by Faith Martin
‘This is Ferris, my grandson,’ Wanda introduced them.
‘I’ve got to get off to school for my mocks,’ the lad said, his eyes running without interest over Sam before coming to rest on Hillary.
‘He’s doing his A-levels this summer, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ Wanda said, with grandmotherly pride. ‘Four of them. He’s already been offered a place at Hertford if his grades are high enough.’
‘Congratulations,’ Hillary said. A place at Hertford College, one of the many that comprised Oxford University, was something to be proud of indeed. ‘What do you want to read?’
‘Engineering. Got any crisps, Gran?’
Wanda got up and went to a cupboard, coming back with a large silver-foil packet and an indulgent smile. ‘Don’t eat them all and ruin your appetite for dinner. I’ve got fresh salmon and I’m making that dill sauce you like.’
‘OK,’ the lad said, and withdrew without another word.
‘Ferris! Manners,’ Wanda called, and they all heard a vaguely mumbled ‘goodbye’ waft back from the depths of the flat.
‘Boys,’ Wanda said, then forced a brief laugh. ‘Not that I can lay the blame for his lack of charm on anybody else. I was the one who raised him, but what can you do? Youngsters nowadays – still, rebellion against the status quo is part of the rite of passage of growing up, isn’t it?’
Hillary nodded, not interested in Ferris, and determined to get things back on track. ‘Yes. You were saying something about Darla and Rowan?’
‘Oh – oh yes. Only, as I was about to say, I don’t really interest myself in the students who live here. I’m not their mother, after all, and what with having had Ferris to look after, I simply don’t have the time to concern myself with their comings and goings. So long as they pay the rent on time, don’t cause any damage, and are reasonably quiet, that’s really all I ask for. I rather think Inspector Gorman was disappointed that I couldn’t give him chapter and verse about the private life of all the students who were here at the time Rowan was… well… I mean, as I said to him, I’m just not the nosy kind.’
Hillary nodded and took another sip of tea. No doubt someone like Wanda would consider it far too grubby and embarrassing to live vicariously through the young people who shared her home.
‘You’re a widow?’ Hillary asked gently.
‘Oh yes – more than thirty years now. Geoffrey worked in insurance. He left me this house, and, rather oddly considering, very little in insurance money.’ Wanda Landau laughed. ‘Daddy always said he was the least reliable stuffed shirt he’d ever met. Daddy was a farmer – we had a few acres out near Witney way.’
Hillary nodded, seeing it all. A well-to-do daughter of minor landed gentry, Wanda had married beneath her, and had been reduced to renting out her nice house in Oxford to students. She could well understand why she’d have as little to do with the never-ending flow of youngsters as possible. She and they must have virtually nothing in common.
‘But Rowan seemed to have made an impression? You seemed to know him quite well,’ Hillary probed delicately and, to her surprise, the sophisticated elderly lady blushed slightly.
‘Well, yes. I mean the way he died.’ Wanda shrugged her thin shoulders elegantly. ‘It rather sticks with you, doesn’t it, when something so tragic and horrendous happens to one so young?’
‘Yes,’ Hillary agreed quietly.
‘And, like I said, Rowan was the kind of young man who liked to make an impression on others, so he went out of his way to charm me. He was a born entertainer, in many ways. He used to call me Mrs L, and was always over-flirtatious whenever we met. I tried to put a stop to that of course, but he was the sort of boy who needed to be constantly admired and adored. He used to make me laugh, to be honest, he was so transparently needy, whilst at the same time, so full of himself, and full of life. He was obviously going to be a handful for any young woman to take on, and Darla was never the kind of girl who would have a strong enough hand on the reins to keep him in line.’
Hillary nodded. ‘From the notes Inspector Gorman made, I got the impression he was something of a Jack-the-lad.’
Wanda nodded. ‘Yes, he was. But he was never bad, you know. Just thoughtless and somewhat reckless. He wasn’t rotten, like some young people seem to be,’ she added, and a flash of pain and bitterness flitted briefly across her face.
