Narrow is the Way

by Faith Martin

  Hillary watched the fox slink across the road a few yards ahead of her and lightly touched the brakes. In daylight, the single-track road to Steeple Barton seemed even more treacherous than in the dark. Clumps of patterned mud, fresh from a tractor’s gigantic wheels, gave the surface a greasy look, and the high hedges on either side gave her a vague feeling of claustrophobia. The fox, spotting her at last, broke into a panicked run and promptly disappeared. Unlike many of her colleagues, Hillary had never felt the yen to leave Oxfordshire for the bigger, badder cities. At heart, she supposed, she preferred to see trees and fields than factories and housing estates.

  As the hedges opened up to reveal the tiny village green, Hillary noticed a man climbing awkwardly over a field gate. There was nothing particularly odd about that, except that he didn’t seem very comfortable doing it. People who lived in the countryside quickly developed an easy climbing manner for negotiating stiles, fences and gates, but this man looked clumsy. He wasn’t helped by having gangling legs and arms, and being dressed in a green anorak that was too new. His wellingtons were also fresh-from-the-shop clean. He struck her as someone trying to look like a local, and not quite making it.

  Press, Hillary thought grimly. Had to be. But she’d have thought they would be all gone by now. Those who had gathered like ghouls in the early hours, had taken their mandatory shot of the mortuary van being driven away, and had no doubt long since pestered the Wallises for an interview and filed their stories. Now it was the police press liaison officer who’d be taking the brunt back at HQ. There could always be scavengers left hanging about, she supposed.

  She watched the sandy-haired man thoughtfully as he set off over the field. From her mental map of last night, she was pretty sure the pasture would lead towards Three Oaks Farm.

  She went past the small cluster of pretty cottages, a tiny old schoolhouse (long since converted to a private residence) and single post box, and followed the road to the end. The gate to the cowsheds now stood unguarded, the police sentinel having been gratefully dismissed. If there’d been even a small gathering of press, the uniformed officer would have been obliged to remain and secure the premises, but nowadays, murders didn’t get the sensational attention they once did. Although, Hillary suspected, once word got out that the victim had been dressed as a bride, they’d soon come traipsing back. The macabre always attracted them. She could almost see the gory and highly inaccurate headlines now.

  She turned and parked the car facing back the way she’d come, then walked the short distance back up the road to the farmhouse itself. The sun had come out, and rosehips gleamed scarlet in the hedgerows, and a lonely jackdaw called for company as it flew low across the fields towards a colourful spinney.

  The Three Oaks farmhouse was one of those solid, square, grey houses, that had once been unfashionable, but which would now probably fetch a breathtaking sum if it ever came up for sale. Built not so far back that it was uncomfortable, it was old enough for the workmanship to be immaculate and long-lasting. Hillary found herself comparing the edifice to the Mollern and almost seeing the funny side.

  The door was answered by a young woman in jeans, who introduced herself, surprisingly as, ‘Madge, I’m the daily.’ Hillary stepped inside an old-fashioned hall that smelt of damp umbrellas and wet wool. ‘The missus is in through there.’ Madge pointed to a closed door. ‘Want tea?’

  ‘Coffee, if you have it,’ she pleaded, never one to overlook a caffeine hit. Madge grinned and nodded.

  Hillary knocked on the door and heard a startled summons to enter. Inside, a green-eyed, heavy-set man, with attractive waves of iron-grey hair, got up from the sofa, a question on his face. From the armchair opposite, a forty-something woman with carefully dyed blonde hair, wearing a tan-coloured silk blouse and clotted-cream coloured linen trousers also watched her curiously. The woman looked as if she should be beautiful, but when Hillary looked at her closely, she could see that, in fact, she was not.

  ‘Mr Wallis? Mrs Wallis?’ She reached into her bag for her wallet. ‘Detective Inspector Hillary Greene. I’m in charge of the Julia Reynolds’ murder investigation.’

