With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  The medical man shrugged, pulling off his rubber gloves carefully and dropping them into his open bag. ‘I’m not sure. Could have been just a lucky blow. Mind you, she’s old. The knife needn’t even have perforated the heart to kill her straight away. The blade could have missed her aorta altogether, come to think of it. Depends how long the blade is. Besides, the shock alone would probably have been enough to finish her off.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘You think she was knifed where she sat?’

  ‘Almost certainly, I should say. The angle of the blade appears to be downwards.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘I can’t see any sign of blood on the carpet either. So it’s unlikely she was killed somewhere else and moved here.’ She was talking more or less to herself by now. ‘Any guess on time of death?’ she asked sharply, focusing once more on the dapper medico.

  Partridge smiled. ‘Knew you’d ask me that. You got any guesses yourself, from preliminary interviews?’ he asked, obviously edging.

  Hillary smiled. ‘Between seven and eleven last night?’ She raised her voice at the end, making it a question.

  The doctor smiled. ‘I’ll go along with that.’

  ‘Why so cagey?’ she asked curiously, and Partridge turned and pointed at the gas fire.

  ‘That,’ Steven Partridge said succinctly. ‘The victim’s been sitting close to a constant heat source, for who knows how long. Plays bloody havoc with rigor and the whole science of predicting time of death, I can tell you.’

  It was very warm in the room, and no wonder, if the fire had been going all through the night. Especially if the door had been shut as well. Hillary sighed. ‘Great.’ She wondered if the killer knew that, and was that why he or she had left the fire on? Or had they simply not given it another thought, and simply left it burning? It was possible the killer had turned the fire on when they left, but Hillary didn’t think it very likely. It was the middle of winter, after all, and the old felt the cold more than most. It was almost impossible to think that Flo Jenkins herself hadn’t turned the fire on, and kept it on all day.

  ‘Is it just me, or doesn’t she look well?’ Hillary finally had to ask, and wasn’t all that surprised when Steven shot her a quick, interested look.

  It was a sign of how much he respected her that he never even suspected she was being facetious. Some coppers he worked with could be brutal sods, often hiding discomfort behind coarse humour. But since it was Hillary Greene asking, he shot the corpse another, less functional glance, and slowly frowned. ‘No, it’s not just you. Sudden weight loss, bags under the eyes. Irregular sleeping habits. Hmmm … I think, when I get this old girl on the table, she might have lots to tell me. Mind you, it might be a while. I’ve got two days backlog as it is.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘I’ll let you get on with it then,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, and doc, can you make removal of the murder weapon a priority, please? I don’t want it sitting in her for a couple of days when I can get cracking on it.’

  Steven shut his bag with a snap. ‘I’ll get it photographed and removed, bagged and tagged on its way to you before you leave tonight.’

  ‘You’re a prince Doc.’

  ‘So kind. Oh, and talking of princes, I think I can see Sergeant Ross arriving,’ he said drily, grinning as Hillary groaned.

  She became aware of Janine hovering behind her, just as Frank Ross came through the open doorway. He was a round, fat-faced man in his fifties, with very deceiving Winnie-the-Pooh placid features, and a shabby way of dressing.

  ‘Decided to turn up then?’ Hillary said shortly, then held up a hand, before he could start whining excuses. ‘Forget it, I can’t be bothered,’ she said. ‘You can join the new boy on house-to-house. And Frank, I expect you to work through the lunch hour. Don’t let me find you in a pub somewhere.’

  Frank merely shrugged. At one time he might have mumbled something obscene under his breath, or even shot her the finger if she thought she wasn’t looking.

  His hangover must be particularly vicious this morning, Hillary mused to herself, then glanced behind her. ‘Got something for me?’

  Janine nodded. ‘Boss. Victim’s handbag. I found it on the sofa opposite where she was sitting. Usual stuff, but her purse only contained twenty-three pence in change. No pound coins or folding stuff at all. Now it might just be she was skint, but it was pension day yesterday. If she collected it, or had it collected for her, where is it?’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Any other signs of robbery?’

