by Faith Martin
Not that she wouldn’t take it personally if she failed to find Rowan Thompson’s killer. She knew herself well enough to be aware of just how much it would rankle to have to accept defeat. But it was way too early yet to even conceive of such an outcome. She let her mind wander over the case as she’d found it so far.
Gorman had dithered between Barry Hargreaves and Darla de Lancie as his chief suspects since their motives seemed the strongest, but in the absence of any forensics, witnesses or a confession, the case had stalled. But the fact that Gorman hadn’t been able to find anyone else who might have wanted the student dead, didn’t mean there hadn’t been one. If she couldn’t find his killer at the house where he lived, then she’d just have to widen her net. But that was listed firmly in her mental ‘last resort’ file.
She glanced at her watch, saw that it was just gone five, and sighed. Ever since Steven had come up with his rather cockamamie plan to lure out her stalker, she’d been considering its merits.
She’d been the target of her stalker for nearly two months now, and it was clear that his campaign was only escalating. At first, she’d been prepared to wait a while, to see if it would fizzle out of its own accord. But that was clearly not going to happen. All their other efforts to discover his identity had crashed and burned, and she was growing more and more impatient to knock this thing on the head before it got really out of hand.
But was Crayle’s idea to pretend to be an item actually likely to work? Or was she just fighting shy of it for reasons of her own?
She was well aware of her growing attraction to Steven Crayle. And unless she missed her guess – and she rarely did – it was not exactly a purely one-sided state of affairs. So if they ‘pretended’ to get together, she could well see it veering off into the realms of reality. And wasn’t that at the back of his mind too?
And technically at least, there was nothing to stop them getting together. They were both single and old enough and mean enough to tackle an affair. Now that she was no longer a DI, Steven was not even her superior officer, so there’d be no reason for the top brass to suck the air in through their teeth with disapproval.
She’d just never particularly liked the thought of mixing business with pleasure in this way, that was all. She’d rather they just dated, or just set out to get her stalker. Combining or blurring the line between the two just seemed to be asking for trouble to her. On the other hand, some sort of definitive action needed to be taken. She had the feeling that this was going to get very nasty, very fast, and that her admirer was going to start making her life very miserable before he was through. And her instincts had always been pretty reliable.
‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she muttered and, grabbing her bag and coat, she walked through the maze of subterranean corridors to Crayle’s office and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. She reached into her bag for her mobile and, as she headed upstairs, speed-dialled his number. It was answered on the second ring.
‘Crayle.’ His voice was low, almost whispered.
‘Guv, it’s me. Wonder if I could have a word.’
‘I’m in a meeting. I’ll get back to you in half an hour,’ he said tersely.
Hillary said thanks and hung up, her lips twisting wryly. So much for the beginnings of a sweet romance.
She drove back to Thrupp, parking in her favourite spot in the local pub’s car park, and walked down the towpath. She could see the dark splash of crimson blooms lying on the top of The Mollern from several yards away. She carried on stalwartly walking, snatched the gift of fifty red roses from the boat roof and carried on up the towpath.
When she reached Ivanhoe she tapped on the roof and waited. A moment later, her next-door neighbour of five weeks standing poked his head from the door in the stern. Alfie Bix, a pensioner with a penchant for producing fine crochet work, grinned back at her. He used his boat as a mobile shop, and regularly sold his wares to the tourist hotspots at Henley-on-Thames and Stratford-upon-Avon. ‘Hello, lovely lady.’
‘Hello, Alf. Didn’t I hear you say that you and Betty had a wedding anniversary coming up?’ she asked, waving the roses under his nose. ‘These any use to you?’
Alf happily accepted the gift and asked her down for a drink of his home-made cowslip wine. Hillary, who’d already sampled it – and the headache that followed – quickly refused.
Back on her own boat, she made herself a cup of coffee and listlessly contemplated dinner. Beans on toast? Or go for something really flashy, like Sainsbury’s own frozen lasagne? She was still thinking about that one ten minutes later when her phone rang.