  ‘Ah, Inspector, glad you’re here,’ Owen Wallis said, even as his wife was opening her delicately pearl-pink lips to greet her. ‘I’ve been trying to get someone to see reason about my cows, but everyone says I have to talk to the man in charge. But I’ve been ringing the station all morning and getting the run around.’

  Hillary blinked. ‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but can I see to my cows?’

  Hillary, who now knew what Alice had felt like when she disappeared down the rabbit hole for the first time, blinked again. ‘Er, your cows, sir?’

  ‘Yes. They’re being kept in the shed. But they’re milkers, and pretty soon the poor sods will be feeling the pain from their udders. I need to move ’em out to the milking sheds, but those Johnnies in white overalls don’t seem capable of seeing reason. Even after the last of ’em left, I was told I couldn’t move ’em.’

  Hillary nodded, holding up a placatory hand. ‘Let me just see if I can do something about that, Mr Wallis,’ she said, flipping open her mobile. A quick call the police lab confirmed SOCO had everything they needed.

  ‘Please, feel free to see to your cows, sir,’ Hillary said, on finishing the call. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been worried.’ The last thing she wanted was a hostile witness. As it was, Owen Wallis was already heading for the door, and she quickly added, ‘Perhaps I can have a word or two with your wife, whilst you’re busy, and then I would like a word or two with you later, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be right back when I’ve seen my cowman,’ the farmer said, disappearing out of the room.

  Hillary took a seat on the sofa, and Wendy Wallis smiled knowingly. ‘My husband has a one-track mind, I’m afraid. I’m used to it. So, what can I tell you? I have to say this is the first time I’ve had any contact with the police. And I still can’t believe that poor girl was killed in our cowshed. I mean it’s so … so … bizarre!’

  Hillary could well understand how Wendy Wallis felt. According to what she remembered from the paperwork, Wendy Wallis had been the daughter of the local schoolteacher. She’d married well, and no doubt had led a fairly comfortable and insulated life ever since. It remained to be seen whether or not she was the kind of woman who also liked to live with her head buried in the sand. Or if, paradoxically, her isolated life on the farm had given her a rabid interest in the outside world.

  ‘What can you tell me about the victim, Mrs Wallis. Julia Reynolds. Did you know her?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, I’d seen her about the village. A friend of mine, Davina McGuinness, has her in to do her mother’s hair. So I’ve seen her once or twice at Davina’s place – she had a granny flat added on for her, when she fell down the stairs at her own place. Her mother, I mean.’

  Hillary nodded, having no trouble following the rambling explanation. ‘So were you surprised to see her at your party?’

  ‘Well, only at first. And then someone told me she was here with Roger Greenwood. So that made sense. My husband was closeted with Theo Greenwood, his father, for a good half-hour in the study, and I was not best pleased, I can tell you. At our silver wedding anniversary party! The things I have to put up with with that man,’ Wendy said, but she didn’t sound particularly angry.

  Hillary had the feeling that her conversation was just a bit off, as if her mind was on something else. But then, she was probably just nervous.

  ‘So, did you see Julia Reynolds leave the party with anyone? To go outside at any time?’

  ‘Oh no. But then I wasn’t paying much attention to her.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anything odd about her behaviour? Didn’t see anything strange happening?’

  ‘No, as I said … well … what do you mean by odd, exactly?’

  Hillary felt a little jump in her pulse rate. It was often like this. You’d be interviewing a witness with no high hop
es of anything good, and then, out of the blue, a little nibble. ‘Oh, anything at all. No matter how insignificant.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean, you don’t want impressions, do you? I mean, you police like facts and things.’

  ‘That’s not altogether true, Mrs Wallis,’ Hillary said carefully, not at all sure what she might be letting herself in for. ‘At the moment I’m trying to build up a picture of the victim, and any information, no matter how unscientific it is, could come in useful. You said you got some kind of impression about Julia?’ she prompted gently.

  ‘Well, like I said, it’s nothing definite. And I can’t say it was important or anything. It was just that outfit of hers. It was quite stunning, and being a fancy dress party, she was so beautiful I can quite see why she’d chosen something spectacular. I rather got the impression she was a bit of an exhibitionist, but … well, to tell you the truth, I felt that she was deliberately taunting somebody with that wedding dress of hers.’