  ‘Not definite, boss, but her jewellery box is almost empty. Only some obvious cheap stuff in the bottom drawer. But until we know if she even had any good stuff in the first place …’ She trailed off with a graphic shrug.

  Hillary nodded. ‘OK. I’m going to interview the finder of the body. See if she knows what Flo Jenkins had by way of goodies. Any sign of a break-in?’

  ‘No boss.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘OK, keep at it.’

  Janine nodded, and watched her from the window as her superior officer walked down the short concrete path. The pretty blonde woman bit her lip as she stood there, an unconscious habit she had when she was anxious. Should she tell Hillary what was going on? Janine was almost positive that she’d know how best to handle it. And once or twice she’d caught Hillary Greene looking at her oddly, almost as if she’d guessed anyway. It was almost spooky when she did that. Instinctively, Janine felt she could trust her. She’d worked with the woman for four years now, and if she trusted anyone, it was Hillary Greene. Only her pride, and a contrasting sense of humiliation, stopped her. Hell, she doubted anyone would ever have the guts to stalk Hillary Greene! Besides, it was something she could deal with herself, right? She was a bloody sergeant, for pete’s sake, soon to be married to a super, and, when the next chance to take her Boards came along, a DI herself. She could handle some wanker who liked to leave silly messages. Hell yes.

  With a shrug, Janine got on with listing the contents of Flo Jenkins’ life.

  The uniform guarding the front gate told Hillary where she could find Caroline Weekes, which turned out to be just a short distance to the end of the road, where she crossed over and went a few hundred yards up the next street. As she walked, however, she might have been crossing a border to another country.

  Here, the cramped, identical houses built by the council, suddenly gave way to far more modern, detached and semi-detached private houses. The gardens were smaller, more well tended, the cars that were still parked on the road, more expensive and up-market.

  Caroline Weekes’ house was one of those trying to look like a miniature Tudor mansion. Bushes that had seen topiary clippers stood like sentinels beside a slate grey concrete path. When she rang the door bell, the WPC who answered straightened up a little at the sight of Hillary’s warrant card, and ushered her through to the lounge. The room was long and full of light, one end opening onto the back garden through a large set of French doors, the other having a large panoramic window that gave a great view of the road. A mock fireplace that had no actual chimney, played host to a gas fire that looked like real logs and flames, and a large winter landscape painting dominated one wall. The flooring was modern wooden planking, with scattered black and white throw rugs scattered strategically around. From the depths of a white leather sofa, a pale-faced woman looked up at her.

  ‘Mrs Weekes, this is Detective Inspector Hillary Greene.’ It was the WPC who introduced them. ‘She’s the senior investigating office of Flo’s case. Can I make you a cup of tea, ma’am?’ she added to Hillary, who nodded back. She knew the uniform wouldn’t come back with tea unless she actually indicated that she wanted it. It was just a way of leaving them alone, whilst she got on with the interview.

  ‘Hello Mrs Weekes. I’m sorry to bother you so soon. I know it must have been quite a shock for you.’ As she spoke, she walked forward and, uninvited, sat down in a large, black leather chair. It faced the sofa across the expanse of a wide, glass-topped coffee table, on which rested a luxuriant spider pl
ant and one of those books full of stunning photography. The whole place reminded Hillary of one of those ideal homes exhibitions. Did anybody really live in such spotless elegance? Well, evidently Caroline Weekes did.

  The witness was dressed imaginatively and well, but her eyes were large and hollow looking, and she noticed that the woman sat with her hands under her armpits as if trying to warm them. All signs of distress and shock.

  But, as the statistics showed, the person who first found a body had to go straight to the top of any investigator’s list. Any trace or forensic evidence found on such a person could so easily be explained away, which was why many killers opted to ‘find’ their victim before anyone else had the chance to. She hoped the WPC had explained to Mrs Weekes that they’d be needing the clothes she’d been wearing when she found Flo Jenkins.

  ‘So, perhaps you can just talk me through what happened this morning,’ Hillary began, keeping her voice friendly and light. ‘You woke up at your usual time?’

  ‘Yes. Seven. John has to get up that early to make the commute. He works in High Wycombe.’

  ‘John’s your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave his details and Hillary wrote them down, though she doubted they’d be needed. But it was often useful to slide into these things gradually.

