dumped on them, doesn’t it, guv,’ Barrington said bleakly. ‘What on earth’s that poor woman going to do now?’
Hillary shook her head. ‘Get in touch with the cousins, I suppose. See how the land lies. And if that doesn’t work, I imagine she’ll try and get social services to let her have a say in where her children go after she’s gone.’
Barrington shook his head. ‘We’ve got to get the bastard who did this, guv,’ he said grimly. ‘Whoever killed Eddie Philpott didn’t just do in an old man. They wrecked an entire family.’
Hillary felt her stomach clench. Yes, they had to get this killer all right. Far more than on any of her other murder cases, Hillary could feel a growing pressure on her to get the man or woman responsible.
So wasn’t it just sod’s law, with bells on, that she was feeling on her worst form ever?
* * *
Back at HQ, she found Frank Ross at his desk, and told him to pull out the old Linda Quirke file when he had five minutes, more to satisfy her curiosity than anything else. The GP’s revelations about the old case had piqued her interest.
Making herself comfortable at her desk, she read through the latest bunch of reports and paperwork, including the uniform’s witness statement forms that had now been taken from every inhabitant of The Knott.
As expected, nothing of interest stood out. No strangers observed or unknown cars reported, no unusual behaviour noted on the part of either the victim or any neighbour. Nobody had stood out as someone who obviously disliked the victim, and no one knew of anything detrimental about him.
No motive, no witnesses, no nothing.
She sighed and tossed the reports aside. Her headache, which had never really gone away, was beginning to throb anew, and she felt hideously tired.
She grabbed her bag. ‘I’m going to make an early night of it and start afresh in the morning.’
Barrington shot her a startled look. He’d never known her to leave much before eight o’clock in the evening when working on a murder case, and the fact that it was barely five now made him uneasy. Even Frank Ross frowned, but, as could be expected of Frank Ross, he took advantage of the boss’s early departure to bugger off himself.
* * *
Back on board the Mollern, Hillary Greene poured herself a large glass of wine, and reached for her mobile.
Reluctantly, she telephoned Janine Mallow’s number and filled her in on what she’d found out at the Firth residence. She managed to extract a promise from her ex-sergeant that she’d keep her distance from DCI Evans and his team, but Hillary would not have been surprised if Janine had got in the car and headed for Wales the moment Hillary hung up.
She sipped her glass of wine, finished it, and poured another one. With precise movements, she recorked the bottle and put it away in the fridge, firmly out of sight, and stood staring out on to the darkening towpath.
A light spilled out from the neighbouring boat, Willowsands, belonging to her old friend Nancy Walker. But she wasn’t in the mood for company right now. With a sigh, she drew the small scrap of turquoise fabric that passed for a curtain across the porthole, and took her glass of wine to bed. She also took a novel with her to help her while away the hours before she could strip, and crawl under the bedclothes.
Unknown to her, several miles away in the attractive town of Thame, somebody else was also making a good show of turning in for an early night.
But Clive Myers had no intention of sleeping that night. He was simply waiting for the wet and dark night to become even darker, before giving his watchers the slip.
* * *
The next morning, Wednesday 8 October, dawned blustery but bright, and Hillary was in the office by a quarter to eight. She used the quiet time to catch up on the other caseloads, complete some paperwork, and marshal her thoughts into some sort of order.
Gemma Fordham arrived, and gave Hillary her usual brief nod. So, we’re going to play it as if nothing had ever happened, Hillary mused. Well, that was fine by her.
‘Any joy on the fingerprints?’ she asked curiously.
‘I went over to the Philpott residence early yesterday evening and got the boy’s prints — the daughter’s too. I dropped them straight off at SOCO, and they said they’d let you know if th
e prints match as soon as they can. They’ve got quite a backlog of stuff to get through.’
Hillary grunted. It went without saying that the police laboratories were always backlogged, but murder cases were given a high priority, and Hillary knew they’d get around to her as soon as they humanly could.
‘Any ideas so far?’ Hillary asked, not to put Gemma on the spot, but because she genuinely wanted to hear her thoughts on the case. Gemma was bright and never missed a trick, and Hillary was relying heavily on her dynamic young blonde sergeant to catch anything she might overlook.
