With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  ‘It would depend on her GP,’ he said slowly. ‘If he knew her well, and what his personal views are. Some GPs elect not to tell terminally ill patients until the very last possible moment, for fear of suicide, or mental relapse. If a person’s already dying, why make the poor so-and-sos depressed as well. You can understand their argument.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘But surely most people know? I mean, a GP has to explain test results and such, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Partridge agreed. ‘But they can couch their words in very careful terms. Talking about treatment crisis management, pain relief, diagnosis prognosis. Baffle ’em with science, and all that. And don’t forget, people of Flo’s generation and class tend to have had a very poor education. If her GP wanted to talk gobbledegook to her, he could have got away with it. On the other hand, he might simply have told her straight out. You’ll have to talk to him and see.’

  Hillary blinked. And instantly wondered what her own GP kept back from her. ‘But Flo would have been in a lot of pain? I mean, she’d have known there was something definitely wrong?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Steven said. ‘But the old are more resilient than you think. They get used to bad indigestion, putting up with arthritis, gout, gammy legs, bad backs, you name it. They almost expect to hurt. So it’s possible that she might not have realized how bad it was.’

  Hillary nodded. Interesting, but it didn’t necessarily help her much. ‘Keith, find out who her GP is and make me an appointment, will you?’

  ‘Guv.’

  As he was making a note to himself, Janine walked into the office and made her way over, surprised to see the medico chatting to her boss. Hillary briefly filled her in on the path findings, omitting the fact that Danvers had attended in person. Hillary thought she might know why Danvers had done that, and Janine was sharp enough to guess as well.

  ‘By the way, congratulations, sergeant,’ Steven Partridge said to Janine when Hillary had finished. ‘It’s the big day soon, isn’t it?’

  Janine smiled. ‘Friday lunchtime. Just the registrar.’

  ‘They’re not even going on honeymoon until next month,’ Hillary said. She wasn’t sure, herself, that she’d want to go to work, pop off to tie the knot, then go back to work afterwards. Even her marriage to Ronnie Greene hadn’t totally dampened her sense of romance, and Mel and Janine’s low-key ceremony seemed so low key as to be almost non-existent. Like slotting in just another piece of business in the working day. Still, that’s how they wanted to play it, so it hardly mattered what she felt about it.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy, sergeant,’ Steven said, beaming and then rising to his feet. ‘Well, must get back. Nice to meet you, DC Barrington.’

  Hillary watched him go and shook her head. ‘We’ll have to re-interview all Flo’s closest friends and neighbours,’ Hillary said, making Janine groan. ‘Find out if they knew how serious her illness was.’

  ‘Does it really matter, boss?’ Janine asked, dreading the thought of doing house-to-house yet again.

  ‘Why would you kill a woman who’d be dead in three weeks’ time anyway?’ Hillary asked her bluntly.

  Janine opened her mouth at once, then engaged her brain, thought about it, and slowly closed her mouth again.

  ‘Exactly,’ Hillary said succinctly. ‘When we know that, I’ve got a feeling we’ll know everything.’

  She was just about to get up the nerve to go and thank her DCI for his unexpected dedication to duty, when the phone went. ‘DI Greene. Sir,’ she said smartly, making Janine’s head swivel around at once. She knew Hillary never used quite that tone when talking to her old friend Mel. It had to be the chief super again. For the second time in as many days too, Janine mused, watching Hillary’s face like a hawk. Just what the hell was going on? Even though she’d be out of here next week, curiosity still bit deep.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll be right up,’ Hillary said, hung up, and rubbed a hand across her forehead. Suddenly, she had a raging headache. She stood up, tugged her jacket down to straighten out the hem and grabbed her bag.

  Janine watched her go, then glanced across at Barrington. She was rather intrigued by his rep as a sergeant-slugger. He didn’t seem the type, somehow. But you could never tell with redheads. ‘Looks like she’s going to see Donleavy again,’ she said meaningfully. ‘There’s definitely something up, if you ask me.’ She wished, suddenly, that Tommy Lynch was still here. She missed chatting to someone who had more heart and so many more brain cells than Frank Ross. Barrington seemed all right, but he wasn’t one for talking. Now, he frowned.

