With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she had someone in the house with her?’

  Tariq frowned. ‘No. What do you mean?’

  Hillary spread her hands helplessly. ‘Did she look over her shoulder a couple of times, or lower her voice? Anything that made you think there was someone there with her?’

  ‘Oh no. She was much the same as ever. She says, “Hello Tariq, got my hot chicken have you?” And I laugh and say, as I always do, “Not that hot, Mrs J.” She couldn’t stand too much spices, so she always said, on account of having had her gall bladder out. So then she reached for the box, and I hand it over. She always had the right money and the pound coin.’ Tariq paused for a much-needed breath. ‘Anyway, I take the money, and says, “You enjoy it now. Mrs Ram put extra blueberries in the cheesecake just for you.” She didn’t of course,’ Tariq added with a blush, ‘but I liked to josh her along. You know?’

  Hillary nodded patiently. ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, then she closes the door and I go back to my van and drive off,’ Tariq said, slightly puzzled.

  ‘When you got in your van, did you drive straight back to the restaurant, or did you have another delivery to make?’ Hillary persisted.

  ‘Oh, another delivery. Near the big church, not far away. St Eckberts or something like that it’s called. Those old people’s flats near the library. You know?’

  Hillary nodded, although she didn’t, and said, ‘So you would have driven to the end of the road. Did you see anyone walking down the pavement?’

  ‘A woman. And a man the other side, with a dog.’

  ‘Did you see either of them turn into Mrs Jenkins’ garden?’

  ‘No, I was turning off by then.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘All right, Mr Kahn. My sergeant here will get a statement form. We’ll ask you to write out a statement, just covering what you’ve said in our interview here – Janine will help you with it – then once you’ve read it through and are happy with it, you need to sign it and then you can go. Janine, you can drop Mr Kahn back at Bicester.’ On a piece of paper, she scribbled, ‘Check his other deliveries that night, and times he called,’ and handed it over.

  Janine read it, bland faced, and nodded. ‘Boss.’ She didn’t need to be told to run a background check on Kahn to check for priors. But Janine didn’t think the boy was a very serious suspect.

  Upstairs, the newly washed and hopefully flea-free Keith Barrington was just laying a copy of his freshly printed interview notes with Braz on Hillary’s desk. He reached for his phone when it rang, and glanced across to see Hillary Greene returning to her desk. ‘Hello. DC Barrington.’ The voice in his ear was female, sounded middle-aged and friendly, but with an edge of efficiency in it that rang a bell.

  ‘This is Jessica Mainwaring here. The assistant librarian, Bicester branch?’

  ‘Oh yes, Ms Mainwaring. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about that photograph you left, of a young man, taken, we thought, just after the war? Well, one of my regulars has just been in and thinks he knows who it was. I asked him, and he said he’d be glad to speak to you. Shall I give you his name and address?’

  Keith grinned widely. ‘Yes please.’ After his recent confidence-sapping episode with the parasite, he felt in need of a boost. And dropping a little morsel into his new boss’s lap was just the sort of boost he had in mind. Eagerly, he reached for a pen and began to write.

  chapter twelve

  * * *

  Keith Barrington drove nervously along the narrow country lane, not sure where the turn-off might be. Although he’d followed Hillary’s advice to spend his spare time driving around the countryside, getting to know his patch, he hadn’t yet come this far out.

  The address the librarian had given him was for a small village called Fritwell, not far from Bicester. He glanced over the bridge they were crossing and saw, to his surprise, a busy motorway. Unnervingly, this major thoroughfare wasn’t even noted on the old atlas he was using, which he’d been given by a sergeant in Traffic. At the time, Keith had wondered why he’d grinned so widely. Now he knew.

  He glanced across at Hillary, who was sitting in the passenger seat staring out at the wet, cold countryside, seemingly unaware of his predicament. Everywhere he looked it was either damp green or water-clogged brown, with none of the bright neon lights, enclosing buildings, or the hustle and bustle of human presence that he was used to.

  Suddenly he came upon a crooked crossroads, and on one of those old-fashioned, white-painted wooden signposts, pointing off to the left, was a sign for Fritwell. Hiding a sigh of relief, Keith indicated.

