With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  ‘Don’t tell your wife that,’ Hillary shot back. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime then. Not sure when I can get away – I just caught a bad one. Old lady stabbed to death. You know what the first forty-eight hours are like.’

  Mitch did. ‘So it’ll mean I have to hang around the pub for hours waiting for you to show. Might have to have a game of darts, a pub pie, watch the football on telly. Poor me.’

  Hillary laughed, said goodnight, and hung up. Then she glanced thoughtfully at the big, well-lit HQ building behind her. Maybe their stalker had gone home for the night, or maybe he was working the night shift. Perhaps he was laid up in a lay-by somewhere with a speed gun, or parked outside a pub with a breathalyser unit.

  He may not know it, but wherever he was, Hillary had just taken herself a big step closer to nailing him.

  chapter five

  * * *

  Hillary awoke slowly the next morning, aware at once that something was wrong.

  She opened her eyes warily, and stared at a ceiling. A large, white ceiling, that had recently been Artexed. She stared, bemused, at the fan-shaped pattern over her head, and slowly closed her eyes. Ahh, she wasn’t on the Mollern, her narrow boat and home for the past five years. There was no reassuring swaying motion caused by the high wind raging outside. There was none of the silence that came from living in a hamlet in the middle of the countryside in the depths of winter.

  Instead she could hear a council rubbish collection lorry outside, giving its usual and annoying bip-bip-bip as it backed up, and a corresponding flashing orange light intermittently lit up the wallpaper on the far wall.

  She was curled up on a double bed, which was far more space than she was used to, even with another body pressing next to her own. Slowly, she yawned and stretched, her cold toes making contact with a warm, hirsute calf, and she heard the man beside her draw in his breath sharply. ‘Bloody hell, Hill, why don’t you wear socks?’

  Hillary gurgled with laughter, pressing her nose into a lavender-scented pillow case. ‘How very romantic,’ she said drily. ‘You want me to buy those fluffy powder-blue bedsocks little old ladies favour? Maybe I should buy one of those big, tent-like flannelette night dresses to go with them – the kind with bow ribbons under the chin. You’ll be taking a hot water bottle to bed next.’

  ‘Oh very funny,’ Detective Inspector Mike Regis grunted, rolling onto one side, bending his elbow to lever himself up, and resting his chin in the cup of one hand, the better to look at her. ‘Mornin’ gorgeous.’

  Hillary sighed. She doubted she looked gorgeous. Her hair was probably tangled, she hadn’t got on a scrap of make-up, and she still felt absurdly self-conscious.

  Even though they’d been seeing each other for nearly two months now, she rarely spent the night at his place, and it still made her feel slightly uneasy to do so. Regis, recently divorced, lived in a decent-sized flat, converted out of a large, 1930s villa-type house in Botley, one of Oxford’s many suburbs. It was clean and spacious, and pleasant enough, but it had no personality. She much preferred her boat. And her old, single lifestyle. Mind you, there were certain compensations to being part of a couple again.

  She settled herself more comfortably against the pillows, and eyed Regis thoughtfully. He was not most people’s idea of a handsome hunk, being just a little on the short side, with thinning dark brown hair and, at the moment, a five o’clock shadow that could rasp the skin off a rabbit hide. But his eyes were spectacular, Hillary thought, a shade of emerald green that sizzled with intelligence, or, at the moment anyway, good old-fashioned lust.

  He worked out of Vice, his home station being in St Aldates, in Oxford itself. They’d met on her first murder case where she’d been acting SIO, and their paths had crossed once or twice since. Their attraction had been immediate and unmistakable, each recognizing in the other someone who thought as they did. Their views on the job, criminals, the justice system, and life in particular gelled very nicely. But he’d been married, and Hillary, having survived the marriage from hell with Ronnie Greene, had had no intention of being ‘the other woman’.

  But with his divorce finalized, Mike Regis had become a very different proposition. He was good company, liked more or less the same music as herself, had her taste in theatre, films, the arts and – some of her preferences in literature. Hillary, being an OEC (Oxford-educated cop) had graduated from a non-affiliated college with a degree in Literature, and if the man in her life couldn’t truly appreciate Jane Austen, well, it was hardly an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome.

