With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  Hillary grunted in instant understanding. Drugs, as a rule, were purchased by the first in a chain of runners, who cut it – or mixed it with other materials to bulk it up and maximize profits – then sold it down the chain to someone else, who then cut it again, and so on. By the time it reached the street, and your average junkie, it could be as much as eighty per cent baby milk – or something far less benign. If Phoebe Cole had managed to get a stash from higher up the chain, the drug would be much stronger than she’d be used to.

  ‘Anyway,’ Barrington said, still scratching feverishly, ‘Braz asks if the boyfriend is dead, but by now Phoebe is dressing and packing, getting ready to split. When she’s gone, the old man goes over and finds him dead, then wanders outside and dials 999.’

  Hillary grinned at Barrington’s frowning face, and said calmly, ‘Fleas.’

  Keith looked up. ‘Huh?’

  ‘The itching. You’ve probably got a tiny hitchhiker from our Wit. If I were you, I’d head downstairs to the locker room, shower, and give your clothes a good shaking out.’

  ‘Shit!’ Barrington yelped, getting up and looking down at himself comically, as if expecting to see little black things jumping.

  Hillary grinned. ‘Before you go – did our wino say if he heard anyone else coming into the room during the night?’

  ‘No guv,’ Keith said miserably. Ignoring the urge to start scratching everywhere, he carried on gamely. ‘Neither did he hear any sounds of a struggle or an argument, either between Hodge and his girlfriend or Hodge and anyone else.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘He gets the impression that Hodge stole the stash from the girlfriend without her knowledge?’

  ‘Yes guv. And Phoebe didn’t let on how strong it was.’

  ‘The ME will probably find he died of a massive overdose,’ Hillary said flatly. ‘But liaise with Frank, make sure you cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s.’

  ‘Right guv,’ Keith said, and flushed when Hillary laughed, and waved him off. He all but jogged across the office, scratching viciously as he did so. Sam Waterstone, from his desk midway in the office, glanced across with a raised eyebrow, and Hillary grinned and shook her head, silently passing on that all was well. By the amused look several others gave the young DC, some had probably guessed what the problem was. After all, they’d all been there themselves. Hillary herself had had a close encounter with head lice during her young uniform days giving lectures to schoolgirls on the perils of drug use.

  When her phone rang again, she reached for it automatically, wondering if it was Janine. So it took a moment to register the deep, sexy voice of DI Mike Regis. ‘Hey, it’s me. Think you can get free to meet me for lunch? The Old Oak?’

  Hillary glanced at her watch. Barely twelve. It was a bit early, but what the heck. ‘Sure, but it’ll have to be quick. You already there?’

  ‘And waiting,’ Mike’s voice sounded warm and suggestive. It was so long since she’d had a sexy phone call from a man – literally years, in fact – that she felt her face getting warm. Damn it! But why the change in their policy of not making personal phone calls to the workplace?

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said, a shade abruptly, and hung up. Once again, she felt that vague sense of unease that plagued her whenever her relationship with Mike protruded into her working life. What was it? Had she been celibate so long that she couldn’t bring herself to believe there was life after Ronnie Greene?

  Sighing, and telling herself not to be such a twit, she grabbed her bag and headed out the door.

  The Old Oak was one of those large, modern, characterless pubs that had sprung up everywhere over the last couple of years. Built just out of town, often within sight of a superstore like Tesco or Sainsbury’s, it had huge parking lots, and was no-smoking throughout. The decor was bland and pleasant, the menu reasonably priced and extensive, if correspondingly bland. The drink was reasonably cheap. For all that such pubs were popular, she preferred her more scruffy, lived-in, local.

  She saw Mike the moment she stepped away from the bar with a pineapple juice in her hand, and headed towards the left-hand side of the huge seating area. He spotted her at the same moment and half rose. He was seated not far from a window, next to a tub of one of the many huge, fake ferns and bamboo that dotted the interior.

  He smiled at her as she approached, remembering the first time he’d met her. She’d been SIO on her first murder case, and he’d been instantly attracted by the curvy figure, the intelligent eyes, the no-nonsense, experienced air she wore like most women wore expensive perfume.