  Peter Woodsman lived in a small cul-de-sac of one-time council houses, about halfway down, and Keith was able to park directly in front of the cream-painted semi. The garden looked neat and tidy, if unoriginal, with a paved path right down the middle, leading from garden gate to front door. On either side were lawns, each with a round flower bed cut into the middle, in which were planted two identical, dwarf weeping cherry trees. Bordering the hedges on all four sides were scraggly, dead-looking woody shrubs that would probably look wonderful in the spring.

  The door was opened quickly, as if the occupant of the house had been looking out for them – as he probably had been. In this quiet backwater, Keith supposed uncharitably, even a visit from the cops was something to look forward to, in order to break the monotony.

  Peter Woodsman was a fit late sixty-something, and looked like one of those men who was determined to enjoy retirement. The sort who took up golf, or a whole slew of hobbies. He had fine, white hair that had almost certainly once been blond, and thin, delicate hands. Not a manual worker then, Hillary thought at once. More likely he’d enjoyed a mid-level management career, which had been cut short by enforced redundancy. It would explain the now privately owned house, which was well maintained, but not the ‘real’ thing, as in a genuine country cottage.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice was surprisingly hearty for such a slim man. ‘You the fuzz?’ he asked, a wide smile taking any sting out of the sobriquet.

  ‘DI Greene, this is DC Barrington,’ Hillary confirmed, holding out her card. Peter Woodsman barely glanced at it before standing to one side.

  ‘Well, come in, come in. I must say, I was rather intrigued by Miss Mainwaring. I went down to change my Erle Stanley Gardner for an Ian Rankin, and stepped into a real-life mystery.’

  Hillary smiled, recognizing both the names as belonging to authors of crime fiction. ‘Well, I’m hardly an Inspector Rebus, and even more certainly not a Perry Mason, but I hope we can measure up,’ she said cheerfully.

  Peter Woodsman looked delighted at the riposte, and opened a door that led into a long room that had obviously at some point been two rooms, knocked into one. Two large windows framed either end – one looking out over the road, the other over a back garden.

  Woodsman led them to the furthest end near the garden, and ushered them onto a sofa. Through the window, Hillary could see the outlines of a small pond and a sundial. A recent patio held creosote-covered tubs that were, at this time of the year, empty. In the summer no doubt they’d be choc-a-block with scarlet geraniums. On an easel set up to one side, catching most of the cold white winter sunlight, was a small watercolour. Peter Woodsman saw her looking, and smiled. ‘Trying my hand at a bit of art,’ he said. ‘Not sure I’m any good at it, though.’

  Hillary didn’t think so either, but was hardly about to say so. ‘Did Miss Mainwaring tell you anything about our inquiry, sir?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Oh no. Very discreet is our Miss Mainwaring,’ Peter Woodsman said, sitting down in a matching leather armchair and crossing his legs neatly at the ankle. ‘She just asked me if, by any chance, I recognized the man in the photograph, and when I said I thought I did, asked me if I’d be willing to talk to the police. Well, naturally, I was intrigued.’ He spread his hands and shrugged, trying to look shame-faced, but was obviously too busy enjoying himself to make any real e
ffort.

  Hillary smiled, unoffended. In fact, it made rather a nice change. Usually, members of the public were either too busy, too uneasy, or too downright antagonistic to want to talk to coppers in their living room. It was refreshing to be looked upon as a delightful diversion.

  Beside her she felt Keith Barrington shift restlessly, and sensed his impatience. Janine had been like him once too. Young and raring to go. But Hillary had taught her DS the rewards that could come with taking things slowly and carefully. And this chap would learn too, given time.

  ‘So, Mr Woodsman. You think you recognize the man in the photo?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘Yes. Well, I was only a lad at the time, but my dad played in the St Mary’s Eleven, and I always turned out to cheer him on. Course, the war stopped all that. I think nearly all of the team were wiped out overseas.’

  Hillary smiled. ‘St Mary’s Eleven?’