Hillary felt her radar give a definite ping. At some point, some young person had caused this woman an awful lot of pain. Could it have been Rowan Thompson? She made a mental note to ask Sam to get a run-down on Wanda Landau’s personal history as soon as he could.
‘Now, the day he died,’ Hillary changed tack gently, ‘what can you tell me about that day?’
Wanda Landau visibly straightened her shoulders and became business-like. ‘Well, it was a day just like any other. Except Christmas was nearly upon us, and the young people would be heading off to their family homes soon. I always enjoy the holidays between terms when I have the house to myself,’ she admitted, with a wry smile. ‘I woke up at my usual time – about eight. I had breakfast, and tidied up, and was getting ready to do some Christmas shopping.’
Wanda took a sip of her tea, without leaving a trace of her plum-coloured lipstick on the rim of the thin china cup, of course, and frowned thoughtfully. ‘Something made me go upstairs – what was it…? Oh, yes, it had begun to rain and I wanted to make sure the landing window was shut before I went out. One of them up there was a bit of a fresh-air fiend – I rather think it might have been Mr Hargreaves – and living in the city you have to be so careful of burglars. The amount of break-ins—’ Wanda suddenly broke off and flushed guiltily, aware that she might be sounding somewhat critical in front of the police. ‘Not that I’ve ever experienced it myself, of course.’
Hillary smiled. ‘It’s all right, I understand. Oxford has its fair share of crime, just like any other big city. And you’re quite right to be careful. I wish more people were.’
‘Yes. Well, I went upstairs to make sure the window was shut – it was, by the way, I remember telling that to Inspector Gorman – when I saw the door to Rowan’s room was standing open. There was nothing really unusual in that, but everything seemed very quiet. Usually, with four students in the house, I was used to hearing noise of some kind, so I called out a general sort of ‘hello’ but no one answered, so I went to shut the door – these old houses tend to be draughty, you know, and in the middle of winter…. Anyway, when I was in the doorway, I sort of looked in and saw him. Well, his legs, mostly. Lying on the floor. I rushed in, I thought he might have fainted – well,’ – again Wanda gave a slight blush – ‘I thought it more likely that he might be passed out drunk, I’m afraid. Not that I had any real reason to think that – some of the young people I’ve had here over the years might have a problem with binge drinking, isn’t that what they call it? But Rowan, although he might have shown up here a little the worse for wear sometimes, never had to be actually carried in or anything.’
Wanda, after this marathon stint, paused for breath, and smiled weakly. ‘Anyway, I saw him lying there. He was covered in red, all across his middle and it was leaking about him on the floor. For a really odd, strange moment – and I don’t really know why I thought this – I thought someone had sloshed a tin of red paint over him. Then I saw the scissors on the floor beside him. And he looked so pale, so still. So … inanimate. It almost didn’t look like Rowan at all. Except that it was him, of course. So I backed away and called the police.’
‘You didn’t touch him?’ Hillary asked, although she already knew from the reports that there had been no sign of Mrs Landau’s footprints in the blood beside the body.
‘Oh, no.’ Wanda gave a small, graphic shudder. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘And you never heard anyone come to the house that morning?’
‘No.’
‘You heard the others leave?’
‘Yes – well, I can’t say for sure, but I heard female voices in the hall sometime jus
t after I’d had breakfast, which I took to be Marcie and Darla leaving. And a male voice too – I’m not sure which of the men it was, though. I never heard anything more, but there was no one else in the house by the time I found Rowan. Of that I’m sure. You get to know when a house is empty, you see.’
Hillary did.
So at some point that morning, all the students had left. Mrs Landau had heard three of them. Had a fourth stayed behind, and then sneaked out after killing Rowan? Or had one of them sneaked back in?
She took Wanda Landau carefully over it all for a second time, but the landlady had nothing to add to her original statement.
Finally Hillary thanked her and rose. ‘We’ll probably need to see you again some time in the future. And I’d quite like to see the room Rowan died in at some point. I take it there’s someone currently in residence?’
‘I’m afraid so. And, of course, there’s nothing really to see anymore. Rowan’s family had all his things, and it’s been entirely redecorated since then.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Yes, I expected as much. Well, thank you, Mrs Landau, you’ve been very helpful.’