  ‘Wonderful.’ The last thing he wanted was discord between his immediate boss and the powers that be. A nice, quiet posting, where he could keep his head down and give the dust a chance to settle. That’s all he’d asked of this place.

  Janine grinned. ‘Relax. Donleavy’s our Hillary’s biggest fan. He reckons she’s one of the best working detectives we’ve got.’ It irritated her to know that Mel felt the same. ‘It’s just that, ever since last summer, something’s been a bit off. You ask me, it’s got something to do with Superintendent Raleigh.’

  ‘Raleigh?’

  ‘Yeah, the man from the Met. The super who was brought in when Donleavy got kicked upstairs. Mel’s got his old job now.’

  ‘How come?’ Barrington asked, intrigued. It was almost unheard of for a superintendent to stay in a posting just a few months.

  Janine shrugged. ‘Raleigh just upped and left. He headed the Fletcher raid which sort of went well and yet cockeyed at the same time. Hillary got shot, Fletcher died, Raleigh left, and Mel got promoted. And somewhere amongst that lot lurks something that, unless I’m mistaken, might just be about to bite our boss in the arse.’

  Downstairs, a young man in uniform walked to his locker and shrugged off his heavy coat. He reached inside one of the pockets for his mobile phone before putting the coat away, glanced over his shoulder to confirm that he was alone, then called up the photo memory on the menu.

  He began to scroll through the snapshots one by one, smiling at the images. All of them were of Detective Sergeant Janine Tyler, all of them taken around here, at the nick. Janine walking across the car park. Janine, back view, walking down a corridor. Janine, in profile, sitting at her desk. It was incredibly easy nowadays when you had a phone in your hand, to pretend to take a call but snap off a shot instead. Finally, he found the one he wanted. Janine Tyler, almost looking full on at the camera, walking through the door of the canteen.

  He had a mate who was really clever with computers and digital photography and all that kind of stuff.

  The young man began to whistle as he imagined what fun there was still to be had. He didn’t see another young man, still in his outdoor coat, watch him walk away. He didn’t know his name was Jem Titchmarsh. He didn’t know what his dad had asked him to do.

  If he had, he might not have whistled quite so jauntily.

  Donleavy watched Hillary walk into his office and nodded to the chair in front of his desk. He didn’t mince words. ‘Falconer, the cop on vacation in Malta,’ he began curtly. ‘He’s been given permission by his guv’nor to approach Raleigh. If it is Raleigh.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘It was bound to happen.’

  ‘Yes,’ Donleavy concurred. Given the state in which the Fletcher investigation had been left, he had to agree. ‘But the ACC isn’t keen to reopen the whole can of worms.’ Unspoken went the obvious rider: so maybe we’ll get away with it.

  Hillary nodded wordlessly. But maybe, she thought gloomily, they wouldn’t.

  chapter eight

  * * *

  Hillary returned to her desk, her mind very much on the past, on her crooked husband, who’d amassed a fortune by running an illegal animal parts smuggling operation and died before she could divorce him. On the millions of pounds she’d found in his hidden bank account, and the man who’d stolen it and ran. On Luke Fletcher, a murderer, drug dealer, and thug, now dead himself, murdered during the raid last summe
r. But most of all she reflected on just what Chief Superintendent Marcus Donleavy knew, due to the anonymous report she’d written for him, and, more importantly, what he didn’t know.

  Of them all, the only person she really worried about was Jerome Raleigh, and what he might say if suddenly confronted by his past in the form of a nosy copper from his old nick.

  Walking across the vast, open-plan office towards her desk, she tried to thrust it all to the back of her mind. After all, Raleigh was hardly likely to confess to cold-blooded murder, and what would he gain from telling anyone about the hidden money? Not when all he had to do was keep quiet. Besides, she had a murder investigation to cope with, here and now. Picking over the wounds of the past, or worrying about what might happen in the future, would have to wait.