  ‘You had breakfast?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes. Cornflakes. Tea. I left the house to go to work about ten past, quarter past eight. Something like that.’

  ‘You didn’t drive?’

  ‘No, I usually catch the bus. I only work in town, so it’s easier. Parking and all.’

  ‘But you called in to see Mrs Jenkins. You usually do that?’

  ‘Yes, couple of times a week. Just to see if she needs anything – shopping, her rubbish bin taken out, that kind of thing. I can pop into Somerfield, which is just over the road from work, then nip on the bus, take it to her, and still have a decent lunch hour. Sometimes she used to do me soup and toast at her place.’ Her voice sounded wistful, as if it had just occurred to her that there would be no more such lunches.

  Hillary nodded. ‘I’m sorry. It sounds as if you were very friendly.’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a funeral, of all things.’ Caroline gave a grim laugh and turned her head to stare out of the rain-speckled window. ‘A neighbour and close friend of my mother’s. Flo also knew her from way back. We got talking, realized we only lived a few minutes’ walk from each other, and she invited me over for tea the following week. I might not have gone, you know how it is, but it seemed rude. Anyway, I went, and we got talking, and we sort of clicked. Lots of people think that’s strange – her being so much older, but that was never really an issue. Oh, over the years, I started doing bits and bobs for her – when she couldn’t manage so well. You know how it is. But really, I’m not much of a good Samaritan. I don’t help out charities, or spend time at soup kitchens or stuff like that. It was just for Flo.’ She fiddled with a button on her jacket and frowned. ‘I don’t want you to get the impression I’m a goody two shoes. One of those frightful women who think they know what’s best for the elderly and go around doing good works. That’s not me at all. And it wasn’t Flo, either. She was fiercely independent as a rule, but just lately she’s been under the weather and simply couldn’t do as much as she used to. She hated having to ask, so I made sure I asked her first if there was something she needed.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me if Mrs Jenkins picked up her pension yesterday? She’d have to get it in town somewhere, yes?’

  ‘Yes, the post office on Sheep Street. It’s situated at the back of that big newsagents just up from the Penny Black pub. And yes, she did get it. I drove her down that morning, then back again in my lunch hour. She liked to wander around the charity shops and have a cup of tea and a bun in Nash’s.’

  ‘Do you know what she did with it? Her pension money, I mean?’ Hillary asked, and the other woman looked at her blankly.

  ‘Good Lord, no. I suppose she kept it in her handbag. Or she might have hidden it somewhere I suppose. I don’t really know. We didn’t discuss money much. Sometimes, if I’d take her to somewhere like Oxford or Banbury, she’d try to insist on paying me some petrol money, but I’d always turn her down. Say I had to go into town anyway, something like that.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘And this morning. You walked to her door and knocked, same as usual?’

  ‘Yes. But nobody answered, and the curtains were all drawn. The woman across the street … oh I do wish I could remember her name, it’s been on the tip of my tongue all morning. I can’t think why … Well, she was just collecting her milk. We talked for a bit, but she hadn’t seen Flo that morning, and I was getting a bit worried, so I used my key to go in.’

  ‘You have a key then? May I have it, Mrs Weekes? I need to log it into evidence.’

  ‘Oh, yes of course. My bag …’ She looked around, and Hillary pointed to the bag on the floor beside the sofa. ‘Oh thanks. Right. It’s this one.’ She fiddled with a fairly bulky set of keys, hanging from a black cat key ring. ‘Here.’ Finally she handed over a silver-coloured Yale. Hillary carefully retrieved an evidence bag from her pocket, slipped the key inside and sealed it, then peeled off a label from a roll kept in her handbag, noted the time and details, and slipped the whole lot back.

  ‘Can you remember when Mrs Jenkins first gave you her key?’

  ‘Oh, nearly a year ago now. It made sense, I suppose. Sometimes she’d be out and I’d have shopping for her that I couldn’t leave on the doorstep. Sometimes she’d phone from bingo and ask me to let her cat in, or she’d go off on one of those old folks weekends to Paignton and ask me to feed it. It was just easier to have a key.’