‘Sorry about that,’ Steven Crayle said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I was thinking about your offer – to see if we can lure out my admirer. I want to take you up on it.’
There was a moment of surprised silence on the other end of the line, then his voice came back, as smooth and unruffled as ever. ‘OK. What about starting tonight? You had dinner yet?’
The Plough and Anchor on the outskirts of Islip, a small village not far from Kidlington, had a good reputation for food, was cheap and on a mid-week night at least, didn’t require a reservation. It was also a fairly well-known spot for coppers to frequent, which was why Steven and Hillary had chosen it.
He’d picked her up from her narrowboat, which he’d been curious about, and found himself admiring it in a neutral sort of way. He could see that it suited her perfectly, and he could see the attraction of taking long weekends in it, or the odd week’s holiday, but probably not living in it on a daily basis. He was too tall and liked space and light – the boat would probably begin to feel too claustrophobic after a while. His own house in Kidlington, that funnily enough also enjoyed a view of the canal, suited him just fine. It was big, modern and, since his wife had moved in with her new man, had been redecorated from top to bottom in the style that he preferred,
He drove a very nice mid-range black saloon car, which he negotiated around Islip’s quirky road system with ease. Finally parked in the small and nearly full pub car park, he glanced around casually.
‘Let’s hope there’s someone here to spot us and gossip about it,’ he said mildly. And then, aware that that might have sounded, at the very least, less than gallant, added quickly, ‘Not that I would mind taking you out any number of times.’ He stopped, realized that hadn’t exactly helped matters any, and added awkwardly, ‘I mean, I’d be happy to see you regardless of the circumstances.’
Hillary, enjoying the unusual sight of the suave Steven Crayle floundering, suddenly grinned. ‘You ever heard of that well-known advice? When you find yourself in a hole—’
Crayle laughed and nodded. ‘Stop digging. Right.’ They climbed out of the car and walked towards the pub. He was dressed in a dark-blue suit with a cream shirt and mint green, black and cream tie. He looked good enough to eat, Hillary thought, with a certain wistful pang.
She too had been careful in her choice of clothes, and had worn a long, very dark green velvet skirt, with a pale lemon silk top. With her hair pulled back to reveal dangling ear-rings, and with slightly more lavish make-up than she usually wore, she knew she looked good. Too good for this just to be a casual meal with a mate, anyway, which was the impression they were out to give. Anyone they knew seeing them together couldn’t help but realize they were on a date.
As they entered the pub and walked to the bar, she was slightly surprised by how full it was. She asked for a white wine spritzer, and then waited whilst Steven was served at the bar.
‘We’ve got a table in the conservatory area,’ he said a few minutes later, handing her a glass. ‘We might as well go through. And, by the way, I’m sure the fat bloke with the combover sat by the bar with the big-boned blonde is in Traffic.’
Hillary glanced that way, and vaguely recognized the man who was pretending not to notice them. ‘Yes, I think I’ve seen him around,’ she admitted.
‘So, mission already accomplished, what say we have a nice time, and en
joy the meal?’ he said, checking out the table numbers, and glad to note that theirs was a quiet table for two, lit by flickering candles, tucked away in a far corner.
He pulled out her chair for her, and Hillary sat down with a smile.
Good enough to eat and a gentleman to boot.
Tonight was going to be interesting.
The next morning, Hillary arrived in the office at a few minutes to nine. Vivienne, unsurprisingly, had not yet turned up for work, but both Sam, a tall, lanky, sandy-haired lad doing a sociology and economics degree at Brookes University, and Jimmy were in.
‘Guv,’ Jimmy nodded. ‘We’re making progress on the stuff you gave us yesterday. We’ve got a list of witness locations for you, and the background we’ve got so far.’