Outside, back under the lime trees, Hillary regarded the house thoughtfully.
‘Nice woman, guv,’ Sam ventured timidly. ‘Must have come as a bit of a shock for a lady like that. Finding a body, I mean.’
Hillary nodded. ‘So she struck you as being a lady, did she, Sam?’ Hillary mused. ‘Don’t fret,’ she added quickly, when the lad looked alarmed, as if he’d done something wrong. ‘She struck me that way too. But I get the feeling that life’s not exactly been all peaches and cream for our landlady. What’s she doing raising her grandson, for a start? When we get back to the office I want you to find out everything you can about Mrs Landau’s personal history.’
‘You really think her family life is relevant, guv?’ Sam asked, surprised. ‘I mean, I know the first person to find the body is always looked at closely, but in this case, you don’t think the old lady really had anything to do with it, do you?’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘Right now, Sam, everyone who lived in that house when our victim died interests me. And as for what might be relevant and what isn’t – until we know all there is to know, we can’t possibly tell what might matter and what doesn’t. Can we?’
And with that rather sage advice ringing in his ears, Sam followed her across the road and back to the rust-heap of her car.
CHAPTER THREE
PC Tom Warrington tied up the laces on his steel-toe-capped boots and walked back towards the central lobby. He’d been working a stint in admin for several weeks now, since coping with perpetual paperwork was always an unpopular pastime with his colleagues, and he knew that taking it on had earned him some much-needed brownie points with his sergeant. The bastard had never liked him, and since the sarge wouldn’t be caught dead in admin, it had the added bonus of keeping him out of Tom’s hair.
But even that wasn’t the real reason why Tom had applied for the job in records. It simply gave him much-needed access to the information he wanted. But he had to be careful, he knew that.
At twenty-six, he was getting rather old to still be in uniform after nearly eight years in the service, and sometimes that still rankled. He knew that he had the reputation for being something of a loner, and he knew as well that many of his workmates seemed to avoid him. He was sure it was because they were jealous.
Ever since he’d hit puberty, he’d worked out with weights, and his body-building had left him with a formidable physique. Which meant he did more than his fair share when it came to manning the lines at football matches when hooliganism was expected. He was also seconded regularly to help out when extra numbers were called upon for riot-control work. Not that he was complaining about that – he loved it. The adrenaline rush was something else.
As he began to cross the foyer, he noticed that a large gaggle of uniforms, most of them from Traffic, was clustered around the front desk. The second shift had obviously arrived, for a much older man had replaced the desk sergeant of that morning, and there seemed to be a fair amount of raucous ribbing going on. Obviously, the younger element was keen to impart the latest news to the old-timer. Tom’s cat-green eyes narrowed in contempt at the gossiping horde, before two words that always caused his heart to leap got his attention, and he veered off towards them.
‘And he’s sure it was Hillary Greene?’ the desk sergeant was saying.
‘Straight up,’ one of them shot back. ‘In the car park, they were.’
‘Actually snogging?’ the desk sergeant asked, a somewhat sceptical lilt in his voice.
Tom’s heartbeat accelerated even further as he came to stand a few feet behind a pair of WPCs.
‘And it was definitely her super?’ one of the others asked.
‘No doubt about it. They’d just had a cosy dinner together in the pub, hadn’t they?’ was the response.
‘Who’s this Superintendent Crayle then?’ one of the WPCs in front of him asked the woman beside her, and her friend grinned back.
‘Dishy Steven? Haven’t you seen him yet?’
‘No, I’ve just been transferred from Newport Pagnell. Only been here a week,’ the other one responded. ‘Good-looking, is he?’
‘I wouldn’t say no, if he asked.’
‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing against it,’ the desk sergeant handed down his verdict magisterially, causing the WPCs to suddenly pay attention. ‘The super’s been divorced for years, and Hillary’s as free as a bird. Good luck to ’em, I say.’
‘But he’s younger than her, ain’t he, Sarge? You don’t reckon he’ll be another Danvers then,’ someone asked, and there was a general burst of levity.