  ‘Right.’ Hillary made a note in her book to see to the cat. If a neighbour or friend didn’t want it, she’d have to get the new boy to take it to an animal shelter. There’d been no sign of it that morning, though. Probably all the people and activity had kept it away. ‘And this morning…?’ she prompted, and Caroline’s face tightened.

  ‘Yes. Right, this morning.’ She rubbed her palms nervously against the tops of her knees.

  She didn’t really want to go there, Hillary realized, but it had to be done.

  ‘Like I said, there was no answer, so I used the key. I went into the hall, but I couldn’t hear her moving about upstairs. I thought she might have overslept see. I went into the lounge. I was surprised to see the telly on. And the lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. And then I saw her, or rather, the top of her head, showing over the chair. And I walked forward a little, thinking she’d nodded off and saw … well, that thing sticking out of her chest. And she was so still and pale. I just knew she was dead.’ She was taking deep, quick breaths now, fighting back tears and rising hysteria.

  ‘Did you touch anything, Mrs Weekes?’ Hillary asked gently, calmly, trying to slow her down.

  Caroline Weekes shuddered in another breath, and wiped her palms frantically against her knees. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. I remember walking outside, and thinking how nice and cool it was. And phoning. And waiting.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Did you notice anything odd or out of place in the room?’

  Caroline frowned, looking puzzled. ‘No. I don’t think so. I didn’t really notice. All I could see was Flo.’

  ‘And earlier, when you approached her house. Did you see anyone hanging around, or a car you hadn’t seen before, parked close by, or pulling away from the kerb?’

  Caroline shook her head.

  Hillary hadn’t really expected anything else – it was beginning to look more and more as if the old woman had been killed last night. But the routine questions were having the effect of calming the witness down. ‘Had Flo mentioned anyone harassing her lately?’

  ‘No. Well, only that grandson of hers, but he was always scrounging off her. Nothing more than usual.’

  ‘And she seemed much the same as ever,
this last week or so?’ Hillary asked.

  ‘Yes. She was looking forward to her birthday party for instance. Nothing fancy, she was just going to invite all her old friends around. I was going to bake her the usual chocolate cake. She always liked my chocolate cake. Everyone was to bring a bottle of booze with them, and she and Walter next door would make sandwiches and heat up sausage rolls, that sort of thing. She did it every year.’

  Hillary nodded. This confirmed Walter Keane’s assessment of Flo Jenkins. It was looking more and more unlikely that the victim had been aware of any danger. Had she simply been killed for her pension money? It seemed a bit extreme. But stranger things had happened. She’d certainly have to interview this grandson of hers soon.

  Caroline Weekes closed her eyes for a moment and then had to force them open. Soon, she’d be asleep. Hillary had seen that before. Emotional exhaustion had a way of catching up with you.

  ‘Well, that’s all for now, Mrs Weekes. I’ll just have a quick word with the WPC. She’ll stay for a little while longer. Has she called anyone for you?’

  ‘Yes, my mother. She lives in Cowley. She’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Good. I’ll probably have to talk with you again, as things come up. Perhaps, when you’re feeling better, you can have a think about any items of value you noticed in Flo’s house and make me a list. We haven’t ruled out robbery as a motive yet.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m not sure I’ll be much good at that,’ Caroline demurred, flushing slightly. ‘I’m not the sort of person who notices things like that. I mean, what people have. Or wear. That kind of thing.’ And then, as Hillary glanced around the glamorous room, she laughed. ‘Oh, all this is down to my husband. He has taste,’ she said the final words as if it was a virtue on a par with courage or chastity.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Well, if you could do your best,’ she encouraged, and got up. Out in the kitchen, she accepted a now nearly cold cup of tea, and drank it off in a few gulps, reminding the WPC to bag and tag the clothes Caroline was wearing, and send them to the evidence officer. ‘Oh, and take a set of her prints. At this point we only need them for elimination purposes.’ But you never knew. If Caroline Weekes’ dabs turned up on the murder weapon, she might be able to wrap this case up in record time. But something told her it wasn’t going to be that easy. In the meantime, it was back to number 18 Holburn Crescent.