  Nevertheless, as rosy as things seemed, she was aware of clouds on the horizon.

  The last two months had been great, much better, in fact, than she’d anticipated. When Regis had asked her out to dinner two months ago, she’d been celibate for nearly three years. The death of her estranged husband, and the fall-out from it, had put her off men, she’d thought, almost certainly for good. It had taken a fair bit of nerve for her to accept the offer, and even more nerve, a week later, to repeat the date, and accept his offer to stay the night.

  But Regis wasn’t without experience, or tact, and her fears and nervousness had quickly dissipated. And so far, their affair had been both tender, satisfying and a huge boon to her ego. But there was no getting around certain problems. As a rule, the brass didn’t particularly like marriages within the force, and their disapproval of Mel and Janine was just a case in point. Of course, Mike and herself weren’t on the same squad, or even worked out of the same nick. Even so. They hadn’t actually discussed it as such, but both of them had been careful to keep their relationship discreet. They weren’t exactly secretive, but they never went to a pub or restaurant that was known as a cop hangout, for instance. And they were careful with their phone calls, never putting through a personal call whilst at work.

  So far it seemed to be working, and nobody had yet twigged, but it could only be a matter of time. So far as she was aware, the only one who knew about them was Colin Tanner, Mike’s DS for the last noughty-nought years. They’d worked together for so long, and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses so well that rumour had it they were telepathically linked. She knew for a fact that neither of them seriously considered working with anyone else. Tanner was married, she’d learned, since picking up with Regis, and had a disabled daughter. He had no real ambition for promotion, but their arrest and conviction rate at Vice was so high, neither of them had any worries on the work front.

  It wouldn’t be such a disaster, Hillary supposed, when the rest of HQ finally twigged that Hillary had got herself a man. But then there was the problem of Paul Danvers.

  Hillary hadn’t missed the way he’d invited them all out for a drink, using it as a way of finding out her current status. How long before he found out about them? And how would he take it?

  ‘You’re frowning,’ Mike chided, running a finger across her forehead.

  Hillary sighed. ‘You’d frown too if your boss fancied you.’

  ‘I certainly would. My super is a twenty-stone ex-rugger play from Newport Pagnell called Kneebreaker Burgess. He’s sweet, but he’s got two cauliflower ears, and his nose has been broken so often it sort of sits to one side of his face like a dowager duchess sitting side saddle. Definitely not my type.’

  Hillary was still laughing as she swung her legs out of bed and slowly sat up, yawning down at her watch. She had plenty of time, but she wanted to get in early.

  Regis ran a hand tenderly up her back. ‘You really worried about Danvers?’ he asked quietly. Life, he knew, could get really complicated, really fast, for female officers who fell foul of Casanova superior officers.

  Hillary sighed. ‘No, not really. I think he came down from Yorkshire to Thames Valley for his promotion prospects all right, but, I think he also came down partly to see me again. I’m not convinced his getting Mel’s old job as my direct boss was as much of a coincidence as he’d have me believe. And he dropped some very broad hints yesterday that he’d just split from that barrister
woman he was seeing.’

  Now it was Regis’ turn to frown. Ever since he’d first met Hillary, he’d known they’d be good together. They had just clicked. She was smart, courageous, practical, experienced, and capable. As a police officer, he’d admired her at once. As a woman she had curves that a man could admire, gorgeous nut-coloured hair and the dark chocolate melting eyes that made a man go gooey inside. She was straightforward and yet warm-hearted, and he felt that she was somebody he could trust in both his professional and his private life. Which was such a rare thing, he was determined to protect it.

  Things had been a bit rocky between them for a while, after she’d learned he was still married and had told him to go paddle his canoe. But his marriage had been on the rocks long before he met her, and he hadn’t let her rejection hurt his pride.

  He knew she hadn’t been exactly over eager about starting their affair, and he didn’t need a degree in psychology to know why. Her marriage to that bent bastard Ronnie Greene had really screwed her up. Greene’s penchant for blondes with loose knickers wasn’t exactly a secret, even when he’d been alive.