  He’d known her rep, of course – the disastrous marriage to a bent cop, the solid work, the fine conviction rate. She was popular with both the brass and the rank-and-file, and it hadn’t taken him ten minutes in her company to realize that she was his kind of copper. Despite the fact that she was OEC (Regis was strictly comprehensive school reject) they thought the same about crime, and fighting it.

  Things had got off to a dodgy start when she’d realized he was still technically married, and for a few months there, he’d worried that he might have lost his chance with her. But he’d persevered, and now, here they were.

  He noticed several of the men, dining early to make way for long and tedious business meetings that afternoon, turn in their chairs slightly, the better to watch her go by, and felt a warm glow that came with pride of ownership. Not that he’d ever put it quite that way, of course, and certainly not in Hillary’s presence.

  But it was not surprising he felt that way. Even in her mid-forties, Hillary had the curvaceous figure of a Hollywood siren of the 1930s. Her skin was still flawless, her nut-brown hair well cut and always shining. Even dressed in a no-frills business suit of dark nutmeg, with a cream blouse, she managed to look both feminine and capable. Mike wondered how many of the horny gits were imagining her in stockings and suspenders, brandishing a whip.

  The thought made him smile and catch his breath at the same time. Hillary, now nearly at his table, saw the flash of his teeth and wondered what had amused him. She put her glass down and pulled back her chair. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the office,’ she said, and meant it. It was beginning to feel as if she’d lived there for the last week.

  ‘No problems. Case still stalled?’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘There are developments, but nothing major.’ As she filled him in, she checked the menu. The smoked salmon salad looked good.

  ‘Everything all right otherwise? At the office I mean?’ Regis asked, and Hillary stared at him blankly for a moment, before she caught on.

  ‘Oh, Danvers. No, that’s fine. Well, he did attend the Jenkins autopsy for me.’

  Regis smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Earning himself some brownie points?’

  ‘I fear so,’ Hillary sighed. ‘Let’s not talk about him.’

  ‘Let’s not,’ Regis agreed. Danvers was younger than himself, a rank above, was better looking, and no doubt had a better body too. And he had an eye on his girl. He was going to have to do something about Danvers. And soon.

  ‘You think you’re gonna be free Saturday night?’ he asked, after she’d beckoned over a waiter and given her order. Regis plumped for the steak and kidney pie.

  ‘Might be. Why?’

  ‘Gilbert and Sullivan at the Oxford Playhouse.’

  Hillary wrinkled her nose. ‘Think I’ll pass.’ Music wasn’t her thing, but when she did listen to it, she liked the 60s stuff. Stuff that had a tune, and people who could – more or less – sing.

  ‘OK.’

  As if sensing she’d disappointed him, she found herself saying, ‘When are you due some time off? I thought we could take the boat up to Stratford, catch up with an old neighbour of mine, watch a show. Not a tragedy but something light. Much Ado, maybe?’ Now why had she said that? Spending five or six days on a small narrowboat with no escape from another person would normally have been her idea of hell. She instantly found herself regretting it.

  ‘I’ve got the weekend
after next off,’ Regis said quickly, as if sensing it, and Hillary felt herself wilting with relief.

  ‘Not enough time,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Maybe sometime in the spring. The weather will be better anyway.’ She took a rueful glance outside.

  ‘Not enough time?’ Mike frowned, not getting it. ‘The whole weekend?’

  ‘It’ll take a couple of days to get the Mollern to Stratford,’ Hillary grinned. ‘She’s only allowed to go at four mph remember?’

  ‘We don’t have to take the boat,’ Regis said quickly. Just a shade too quickly. ‘We can book into a hotel. I know a place.’

  Hillary bit back a sharp retort. Yes, she bet he knew a place all right. What was it with men, and all the ‘nice little hotels’ they knew? Then, realising that she was hardly being consistent – let alone fair – shook her head. ‘Well, I can’t really think about it until my case is over anyway.’

  The waiter came with their orders just then, and for a moment they busied themselves with buttering bread and adding sauces. When Hillary lifted her fork to half-heartedly spear a tomato, she glanced up and thought she saw a worried look in his dark green eyes. Then he smiled, and began to talk about a film they both wanted to see, and the moment passed.