  ‘Yes. Our local football team. Oh, here, I forgot,’ he replied, and reaching forward, picked up a faded red-velvet photo album that had been lying in wait for them on the coffee table beside his chair. ‘When I got back from the library, I brought this out, just to make sure. See …’ He turned the pages quickly, and nodded in satisfaction when he reached the spot he wanted. He then turned the album around and handed it to her, leaning forward to tap one particular snapshot with his finger. ‘This one here. Fourth man from the right, front row.’

  Hillary pulled the album onto her lap and felt Keith Barrington lean a little closer for a look. The photograph was in black and white, and large, one of those posed, professional shots taken by a travelling photographer. Inscribed in a neat hand on a white strip of paper at the bottom, were the words: ‘St Mary’s Eleven, 1940.’

  ‘Constable, a copy of the original please,’ Hillary said, and Keith quickly reached into his inside pocket for a copy of the photograph. She peered at the picture of the young man that Florence Jenkins had kept in her own photograph album, and checked the features against that of the man, fourth from right, front row. Although the face was small, and taken from a distance, it did indeed look to be the same man. He had distinctive, beetling brows and rather sticky-out ears.

  ‘Do you happen to know his name?’ Hillary asked without much hope, and wasn’t surprised when Peter Woodsman shook his head.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Hillary looked somewhat sadly at the picture of eleven young men, most of whom were to die in the next few years, victims of the vast bloodshed caused by the Second World War. ‘Which one’s your father?’ she asked, and Woodsman pointed to a young man on the back row, far right.

  ‘That’s him. Goalie.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s still alive?’

  ‘No. Killed in 1944,’ Peter said. ‘Mother remarried in 1948.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know if any of these other men are still alive?’

  Again, Woodsman shook his head. ‘No. But I know who might be able to help you. Old Albie. Mr Albert Finch to you and me. He used to coach the football team back in the fifties. Took over the job from his dad, who used to do the same. He lives opposite the pub, in the cottage that looks as if it’s going to fall down any minute. He’s unofficial archive keeper for anything to do with the local football team, so I’m sure he could help. Even though he’s ninety-odd, he’s still sharp as a button. Marvellous, isn’t it, when you can reach that age and still be right as rain?’

  Hillary agreed that it was, thanked him and left.

  Back at HQ, Martin Pollock sauntered over to the duty roster and checked the lists. The major changeover shift was scheduled for 7.15 that night. He himself was officially off duty at 6.40, but he could hang around and wait. Nobody questioned you doing unpaid overtime.

  If he timed it just right, he reckoned he could get into the women’s locker room without being seen, no problem. By eight o’clock it would be deserted, with the last of the day-shift stragglers gone, and the new shift all beavering away upstairs.

  He was almost sure that the locker room wouldn’t be locked, but just in case, he had a plan. Whistling as he went, he strode into Records, where WPC Felicity Burke was busy tapping away, inputting that morning’s business into the database. She looked up, then away again without interest on spotting Pillock Pollock. The man, in her opinion, was well named.

  ‘Hello darlin’, just wanna check something from the vault.’ The vault was where the very old, pre-computer case files were kept.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Felicity said, her flying fingers never pausing in their work.

  ‘Mind if I help myself to some paper clips?’

  ‘No. Second drawer down, over there.’ She waved vaguely to a large, all-purpose desk, at the moment unmanned.

  Martin Pollock nodded and walked over, bent down and glanced quickly over his shoulder. He opened the last drawer, and saw, as he knew he would, her handbag. He’d been in here before, and seen the way the staff used this desk as a general storage unit. Whistling softly, he reached inside her bag and extracted the large set of keys. The car keys were obvious, as was the Yale key to her front door. Silly cow, anyone could make a copy of them, then come and pay her a visit one dark night. One key, however, was smaller and simpler than the rest, with a square-shaped head and a single hole in it, and was obviously a locker key. Attached to it was a slightly larger Yale key. Yes! It had to be the key to the locker-room door.

  ‘Need to open a new box darlin’,’ he called over his shoulder, careful to keep his back to her, blocking her vision of what he was doing.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ Felicity muttered, sighing heavily.

  Sarky cow, Martin thought sourly, and neatly slipped off the pair of keys. Rising, he used his upward motion to slip them into his back pocket. ‘Thanks. Won’t be long.’