‘Danvers? Who’s that?’ The newcomer from Newport Pagnell nudged her mate with her elbow.
‘He was Hillary Greene’s guv’nor when she was still a DI,’ her friend explained patiently. ‘He was dishy too, but DI Greene wouldn’t have him.’
One of the women suddenly spotted Tom standing just behind them and shot him a curious glance. It was the newcomer, and her eyes widened appreciatively as she took in his impressive figure. She liked the dark hair and green eyes too, but before she could make any sort of approach, Tom Warrington turned away abruptly. Her curious friend saw where she was looking and whispered loudly, ‘Forget it. He looks buff, but they say he’s a bit of a weirdo.’
He knew they were talking about him now, but it barely registered. His hands, however, were clenched so tightly into fists that they were white with the lack of circulation, and his nails dug painfully into his palms. He punched the code into the keypad on the door that would allow him access to the offices beyond, and his teeth ground as he heard another burst of laughter behind him.
An unbecoming flush of rage stained his face as he pushed through the door and into the quietness of the corridor that lay ahead. How dare they laugh at her like that behind her back? A gossiping bunch of stupid old women, the lot of them.
And what they were saying about his Hillary and Steven Crayle couldn’t possibly be true. He simply didn’t believe it. Everyone knew that Hillary didn’t even look at the men she worked with. Danvers was the proof of that. And everyone knew she’d been just good friends with her boss before that. Crayle wouldn’t prove to be any different. There was nothing special about him, after all. He was nothing but a pansy, a tall, lean streak of wind in his fancy suits. His Hillary wouldn’t look twice at a poser like that.
He marched towards the toilets and slipped into the gents. A civilian clerk was at the urinal and nodded at him briefly. Tom slipped into a cubicle, pulled the toilet seat down, and got out a mobile phone.
He had purchased it yesterday – a cheap, pay-as-you-go affair that he’d use for a few more days, before disposing of it and buying another.
Unmarried, unattached, and still living with his parents in a neat semi not far from the station, Tom had very few expenses and could spend most of his pay cheque how he wanted.
Now
he keyed in the only number stored in the mobile’s memory and began to text. When he’d finished, he checked the screen closely. It wouldn’t do to have made a spelling mistake. His Hillary had earned an English literature degree at an unaffiliated Oxford College, and it would be disrespectful not to get everything just right. He’d even read up a book on grammar, so as not to let her down.
But he could see no problems with what he’d written.
MY DARLING HILLARY
WHAT ARE YOU DOING DINING OUT WITH YOUR SUPERIOR OFFICER? YOU KNOW HOW PEOPLE GOSSIP. I KNOW IT CAN’T BE TRUE THAT YOU AND HE KISSED. BUT DON’T MAKE ME JEALOUS, MY LOVE. IT WOULDN’T BE RIGHT. REMAIN FAITHFUL, OR YOU MAY FORCE ME TO DO SOMETHING WE WILL BOTH REGRET. ALL MY LOVE.
YOUR ONE AND ONLY.
With a nod and a press of his thumb, Tom sent the message winging its way to her and cautiously opened the cubicle door. But the other man was gone, and he was on his own. Relieved, Tom Warrington walked to the mirror and met his handsome reflection with a small smile.
He was pleased with the message. It showed the proper amount of love and concern, but it was also scrupulously fair. He’d warned her not to cheat on him, after all – so if anything bad had to happen, it wouldn’t be his fault. Not that he was worried.
Hillary was smart, and faithful and all his. Nothing would go wrong this time, he thought determinedly, straightening his tie and washing his hands. Not like with the others. They had just been mistakes. Silly girls, who’d never understood him. Looking back now, he could see that all three of them had been doomed to fail.
Hillary was different. She was in the job, she was more mature and, most importantly of all, she was actually worthy of him. None of the others had been.
But his eyes still glittered with repressed anger, and he felt a sour, ugly taste in the back of his throat. And he knew why. He suddenly wished he could plant a bomb that would blow the whole HQ sky high, because they seemed determined to ruin it all for him. With their stupid gossip and snide, ugly, humdrum lives, they were trying to taint what he and Hillary had together.