  Janine Tyler was feeling pleased with herself when she pulled in at HQ, a nervous young lad sitting beside her. Tariq Kahn worked at the Golden Empress, just off Dean’s Court in central Bicester. It was an Indian restaurant that had a fairly large clientele of takeout customers, to whom it delivered on a more or less regular basis.

  She parked her car, again near a CCTV camera, and smiled encouragingly across at him. ‘This shouldn’t take long, Mr Kahn.’ She wasn’t sure whether that was the truth or not, but he wasn’t to know that.

  She’d tracked the Golden Empress down via the phone, the proprietor, a Mr Ram, confessing at once to knowing the name of Florence Jenkins. Janine had quickly driven over for a word, and Mr Ram confirmed that Flo Jenkins sometimes used their home delivery service. Not often enough to be called a regular, but often enough for the delivery boy, Tariq to remember where she lived without needing to consult his residential map.

  Mr Ram, a fifty-something with shiny cheeks and equally shining, bald dome, had obligingly checked his records, and confirmed that the old woman had ordered a meal that night – the mildest chicken tikka masala they had, with a slice of blueberry cheesecake to follow. His wife, Mr Ram had said modestly, was famous for her cheesecakes. The owner also agreed that Tariq had delivered said meal, and had, with some reluctance, handed over the young man’s address.

  Tariq lived in a small bedsit in Glory Farm, a large, modern estate on the town’s outskirts. She’d roused him from bed. Since it must be after midnight before the kitchen worker and general dog’s body usually got home, no doubt he liked to sleep late.

  He’d been bemused to find a pretty blonde outside his door asking for him, then alarmed at the police identification, and just a bit scared at the mention of Florence Jenkins’ name.

  Knowing that her boss liked to be in on important interviews, she’d done her best to curb her curiosity, and had asked him to come down to Kidlington HQ to make a statement. Just how long that would take, however, depended on what he had to say.

  Now, she walked with him to the entrance, then escorted him through to the front desk. The desk sergeant looked up, eyes narrowing speculatively on the DS and the nervous-looking, stick-thin young man with her.

  ‘We need an interview room, sarge,’ Janine said cheerfully. ‘What’s available?’

  ‘You can have …’ the desk sergeant checked the roster by leaning slightly backwards and consulting a wall chart. ‘Six, two or nine.’

  ‘Two will be fine,’ Janine said, as if it made any difference. They were all uniformly sized and uncomfortable. She signed herself and Tariq Kahn in, then said, ‘Can you call DI Greene down to interview, sarge?’

  ‘Think she’s out,’ the desk sergeant said. Then added sorrowfully, ‘Ross is back though.’

  Janine cursed. ‘New boy?’

  ‘In the showers. Don’t ask.’

  Janine sighed wearily. Great. That was just what she needed. ‘OK, send Ross down,’ she muttered.

  When Hillary Greene returned to HQ barely forty-five minutes after leaving it, she was once again beckoned over by the desk sergeant, and was tempted to pretend she hadn’t seen him. But things like that tended to give him the hump, and since desk sergeants were the hub of what went on in the nick, it didn’t do to offend one. So she put on a smile and went over, dreading yet another grilling about Jerome bloody Raleigh. Instead, the old man pointed a thumb downstairs.

  ‘Your DS Tyler wants you down in number two.’

  Hillary nodded. Good. Sounds like she found herself a delivery boy. ‘Thanks, sarge.’

  She went downstairs to where the interview rooms were lodged, and discovered, in the observation room for interview two, that Janine and Frank Ross were both present. Sitting facing them was a young Indian lad who looked petrified. Not surprising, she realized a moment later, when Frank Ross opened his mouth.

  ‘Don’t go denying it, laddie,’ Ross all but snarled. ‘We know you delivered to the murdered woman the night she was killed. You were seen.’

  ‘But I don’t deny it, sir,’ the lad replied self-righteously, looking to Janine for help.