  Felicity continued to tap assiduously at the keyboard.

  The cottage did indeed look as if it was about to tumble down. It leaned drunkenly against its neighbour on one side, a more substantial younger cottage, whilst an old garden wall propped it up at the other. The window frames were rotten, and Hillary wondered how long it would be before a strong winter gale blew the glass inwards. The front door was so old and overpainted, it was obvious it hadn’t been used in years. Decades probably.

  Without a word, the two police officers went around the back, where a flimsy looking French window, looking incongruously out of place, led straight into a kitchen that could have featured in a 1950s House and Garden magazine.

  Hillary tapped on a pane of glass and peered inside. If old Albie was in his nineties, he might have difficulty hearing them, but there was no door bell or knocker. However she needn’t have worried, for a moment later she saw a door open from the other side of the kitchen and an old man slowly shuffling across the floor. He stood for a moment on the other side of the glass, eyeing them carefully. Then he looked from one to the other and shouted, ‘Don’t want no Jehovah’s Witnesses asking me if I’m saved. I bloody well am, so sod off.’

  Hillary grinned and held up her card. ‘Police, sir. Nothing to be alarmed about, we’d just like a word.’

  The old man didn’t look any more pleased to receive coppers than he did Jehovah’s Witnesses, but he reluctantly opened the door. ‘I ain’t paying my council tax, and that’s that. If you’ve come to cart me off to prison, that’s fine by me. It’ll be warmer and dryer than this place, no doubt. I told that council woman, or social worker or whatever the hell she was last time. I ain’t paying it.’

  Hillary smiled widely. ‘We’re not here about that, Mr Finch. We have a few questions for you about the St Mary’s Eleven, circa 1940. Think you can help?’

  Albie Finch, when standing straight, was probably nearing the six foot mark. Bent and stooped as he was, he more or less met Hillary’s dark and friendly eyes straight on. ‘Football? You wanna talk football?’ His wrinkled, cantankerous face fairly lit up with joy. ‘In that case, you can come on through.’

  Hillary thanked him and stepped inside, and i
nstantly felt the damp and cold invade her flesh. She glanced at the old-fashioned stove, which was unlit and giving off no heat. If the rest of the house was like this, she hoped that someone from the council did come and take him off to a nice warm cell.

  ‘Through to the living room then,’ Albie Finch said, shuffling ahead and leading them through to a corridor so dark she almost bumped into the back of him when he stopped without warning to lift the latch on an old-fashioned oak door.

  The living room had a fireplace where there was at least a cheerful fire spluttering and spitting in the grate. The wood was obviously as damp as the rest of the house, she mused, as she avoided a particularly ferocious bit of spitting, and watched as a piece of burning wood landed on a rather threadbare sheepskin rug and began to smoulder. Keith stood on it abruptly, grinding it out underfoot.

  ‘Now then, sit yerselves down. I ain’t offering you tea, so don’t ask me.’

  Hillary bit back yet another wide grin. ‘I should think not, price of tea nowadays sir. It’s tantamount to accepting a bribe, accepting a cup of tea.’

  Albie Finch fell down onto a chair, as opposed to sitting down, and eyed her suspiciously. Then a reluctant smile tugged one end of his lips, revealing a toothless section of gum. ‘Saucy bint, aren’t you?’ he said admiringly.

  ‘So I’ve been told, sir. Now, we’re trying to trace the identity of one of your football players who was in the 1940 squad. Constable?’ She nodded at Keith, who quickly handed over the reproduction of Flo’s snapshot.

  ‘Oh ah,’ the old man said at once. He had wide white caterpillar eyebrows and a hooked nose that rather reminded Hillary of a bald eagle. Not that she’d ever seen a bald eagle, even in a zoo.

  ‘Know that face all right. You, whippersnapper.’ Albie clicked his fingers in Keith’s direction, who snapped to attention. ‘That bookshelf behind you. Yes, yes, turn around, you ain’t got eyes in the back of your head, have you?’ he demanded, and Hillary bit back a guffaw as her bewildered constable turned obediently around. ‘Bottom shelf, see the numbers?’