  Nevertheless, the wound in her hip twinged as she took her seat, as if it just couldn’t help but give a sniggering nudge to all her hastily erected building blocks of self-confidence, and she bit back a curse.

  Both Keith Barrington and Janine Tyler were studiously working at their desks, heads bent, fingers working the keyboards of their computers, but she had no doubts at all that they’d been discussing her, and her second summons to Donleavy’s office. Hillary wondered how long it would be before the rest of the office twigged that something was amiss. If she knew station-house gossip, not long.

  Too tense to drive back to Bicester yet again, she did something she seldom did, and reached for the telephone in order to question a witness. Normally she liked to see the face of the person she was talking to, thus giving herself the opportunity to read any betraying signs of their body language as well. She wasn’t surprised, therefore, when Janine shot her a surprised look when she greeted Caroline Weekes.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Weekes. This is Inspector Greene. Yes, how are you feeling now? Has your mother arrived? Good. Yes, I just want to ask you one quick question, I won’t keep you long. Tell me, did you know that Mrs Jenkins was unwell?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The voice in her ear sounded sleepy, and Hillary wondered if she’d taken anything.

  ‘Did Mrs Jenkins tell you so or was it something you observed for yourself?’ Hillary asked, leaning slowly back in her chair, aware that rigid tension in her shoulder blades was making her back ache.

  Over the wire, she heard Caroline Weekes clear her throat. ‘Well, a bit of both really. I knew she’d been to see the doctor a while back, because he referred her to the John Radcliffe for a specialist’s appointment, and I drove her.’

  ‘Did you ask her what the problem was?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Caroline Weekes breathed, sounding slightly shocked. ‘But I could tell it was something serious. Later, I would remark on how ill she looked, and she’d say something like, “Well, love, it’s not surprising is it?” And from other things she said, you know, it was clear that she wasn’t expecting to see many more birthdays or Christmases. But things like that aren’t something you dwell on, or talk about, is it?’

  ‘No, I see,’ Hillary said. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Weekes. Sorry to trouble you again so soon.’

  She hung up thoughtfully, consulted the files, then dialled a second number. ‘Mr Keane. This is Detective Inspector Greene. Yes, that’s right. Hello again. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but there was something I neglected to ask you the last time we talked.’ She glanced across at Janine, who’d turned back to her computer screen, and wondered if the fact that she was going to be a married woman in just two days’ time worried her at all. Janine, at nearly thirty, had always struck her as the type who liked being single. She only hoped her old friend Mel Mallow knew what he was doing.

  ‘That’s all right, ask away.’ Walter Keane’s voice in her ear brought her thoughts back to the task in hand.

  ‘How was Mrs Jenkins’ health the last few months, do you know?’

  Walter Keane gave a bark of laughter. ‘She was on her last legs, wasn’t she? You know, on her way out. So it was bloody awful.’

  Hillary’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘You think she was dying?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I bloody well know she was dying,’ Walter corrected gruffly. ‘She told me. Cancer,’ he added succinctly.

  ‘And how did she take it?’ Hillary asked, then added quickly, ‘I mean, I know it must have been a shock. I’m sure she was angry, and upset, but generally speaking – did it make her very depressed, or was she more inclined to be scared or introspective? I’m sorry to be asking such a question like this, especially over the telephone, but it might be important.’

  Over the wire, Walter Keane sighed heavily. ‘Well, it rocked her a bit, of course,’ he agreed. ‘And she had a bit of a weep, like, when she told me. But Flo was never really one to let things get on top of her. She read up on this remission thing, where terminally ill people suddenly get better for a little while. Amazing thing that, not even the doctors know why. She often said she might go in for a bit of that, like. As if, by the power of positive thinking, she could make it happen.’ Walter paused, as if to comment on what he thought of that, then seemed to think better of it. ‘Then she read cases where doctors had given a poor sod just a week to live, and there they were, two years later, still walking around. She always said you might as well hope for the best, as go around fearing the worst.’

  Hillary smiled. ‘That sounds like a good attitude to take. She must have been a feisty lady.’