  Janine moved restlessly on her seat, wishing Frank would cool it. She wasn’t sure that any strong-arm tactics were really needed here, and she was damned sure this wasn’t how DI Greene would have played it.

  ‘Your boss, Mr Ram, is it?’ Frank ploughed on, ‘Gave you up. He says you went out with Florence Jenkins’ order at roughly 6.40 that night.’

  ‘That’s right. I had two more deliveries in the same area,’ the lad squeaked nervously. ‘No, not two. Three. I think. I’m not sure.’

  Sensing the rising panic, and knowing he’d only get more incoherent the more Ross pushed him, Hillary swore softly and walked quickly to the door.

  Janine looked up with a definite feeling of relief when Hillary Greene walked into the interview room. Beside her, she heard Frank mutter something, and felt like giving him a sharp kick under the table. But then, Janine often felt like kicking Frank.

  ‘Detective Inspector Hillary Greene has just entered the room,’ Janine said, for the benefit of the tape.

  Hillary took a chair and said flatly, ‘Thank you DS Ross, that’ll be all for now.’

  Frank flushed, pushed back his chair violently, and stalked out of the room. The bewildered Tariq watched him go, and whispered across to Janine, ‘Why is he so angry?’

  Janine’s lips twisted. A good question. But then, the likes of Frank Ross probably didn’t need a specific reason to be pissed off.

  ‘Now, Mr Kahn,’ Hillary said, smiling gently. ‘You were about to tell us about the night you delivered some takeaway to Mrs Jenkins? What time was it, do you think, when you got to her door?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly,’ the young man said, anxious to be helpful. He was glad the other man had gone, but something about this new officer reminded him of his mother. So he’d better get things right. ‘I think it must have been about 6.50, something like that.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Did you notice anything unusual at all? A car parked outside Mrs Jenkins’ house? Somebody maybe watching the house?’

  ‘No ma’am, nothing like that.’

  ‘You parked your van outside?’

  ‘Yes. Right outside.’ Tariq’s young face lit up. ‘Ah, yes, so there was no car parked there. There never is. Mrs Jenkins can’t drive. Often we joke about it – that I can always park right outside her door, so the food is nice and hot.’

  Hillary smiled and nodded. ‘It sounds as if you liked Mrs Jenkins.’

  Tariq nodded his head vigorously. ‘Oh yes, very nice lady. Always gave me a pound coin tip. I don’t think she could really afford it, but she would insist.’

  ‘You heard that she’s been murdered?’
/>
  Tariq’s face darkened, and for the first time he dropped his eyes. He stared at the table miserably and nodded.

  ‘But you didn’t come forward, when we asked for anyone who’d been in the vicinity that night to get in touch. You did hear the appeals on the radio, didn’t you Tariq?’ Hillary added firmly.

  He shot her a cow-eyed look, a quick look full of guilt, and nodded again.

  ‘So why didn’t you get in touch?’

  Silence.

  Hillary regarded him thoughtfully. A young, well-brought up Indian boy, he was probably dying to tell the truth. Only one thing could be holding him back.

  ‘Did your parents tell you not to? It’s all right if they did,’ she went on as he shot her a hopeful look. ‘I can understand why they would. Lots of people don’t like to get involved with the police. And murder is particularly nasty. They probably thought that they were giving you good advice. But now that we’ve found you, off our own bat as it were, you have to cooperate. You do understand that don’t you? It’s your duty to help the police – not only is it a legal requirement, but as a good citizen too, you need to answer our questions.’

  Tariq heaved a sigh, but looked better for being let off the hook. ‘Of course.’ He straightened his shoulders and beamed at her. ‘I will tell you all that I know.’

  ‘OK then,’ Hillary nodded sombrely. ‘You walked up the path and rang the bell. Did she answer right away?’

  ‘Oh no. It takes Mrs Jenkins some time to get to the door. She used to be quicker, but I noticed lately she’s getting slower. And she loses weight – too much, I think. I don’t think she was well,’ he added, lowering his voice confidentially.

  Hillary smiled. His earnestness was so genuine it was almost painful. ‘When she answered, did she seem her usual self?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘She didn’t seem nervous or upset?’