‘Nothing obvious, guv,’ Gemma answered, after a moment’s thought. ‘Although I went down to Eddie Philpott’s old post office depot yesterday afternoon to ask around and see what I could nose out.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Good idea.’ She hadn’t asked her to do it, but probably would have, sooner or later. The fact that she’d anticipated her gave Hillary a distinct feeling of security. Ridiculous as it might seem, Hillary was actually relieved to have this woman at her back.
‘I couldn’t find anybody who had anything bad to say about the man,’ Gemma said slowly. ‘No hint of dishonesty, that’s for sure. His bosses saw him as reliable, very rarely off sick and, for the most part, a trustworthy plodder. Somebody who didn’t moan too much and just got on with it. Most of his cronies seemed to think the same, and most said that he’d been counting down the days to retirement — the same as the rest of them.’
Hillary nodded, getting the picture at once. ‘Eddie was a man who lived for his garden, his hobbies and his family,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely not a career-minded individual. I dare say he’d have been upset about his daughter’s condition, and worried about having to rear his grandkids alone. Not having to hold down a full-time job as well must have been a load off his mind.’
Gemma nodded. ‘So, who’d want to kill a man like that? That’s the question, isn’t it?’
Hillary sighed. ‘No obvious history of financial trouble?’
‘No,’ Gemma replied. ‘He banked his salary straight away, and didn’t spend much of it, after paying the bills. He retired on a full pension too. No signs of gambling, drinking, or any other of the favourite vices.’
Hillary shook her head. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. This was the third day into her enquiries, and they were still short of any solid leads.
It was, surprisingly enough, Frank Ross who provided them with something new. He rolled in around half past nine, almost shaved, and in a nearly clean suit. He helped himself to a mug of coffee from Barrington’s personal carafe, and sat down at his desk, slurping.
‘Found out something interesting, guv,’ he said, when both Gemma and the red-headed DC had finished filling her in on their findings.
‘Oh?’ Hillary said. ‘Care to share it, Frank?’ she pressed, when he continued to slurp coffee noisily.
Fully aware of her impatience, he grinned wolfishly. ‘Our victim had a bit on the side,’ he said gleefully.
Hillary sighed. Of course he did. As Scudamore-Blaire had pointed out yesterday, Eddie Philpott had still been a relatively young and fit, active man. It was hardly likely he’d been living the life of a celibate monk ever since his wife left him. Damn, why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?
‘Going to tell us her name any time soon, Frank?’ Hillary asked drily.
‘Martha Hepton, guv.’
‘I know that name,’ Gemma said at once, her voice turning grim. ‘I’m pretty sure I talked to her on Monday evening.’ She reached for her notebook, a fierce scowl on her narrow, striking face, and began to riffle through the pages frantically.
Ross grinned, enjoying her discomfort. ‘You probably did. She lives in Steeple Knott itself. In fact, she lives in our victim’s old family home. The cottage his parents left him.’
Gemma found her notes and read them with a scowl. ‘The crafty old cat never mentioned a word about knowing the victim as anything more than a neighbour.’
Frank Ross laughed and touched the side of his nose with a finger. Gemma flushed faintly, furious at being outdone by Ross, of all people.
‘Let’s go, Frank,’ Hillary said calmly. Left alone at the office, he’d only wind everybody up. Besides, she wanted to talk to him alone.
* * *
Outside, they took her car and she drove, since she didn’t really trust Frank to pass a breathalyzer test if they were ever pulled over.
Martha Hepton’s cottage was one of the smallest in the hamlet, and on the furthest side from the Philpott family home. Even so, in so small a community, surely somebody must have known what had been going on? Unless Frank had got it wrong, of course. An event not entirely unheard of.
‘You’re sure about this, Frank?’ she asked, as she climbed out of the car and glanced around. The hamlet was totally deserted. Not even a cat moved to disturb the scene. Of course, most of the inhabitants had left for work, leaving just a few old folk behind. So perhaps it had been relatively easy, after all, for two canny and seasoned lovers to conduct an affair in secret in a place as remote and quiet as this.
‘I have my sources, guv,’ Frank answered firmly. In this case, a nosy old man in a pub in the next village down the road whose missus was gossipmonger-in-chief for the county.