  ‘Ah, she was. And determined to enjoy herself too. Often she said to me, seeing as how she might drop off her perch any minute, she was going to live the life of Riley while she could. Course, to Flo, that was going to bingo whenever she could, and buying the slightly dearer brand of gin from Tesco. But she wasn’t suicidal or nothing like that,’ he added firmly.

  So, Hillary mused, she’d told Walter Keane all about her illness, but only hinted at it to Caroline Weekes. Interesting that. And maybe suggestive. ‘Do you know if anyone else knew about her condition? I mean her close friends or near neighbours?’ Hillary pressed.

  Walter Keane grunted. ‘Well, it weren’t no secret,’ he said. ‘Flo didn’t keep on about it, but I reckon everyone she was close to either knew, or could read the writing on the wall, like.’

  Hillary thanked him and hung up. For a moment or two she doodled on her pad, then reached for the phone again. ‘Doctor Partridge please. Yes, I’ll wait. Oh good.’ His lab assistant had just caught him before he’d started on his next autopsy.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice was hurried, and Hillary didn’t hang about.

  ‘Sorry, Steven, just a quick word. Florence Jenkins – can you just tell me what she might have expected from her last few weeks on earth?’

  ‘Pain and more pain. Bowels going, liver function going, being sick all day, her whole body packing up. A quick visit to a hospice, if she couldn’t get nursing at home and then, if she was lucky, not waking up from her last morphine shot.’

  Hillary felt a cold hand clutch her stomach and swallowed hard. It sounded unbearable, just hearing about it. ‘Right. That would be a lot of pain then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s all I needed to know.’

  Steven Partridge said a quick goodbye and hung up.

  Hillary replaced her receiver and glanced up. ‘OK, you two,’ she said, and waited until Janine and Keith had wheeled their chairs over. ‘I’m a 76-year-old woman, who knows she’s got a serious illness that’s going to kill her in a very short while. The pain is bad, and I know it’ll only get worse. Soon I’m going to be sick all the time, my body functions are going to go, and I’ll have to either go into a hospice or struggle on in my own home. What do I do? Janine?’

  ‘If it was me, I’d top myself, boss,’ Janine said at once.

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Dunno, guv. Depends. I mean, is there something I really wanted to do before I died? Maybe, if I was really terrified of death, I’d hang on because I had no other choice. Besides, where there’s life there’s hope.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘OK, that just about
covers her options. Now, everyone keeps telling us Flo Jenkins was looking forward to her birthday party, looking forward to Christmas, was bearing up and being a good soldier about it all. In short, she was an optimist. Now, supposing that’s just what she wanted people to think? Suppose she was really down, afraid, and simply wanting to get out of it all?’

  ‘You mean suicide, boss?’ Janine asked, amazed. ‘Surely the old girl would just swallow all her pills at once? Or down a bottle of gin and tie a plastic bag over her head? Shit, even take a bath and toss in an electric fire. She wouldn’t stab herself in the chest.’

  ‘Right, guv,’ Keith said. ‘It’s not something you’d think of, is it?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Hillary said. ‘I never asked Doc Partridge if it could have been suicide because it was obviously a nonstarter. Besides, her prints weren’t on the handle of the dagger and she could hardly have stabbed herself, then wiped off her prints – even if death hadn’t been practically instantaneous. But let’s just think about it for a moment. She was sitting in her chair, and there were no defensive wounds of any kind on her body. Which means that she knew who was standing over her, and the fact that he or she had a lethally sharp blade in their hands either didn’t worry her, or she didn’t care. Now, what picture does that conjure up?’

  Janine blinked, trying to see what she was getting at, but it was the new boy who got to it first. ‘A mercy killing, guv? By a second party.’

  ‘Right. Suppose Flo Jenkins didn’t have the nerve to kill herself. Or maybe some kind of religious conviction stopped her. Maybe it just went against the grain to do it herself – but having somebody else do it for her, well, that was OK. It wasn’t so bad then. The matter was more or less out of her hands. I can see how a pain-riddled, confused, tired old lady might think that way.’

  Janine nodded slowly. ‘OK guv, but again, why the knife? Why not ask them to crush up some pills in the gin and just quaff it down?’