  He’d seen the worry in her eyes, even as he’d picked her up for that first date – dinner at the Trout in Wolvercote, followed by a production of an Ibsen play at the Playhouse. The play, it had to be said, had gone over his head, but Hillary had obviously enjoyed it. He’d chosen it, knowing she’d taken a literature degree, and he’d been glad she’d had a good time. Even so, relaxed as she’d been, she’d tensed up yet again when it came time for the goodnight kiss. He’d handled it well, putting no pressure on her, and keeping it light, and was relieved when she’d agreed to another date.

  It had taken patience and understanding on both their parts, to get where they were now – comfortable in their own skins, and each other’s beds. And it rankled deeply that her DCI was trying to put a spoke in the wheels.

  ‘You could always ask for a transfer,’ he said, but without much hope.

  Hillary, reaching for her navy blue skirt, slipped it under her feet and glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘No way. I worked hard to get into CID. Besides, I’ve just landed my sixth murder inquiry. What do you think? I’m going to transfer to the sex crimes unit, or the fraud squad now? No way.’

  ‘I know,’ Regis sighed. Hillary was right. She was made for CID. ‘But you can’t let Danvers twist your arm either. Just tell him to sod off. Mel will cover your back, right, if he tries anything on?’

  ‘Of course he will.’ But her heart fell at the thought of going down that route. So far in her career, she’d managed to avoid filing any sexual harassment suits. No matter what the civil and equal rights pundits said, it was still counted as a black mark against you. Women not being able to take care of themselves. That was still the attitude, and it stank. But Hillary was nothing if not a realist. ‘Look let’s not get ahead of ourselves, all right? It’s probably nothing. Danvers seems to be a decent enough bloke.’

  Regis slowly leaned back against the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. ‘Sure,’ he said casually.

  Hillary slipped into her bra, pulling on yesterday’s white blouse, giving it a cautious sniff as she did so. She’d have to go back to the boat to change.

  Regis, catching her out, smiled and said, even more casually, ‘You know, you could always leave a few things here. There’s certainly plenty of wardrobe space.’ As a single male, he felt that he tended to rattle around the large flat like a pea in a pod. Not that he wasn’t lucky to have such a place. Oxford being Oxford, affordable accommodation was at a premium. He could only afford this place because he got the rent cheap – most landlords liked to have a senior police officer on their premises. It tended to give burglars and car thieves pause for thought.

  Hillary got up and slipped into her shoes. She shot Mike a brief smile as she picked up her jacket. ‘We’ll see,’ she hedged, and blew him a kiss.

  Outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air, shivering as the strong, near-gale force wind whipped around her as she walked to her car.

  She hadn’t missed the flash of disappointment that crossed his face when she hadn’t leaped at his offer of storage room. But leaving a change of clothes at Regis’ place was tantamount to taking the first step to moving in, and she wasn’t ready for that just yet. Not nearly ready.

  At the back of her mind was a distinct warning note. Just why had it felt ‘wrong’ to wake up at Regis’ flat? Was it just the grumpy reaction of a home body who’d been lured off her home patch? Or was it something more fundamental? What would a shrink make of it?

  Hillary sighed, unwilling to go into it now. With the Flo Jenkins case looming large on her mind, now was not the time to start contemplating her navel.

  To her relief, Puff the Tragic Wagon started first time, and she had no trouble getting to Thrupp, since the rush hour had barely started. As she walked along the muddy towpath towards her grey, white, black and gold painted narrowboat, she glanced sadly at the gap next to her boat. Nancy Walker, on Willowsands, had been her next-door neighbour for nearly four years, and she missed her. Of course, the barge community was always on the move – by its very nature, it tended to be transitory. But Nancy had left nearly five months ago to chug her steady way up to Stratford-upon-Avon and Hillary felt her absence. A fifty-something, who liked to hunt the shoals of young men who congregated around any university town like a predatory hammerhead shark, Nancy had wanted to try her luck with the wannabe actors in Shakespeare’s home town.