  Wendy Wallis stopped, then frowned. ‘It’s hard to put it into words. She was slightly tipsy, I know, and like all young things nowadays, not exactly discreet, but it seemed to me, once or twice, that she was sort of … showing off … no, not that exactly, but somehow making a point. Scoring off somebody. Oh, I don’t know how to explain it,’ she huffed in frustration. ‘She was just up to some kind of mischief; yes, that’s it: definitely up to mischief.’

  ‘Could she have chosen the wedding dress as a kind of hint to Roger Greenwood, do you think?’ Hillary asked, not sure what Wendy Wallis was getting at.

  ‘No,’ the farmer’s wife said firmly. ‘I didn’t get the feeling that her boyfriend was the one she was tormenting. She seemed genuinely fond of him, and the boy was smitten right enough. No, it was someone else. But I may have been wrong.’

  But Wendy Wallis didn’t really believe she was wrong, and Hillary didn’t know the woman well enough to gauge if her self-confidence was justified.

  One thing was for sure, Hillary thought morosely; if Julia Reynolds had been up to mischief last night, using her costume to make some sort of point, then perhaps all her taunting and tormenting had proved far more successful than had been good for her.

  chapter four

  Hillary returned to Kidlington, and spent the next few hours dealing with her other cases, including a somewhat cold telephone conversation with the prosecutor of her now aborted fraud case. It wasn’t often one of her cases fell down, and it put her in a nasty mood and just the right frame of mind to attack her tray of paperwork.

  Mel seemed to be in as foul a mood as herself, and when they found themselves snapping at each other over a minor difference of opinion about the Radcliffe case, with Mel convinced in spite of only flimsy evidence that the middle-aged spinster had indeed been killed by her older sister for the insurance money, and Hillary urging caution, they both decided to retire to their corners and cool off. Apart from anything else, Frank Ross had been seriously entertained by their rare show of spite, and was wearing a sneer that would have cracked cutlery, and nobody liked to please the poisoned cherub.

  So it was something of a relief when Tommy Lynch, answering a summons from the ground floor, told her that the ‘best friend’ of Julia Reynolds had come in, asking if she could help.

  ‘I don’t suppose she was at the party, too, was she?’ Hillary asked, without much hope, as they jogged lightly down the stairs and headed towards the interview-rooms.

  ‘’fraid not, guv,’ Tommy confirmed.

  ‘Oh well. At least we’ll be able to get a better picture of our vic.’

  Tommy nodded. He was looking forward to this. Not only was he always grateful for any time spent alone with the woman he admired and – yes, fancied – above all others, but he was genuinely impressed with her various interview techniques. What the public failed to realize (since it didn’t make good drama) was that more cases were solved in the interview-room than anywhere else. Sometimes the guilty just needed to get things off their chest and barely required a nudge in the right direction. Sometimes, they were too clever for their own good, and needed to be tripped up and tied into knots. Other times, it was down to the interviewing officer to tease nuggets of previously forgotten bits of information from witnesses, or help them bring to mind events that they hadn’t thought relevant. Whatever, most cops needed to have the gift of the gab if they wanted to solve cases, but Tommy had seen Hillary tackle people with an almost paranormal ability to get the most out of them.

  He knew he could learn a lot from Hillary Greene, and he was not about to waste any precious chance to watch and learn, not if he wanted to make sergeant by his next birthday.

  As his superior officer pushed open the door, Tommy saw a small, nervous-looking girl sitting at the table. She had short dark hair and big brown eyes, covered by a pair of too-small, rectangular glasses. She wore a pair of jeans and a chunky, hand-knitted cream sweater. She was fiddling nervously with a cigarette packet, although she hadn’t yet lit up. He knew that Hillary, a non-smoker all her life, would be relieved by that.

  ‘Hello, Miss …?’

  ‘Mandy Tucker,’ the girl all but whispered, half-rising from her chair, obviously unaware of the protocol.