‘Good.’ Hillary took the list from the grey-haired man and ran a quick eye over it. ‘Wanda Landau still lives in the same house?’ she asked, with just a hint of surprise in her voice. In her experience, a lot of people moved house when someone was murdered on the premises. But perhaps it had not been financially possible for the landlady to move. Either that, or she was a tough old bird, the kind who’d be too stubborn on principle to be driven out of her own home. Or maybe she just hadn’t cared enough about Rowan for it to bother her. Whichever it was, she needed to find out.
‘Seems so, guv. She’s still renting out all four rooms to students as well, though she must be in her seventies by now. Still, it’s a good income for her, innit?’
Hillary nodded. ‘Yes. Well, we might as well start with her. It’ll give us a chance to check out the house for ourselves as well.’ She glanced up, her gaze going between Sam and Jimmy.
Jimmy, as the experienced officer, would be more use to her, but she was well aware that she was supposed to be giving Sam as much experience and on-the-job training as she could.
‘Sam, you want to drive?’
The youngster didn’t have to be asked twice, and Jimmy grinned at Hillary as he shot up and scrambled eagerly for his notebook.
‘Jimmy, hold the fort. And you might as well take the time to get acquainted with the files while I’m gone, and start up the murder book.’
The murder book was a new folder, set up by herself, and all members of the team were expected to keep it updated with any new information they came across in the course of the investigation. This meant that everyone was kept up to date, and could see the progress of the case at a single glance, lessening the chance of a possibly important fact slipping through the net, because someone had failed to mention it or see its significance at the time. Overseeing it was an important job, and since this was going to be a difficult case, Hillary could sense, she wanted Jimmy on it.
‘Guv,’ he agreed.
Outside, the sun was shining, and as they walked through the foyer, the desk sergeant began to whistle cheerfully. The tune, though somewhat garbled and less than tone-perfect, was instantly recognizable as the old Hot Chocolate classic You Sexy Thing.
Hillary shot him a look and saw the old reprobate wink back at her. Bloody hell, she thought, that was impressive, even by station-house standards. And then she thought back to last night, and Steven Crayle’s expert, lingering kiss in the car park, under the boggling gaze of the man from Traffic, and knew she was actually blushing.
Which, naturally enough, didn’t go unnoticed by the desk sergeant.
‘Bloody hell!’ she hissed. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d actually felt her face go warm over something like that.
‘Guv?’ Sam said.
‘Nothing, forget it,’ Hillary said sharply and threw him her car keys.
Sam’s face fell. ‘We not taking my car, guv?’ he wheedled hopefully.
‘No, we’ll take mine,’ Hillary said firmly, and led the way to Puff the Tragic Wagon, her ancient Volkswagen Golf.
Sam sighed and quietly joined her, praying the old heap would actually start. Somewhat to his chagrin it did – as good as gold.
Number 8, Kebler Road, was not far from Oxford’s South Park, and was situated in a quiet street, lined with Victorian terraces and lime trees. On a warm spring morning, the traffic was surprisingly light, and Sam, much to his surprise, was able to find off-street parking quite close by. Hillary paused at the pavement to let a stream of bicyclists go by, then trotted across the road and looked up at the house where Rowan Thompson had lived and died.
It was a skinny structure of mixed red and cream brick, with a bay window on the ground floor and what was obviously a converted attic in the eaves. Steps led down to a small basement patio, and up to the main door.
Hillary went down the steps, admiring the black wrought-iron stair rails, and the terracotta tubs full of scarlet geraniums and blue lobelia that lined the flagstone patio floors. The whole area was shaded by a sweet, fresh-smelling lime tree, and in the summer would be the ideal place to set up a small table and chair with a glass of wine and a good book.
She rang the bell and waited. In her mind, she’d pictured Wanda Landau as the archetypal landlady, rounded, curly-haired and inquisitive. But the woman who answered the door failed to meet the criteria on all three counts. She was easily as tall as Hillary, with an elegantly lean figure encased in a simple wraparound navy-blue dress, and her hair was a straight-cut platinum blonde in colour. Her make-up was discreet but flawless and she wore simple but expensive gold jewellery at her ears, throat and on her fingers.