  Now why couldn’t she have that casual, fun, attitude to men, sex, and the whole emotional mess that was the dating game?

  With a sigh she let herself onto the boat, noting that her other next-door neighbour, moored off her prow, had already put tinsel up in the windows.

  Early as she was in to work, the first thing Hillary saw as she got to her desk, was Janine’s blonde head bent over her paperwork. She was updating the Murder Book, Hillary noticed, and on her computer VDU was a neatly typed report awaiting printing. Her In tray was studiously empty.

  Janine glanced up as Hillary slung her bag under the desk and sat down. ‘Boss, Jenkins’ bio,’ she said without preamble, holding out a beige folder.

  Hillary grunted, wishing she’d had a second cup of coffee, and reached for it, blinking.

  Sensing the lack of caffeine that her superior seemed to need to jump-start her day, Janine rattled off the salient highlights to save her having to read it. ‘Flo Jenkins, seventy-six, born 9 December. Her birthday would have been in just three days’ time.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. Everyone who knew her commented on how much she was looking forward to it. That and Christmas.’

  ‘One child, Elizabeth, generally known as Liza, now deceased. One husband, also deceased. One of them must have been a bit of a romantic, because they got married on Valentine’s Day, 1949.’

  Hillary smiled. ‘Most popular day for winter marriages, or so I’m told.’

  ‘No record, no driving licence – never learned, apparently. The grandson we know about. Oh, by the way, uniform called, they’ve got a lead on his whereabouts – almost derelict ‘vacation’ cottage near Fewcott. Or was it Ardley. One of those villages that cluster around Bicester anyway.’

  ‘Good. I hope you told them to bring him in if they lay hands on him?’ Hillary prompted.

  ‘Yep,’ Janine said, still thinking over the victim’s biography. ‘Husband was a bit of a weakling after the war – some old injury. Did light work, never amounted to much or earned much. Died back in the late seventies. Flo did mostly char work to make ends meet. Was in the WAAFS after the war, stationed at Upper Heyford. She was born in Leicester. No family left to speak of, apart from an older sister, in a nursing home up that way. She’s been informed of her sister’s death, but I’m not sure if she’s up to arranging for the funeral. The nursing sister I spoke to said it would probably be a bit beyond her.’

  Hillary shook her head. ‘It’ll either be down to the grandson then,
or maybe the neighbours. I’ll have a word with Caroline Weekes about it. She seems the competent sort. But there’s no rush on any of that just yet.’ She glanced up as Keith Barrington pushed through the door. It wasn’t yet 8.15, and she could tell by the way he gave them a double take that he’d expected to be first in. She smiled briefly at him as he got to them, then waved her empty mug in the air. ‘Wouldn’t mind a refill, constable.’ There were a couple of coffee-making machines littered about the huge work space, and Barrington took her mug without a word and set off in search of a percolator.

  Hillary tackled her mail, first the actual stuff that consisted of paper and real envelopes, then the stuff that came through the ether to her email address. At some point Frank Ross checked in, then checked out again, muttering about leads. Hillary initialled some reports on her other cases, and drank her coffee. When she’d finished, she reached for her notebook and checked her to-do lists. Just as she was flipping the last page, her phone rang.

  ‘DI Greene?’ a gruff voice said. ‘Desk sergeant here. Uniforms have brought in a suspect on the Jenkins case. They say you’re expecting him?’

  ‘Dylan Hodge?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Right. Which interview room’s he in?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.’ She hung up, and caught both her sergeant and DC Barrington watching her hopefully. ‘They’ve found Hodge,’ she said somewhat unnecessarily. She hesitated a moment, knowing that Janine had seniority and must want in on the interview. But Barrington probably needed the practice more. ‘Keith, with me. Janine, I want you to go back to Holburn Crescent. Fill in any holes the house-to-house missed. Also, I want you to do a thorough background check on Caroline Weekes. Chivvy up SOCO, and see if Doc Partridge can give us a definite time for the autopsy. I don’t doubt the cause of death, but I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be something interesting besides that.’