  ‘Mind if I call you Mandy?’ Hillary said, with a warm and easy smile. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hillary Greene, in charge of the Julia Reynolds’ murder investigation. Please, sit down, Mandy. We’re grateful to you for coming in like this.’

  Mandy Tucker nodded, and sniffed, then sat down. ‘I wanted to help. Although, really, I don’t know what I can do.’ She was still whispering, and almost maniacally fiddling with the packet. Tommy had the feeling she’d never been inside a police station in her life.

  Hillary sat down and nodded to Tommy to use the notebook, not the recorder. She was sure that the machinery would send someone as timid as this into further paroxysms of shyness, and that was the last thing they needed.

  ‘It’s all right, Mandy, we know you weren’t at the party, and so can’t give us any practical help. We don’t expect you to. All I need from you is to tell me about Julia. The kind of girl she was. You’d be surprised how much that will help us,’ Hillary said brightly, with yet another reassuring smile.

  Mandy Tucker gave a slightly tremulous smile in response, and Tommy could see her bony shoulders relax just a bit.

  ‘OK,’ she agreed willingly.

  ‘So, how long have you and Julia been friends?’

  Mandy Tucker laughed. ‘Oh, for ages, ever since we were five. We went to the same primary school in Kirtlington, then to the Comp. I stayed on to do A-levels, but Julia left at sixteen. But she did my hair for me, and we went to the socials, and the pub for lunch, whenever.’

  ‘Sounds like you were really close then. So, how would you describe Julia? And please, Mandy,’ – at this point Hillary leaned over and gently placed a hand on Mandy’s own, waiting until the shy girl looked her in the eye – ‘we know that your friend is dead, and it still seems horribly unreal, and the last thing you want to do is talk about maybe some of the bad things about her. I know it would feel horribly disloyal. But the thing is, everybody has good and bad in them; I do, you do, PC Lynch here, everybody. It’s what makes us human. And the chances are that it wasn’t whatever was good in Julia that made somebody kill her, but whatever was bad in her. Do you see what I’m saying?’

  She took her hand away slowly, and watched the other girl nod miserably. Although her hands had ceased destroying the cigarette packet, Hillary could see that she wasn’t altogether convinced.

  ‘You see, Mandy, as hard as this is to understand and believe, your friend is dead. You can’t do anything for her; you can’t make it better; there’s nothing you can say or do that will make things different. All you can do for your friend now is grieve for her, and help us to find whoever did this to her. She’d want that, wouldn’t she? To know that whoever did this to her was caught and made to pay?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mandy Tucker said at once. ‘She would.’
She straightened a little more firmly in the chair and her eyes became harder. ‘Julia wasn’t a bleeding heart. She thought they should bring back the death penalty for killers. You know, like they have in America.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘A lot of people feel that way,’ she said, with careful neutrality. ‘So you know that she’d approve of you being honest with us. From what you say, I don’t think Julia was the kind of girl who’d be afraid of the truth.’

  ‘No, you’re right. She was always honest, sometimes brutally so,’ Mandy agreed, her own voice strengthening now as she remembered her dead friend’s savvy. ‘She always said what she thought,’ Mandy added, managing another wry smile. ‘Not everyone liked that, you know. But Julia always tackled things head on. Called a spade a spade. Like this immigration thing. She said everyone was afraid to say what they really thought, because they were terrified of being labelled a racist. But she thought immigration should be stopped. She said why should she have to give over a third of her earnings in tax, so that some foreigner who’d never paid a penny into the system could just waltz over here and get ahead of her on the National Health queue. She said nearly everybody thought the same, but just didn’t dare say so.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘But she did say so?’

  ‘Right. And like fox hunting. She said it was a big lie that everyone living in the country was all for fox hunting. She said that she’d lived in a country village all her life and she thought fox hunting was barbaric. She threw a boyfriend over, once, when she found out he’d ridden to hounds. She told him to his face he was a cruel bastard, and she hoped he fell off his horse next time and broke his neck.’