‘Yes?’ she asked coolly, with no visible interest on her high-cheekboned, still-beautiful face.
She knew from reading the files that Mrs Landau had been sixty-four at the time of the murder, which meant she must now be well into her seventies. But she looked at least two decades younger, and Hillary wondered what plastic surgeon she went to for help to achieve the miracle.
Who knows, now that she’d passed the big five-oh herself, she might need his name some time soon.
‘Mrs Landau?’ Hillary held out her ID card that identified her, not as a detective inspector any more, but a civilian consultant with the Thames Valley Police. ‘I’m Hillary Greene, this is Mr Sam Pickles. We’re part of team currently taking a fresh look at the murder of Rowan Thompson.’
‘Good grief! Well, in that case, please come in.’ The voice was pure Oxford, that curious mixture of slightly country accent, mixed with upper-class accent, that somehow came out as being totally classless. She moved to one side, smiling at Sam indulgently as he carefully sidled past her in the narrow doorway.
‘Go on straight through. I think Ferris is still in the lounge doing his homework – perhaps we’d be better off just there, to the right, in the kitchen? I can make us all some tea.’
Hillary obediently veered to the right and found herself in a small, but well-appointed and cheerful kitchen in shades of lemon and cream, with mint-green units and marble worktops. The white-tiled floor made the most of the somewhat restricted light in the basement flat, and gave the impression of spacious elegance.
Although Wanda Landau might have been reduced to giving over the bulk of her house to paying guests, she obviously knew how to maintain her standards of living.
‘Darjeeling all right?’ she asked, going to the kettle and filling it from the tap.
‘Fine, thank you. Milk and one sugar for both of us, please,’ Hillary acknowledged, then nodded at Sam to take a seat in the corner. She was pleased to see the lad open his notebook and take out his pen, under the cover of the table. Good, he was learning fast. Witnesses very often clammed up when they realized their words were being noted down by the authorities.
‘Poor Rowan. I’ve never forgotten him, you know,’ Wanda said, crossing over to a tall fridge and removing some skimmed milk. ‘It doesn’t seem like more than ten years ago since it all happened.’
‘No, I’m sure it doesn’t,’ Hillary agreed. ‘Time has a way of getting away from all of us. What can you tell me about him? I know you must have gone all over this before at the time, with Inspector Gorman, but don’t worry about that. Just t
ell me what immediately comes to mind when you think of him,’ Hillary said, keeping it determinedly vague. If you asked a specific question, you very often got a specific answer, and at the moment she was just fishing, and casting about for anything interesting.
‘Oh, probably his cheeky grin,’ Wanda said, returning to the table with two china cups and saucers. She moved to a cupboard and retrieved a sugar bowl, and two spoons from the drawer underneath. ‘He had a certain kind of charm about him – you probably wouldn’t remember an actor called Tommy Steele but he had that sort of way about him. Little-boy, mischief-maker, but with a heart-of-gold feeling about him.’ Wanda smiled briefly, and then, hearing the kettle boil, set about pouring boiling water into a teapot. Eventually she brought everything together to the table and all the activity stopped.
As she took her seat with a small sigh, she suddenly looked her age. ‘Mind you, it was probably all only skin deep. A bit of an act, perhaps. He was young, you see, and the young have a way of being ruthless, don’t they? Not that they mean to be, they just only think of themselves.’
‘I understand,’ Hillary said, taking a sip of her tea, and wishing it was full-blooded coffee. ‘He had a girlfriend at the time, but I suppose he led her a right merry dance.’
‘Oh he did, yes. Little Darla – a lovely girl. She was head over heels in love with him, poor thing, but even I could see he had a string of others dancing to his tune. And I was never one to…. Oh, hello. Something the matter?’
She turned as the door to the kitchen opened, and a teenager poked his head in. He could have been any age from a gangly fourteen to as much as eighteen. He had close-cut hair, in the current fashion, and a silver ring through his left eyebrow. He was wearing skinny jeans and a much-washed, fashionably faded black T-shirt.