The front garden of Honeysuckle Cottage was tiny, and totally gravelled. Two plant pots, each bearing a rather dry-looking yucca, stood at either side of the path, which consisted of just four flagstones. If her lover had been a gardener par excellence, it was not a passion shared by his mistress it appeared, Hillary thought wryly. Although, to be fair, a large honeysuckle did cascade picturesquely over the upside-down V of the front porch.
Hillary knocked loudly. The door was opened after a few moments by an attractive fifty-something woman, with dyed auburn hair and bright green eyes. She was wearing a large white smock covered with daubs of paint and held a paintbrush in her hand.
She eyed Hillary and Frank warily, then sighed. ‘Oh hell,’ she said bluntly. ‘I knew I should just have come clean when that first rozzer came asking about Eddie.’
Hillary smiled brightly. ‘It’s usually a good idea, madam,’ she advised.
The woman nodded glumly. ‘The truth was, I was just so damned surprised to hear that Eddie was dead. It sort of addled what little brains I already have, and I just stood there like a lemon, spouting all sorts of guff.’ She blinked, then took a deep breath. ‘Oh well. You’d better come in, then. Welcome to the house of sin.’
So saying, she held the door open wider to admit them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Far from a house of sin, Honeysuckle Cottage looked very much like a small, charming country dwelling. Original flagstones in the cramped hall led to similar flooring in a small but functional kitchen. Martha Hepton led them into that room but then surprised them by continuing on and into a small glass conservatory attached to the sunny side of the cottage.
Apart from a few tubs of unremarkable greenery though, the space was bare of plants. Instead, a large easel was set up in the centre of the room, and ranks of finished canvasses lined the walls. A white-painted wrought-iron table and matching garden chairs were placed to one side.
‘Sorry for the squeeze. Margery is due to collect a batch later today,’ Martha said, indicating the paintings and then the cramped quarters with an apology. ‘She owns a gallery in Woodstock, which isn’t quite as grand as it sounds. She caters strictly to the tourists, nothing well paid or pretentious,’ she added with a grin. ‘Which is why I can’t afford a decent studio, but please, pull up a chair, if you can make room.’
She tossed the paintbrush she was holding into a jam jar full of murky-looking liquid, as Hillary approached the canvas on the easel. It was a rather good watercolour of an English water meadow, with a church spire in the background, and placidly grazing cattle everywhere else. It was very nearly complete, save for a patch of buttercups and daisies the artist was highlighting in the bottom right-hand corner.
‘Nice,’ Hilla
ry said. And that’s all it was. She personally wouldn’t give it house room, and the artist seemed to sense it, for Martha shrugged helplessly.
‘What can I do? I have just enough talent to know that I don’t have enough talent. If I was honest, I’d go out and get a job in a supermarket, but instead I churn these out, and my pal Margery flogs them on to the Yanks and vast ranks of Japanese. You’d be surprised how many of them want something just a bit more original than a pottery thimble or a brass plaque of the dreaming spires of Oxford to take home as a keepsake. It doesn’t earn me a fortune — hell, it barely earns me a living, but it still beats stacking shelves.’ Martha sighed. ‘Lemonade?’
In spite of the fact that autumn was well under way, it was understandably warm in the glasshouse. Hillary assumed that in the summer, Martha must be forced into another room in the house.
‘Thanks,’ she accepted gratefully. She watched Martha as she poured three glasses, and handed one to Frank Ross, who took it reluctantly. Unless it was secretly dosed with vodka or gin, she doubted he’d take more than a token swallow.
They all sat around the table, elbows touching, and Hillary drank the tart, refreshing liquid with pleasure. ‘So, you and Eddie Philpott.’
Martha sighed heavily. ‘Yes. Well, we’ve been lovers for nearly twenty years now, but I suppose you’ve already found that out. Hell, I can’t believe it’s been that long. Well, maybe I can.’ She looked around somewhat bemusedly. ‘Time seems to just go,’ she added forlornly.
Hillary nodded. ‘I understand you rent this property from him?’
Martha snorted a rather inelegant laugh, and then shook her head. ‘Sorry. But yes, or well, sort of. It’s strictly of the peppercorn variety, I’m afraid, since I couldn’t afford to pay anything like what the cottage is worth in today’s market.’ She gave a very real shudder. ‘But Eddie, bless him, was always big-hearted. And, well, I did provide him with his comforts.’
