by Faith Martin
Hillary sighed. ‘We’d like to speak to one of your researchers, Dr Marcie Franks?’
The woman sat back down and tapped a few keys on her keyboard. ‘Doctor Franks is currently working in lab fifteen. I’ll call ahead and let them know to expect you. It may take a little while – I’m not sure what the protocols are for Dr Franks’s work.’
Hillary thanked her and listened to the directions they were given. When they’d turned the first of many corridors, into what would be one of many other corridors, Sam muttered a trifle uneasily, ‘Protocols? You mean like wearing suits with helmets, like spacemen? Doors that have inner doors and vacuum-cleaned what-not? There aren’t any superbugs being grown in here, are there, guv?’
‘I doubt it. Not unless freckle remover has been designated a bio hazard,’ Hillary said sardonically. ‘Relax. They’re more worried about industrial espionage than Ebola in this place, take my word for it.’
Sam grinned, and began to relax.
Even so, Marcie Franks took twenty-five minutes to find them in a small waiting-room where they’d been parked by the guardian of laboratory fifteen, a fifty-something woman who’d been wearing more make-up on her face than Hillary would have applied in a month.
‘Jennifer said you were the police?’ Marcie Franks said, coming into the small, gold-and-white-painted room, decorated with slightly smaller posters of women’s painted nails. She was wearing the requisite white lab coat, over black trousers.
Hillary once again showed her ID.
Marcie Franks was about five feet ten, skinny and had very long brown hair currently tied up and back in a chignon. She had wide, brown, rather bovine eyes and wore not a scrap of makeup. She checked both Hillary’s and Sam’s cards thoroughly. ‘So you’re civilians, not actually police officers?’ she clarified sharply.
‘Yes. We work for the Crime Review Team – we take a new look at cold cases.’
‘Ah.’ Marcie took a seat in one of the gold velour-clad chairs. ‘This is about Rowan, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘New evidence has come to light?’
‘I’m afraid I really can’t discuss that, Miss Franks,’ Hillary said.
‘Doctor or Ms.’
‘Ms Franks. What can you tell me about Rowan?’
Marcie Franks glanced at her watch and frowned. ‘You want to do this now? I mean, I’m at work. I thought you were here to make an appointment or something.’
‘We can always do this at Thames Valley Police Station, Ms Franks,’ Hillary said smoothly. ‘I just thought it would make your life easier if we came to you, and made this interview more of a personal chat. But some people prefer to stick to formalities.’
For a moment, Hillary wondered if Ms Franks was going to call her bluff. She was very well aware that she did, in fact, have no powers whatsoever to ask Marcie Franks to go to Kidlington HQ for a formal interview.
‘Well, I can’t be too long,’ the other woman said reluctantly.
‘I could always have a word with your supervisor, Ms Franks, and explain the situation,’ Hillary offered mildly.
A low, dull flush suddenly swept across Marcie Franks’s thin face. ‘I don’t have a supervisor, Mrs Greene,’ she responded stiffly. ‘I’m head of my department.’
Hillary smiled. ‘Perfect. Then you can dictate your own hours?’
Marcie smiled. Or rather, she showed her teeth. ‘Touché, Mrs Greene.’ She managed an unconvincing laugh before briskly admitting defeat and finally settling down to business. ‘So, Rowan. What can I tell you about him? Well, he was an undiscerning, randy little shit, to be frank. He got by on charm and luck.’
‘You didn’t like him?’ Hillary said, making it a question.
Marcie sighed. ‘Yes and no. I didn’t not like him. He was basically harmless, but he could be very annoying.’
‘He tried to come on to you? Made a pest of himself?’
‘Not likely. He knew it wouldn’t wash with me. But he did … well, pester a friend of mine. A close friend.’
‘His name, please?’
‘Her name was Sally Jenkins,’ Marcie said flatly.
Hillary nodded. ‘You and she were close? This was around the time that Rowan was killed?’
‘Yes. She was reading jurisprudence at St Ed’s. She was going to go into chambers in Cambridge when she’d graduated. Her family heads a firm of solicitors there – has done for generations.’
‘It was serious between you?’
‘We were going to set up home together in Cambridge,’ Marcie admitted, before her eyes narrowed. ‘It didn’t quite work out that way, as it happens,’ she added tightly.
‘Because of Rowan?’
‘Not exactly. But he certainly didn’t help matters.’
‘He pestered her, you said.’
‘Yes.’
‘How exactly?’ Hillary pressed.
‘Oh, you had to know Rowan to understand that. He found us a challenge, you see. Two lesbians, we were a bit like a red rag to a bull. He wanted to ‘see what it was like’ to bed us. Of course, I gave him a flea in his ear,’ – she showed her teeth again – ‘or rather, to be more accurate, a well-placed knee in the groin. So he turned his attention to Sally. She, alas, was more vulnerable,’ she said with a sigh, looking down at her spread hands.
Hillary noticed that her nails had a distinct lack of varnish on them. Whatever they paid her, Dr Franks, or Ms Franks, didn’t seem inclined to spend her salary on the company products.
‘Vulnerable? In what way?’ Hillary asked, pricking up her ears.
‘She was more conventional. Her family sort-of knew about her leanings, but were hoping she’d grow out of it – like it was some sort of phase she was going through. And Sally wanted to please them, obviously.’ Marcie Franks gave another unconvincing laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong – we were happy together, but I was always aware that she found it much harder to cope with the lifestyle than I did. If anyone ever gave me grief, I simply gave it right back to them in spades,’ Marcie said, her voice as hard as the nails on the posters around them now. ‘But Sally felt each and every slur and took the prejudice personally. It made life for her very difficult and much harder than it needed to be.’
‘She was thin-skinned, in fact?’ Hillary said quietly.
‘Yes. And Rowan didn’t help matters any – always playing on that and trying to undermine her. Sally hadn’t really had a boyfriend before, and Rowan kept promising her that it was better with men, that he’d show her, and all that guff. And of course, Sally wanted to believe it. Like her parents, I think she was half-hoping he might ‘cure’ her.’
Hillary nodded. There wasn’t really any delicate way to ask what she had to ask next, so she simply got it over with.
‘And did she sleep with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marcie admitted frankly. ‘I don’t think she did. But it made things between us tense, as you can imagine. In the end, she couldn’t even visit me at Ma Landau’s without Rowan trying on the charm. So I always had to go to her digs. She had housemates who were very carefully politically correct about our relationship, which in some ways was even more trying than out-and-out gay bashing.’
‘Not a very good environment for romance, then,’ Hillary said drily.
This time, Marcie’s smile was a little more sincere. ‘Let’s just say it wasn’t ideal.’
Now Hillary could make sense of Marcie Franks’s rather overachieving academic career. After graduating from Oxford, she’d gone to Cambridge more as a way to follow her love, than to do another degree – which had probably turned out to be an unnecessary one.
Had it been worthwhile? Or had Sally Jenkins’s parents tried to put a stop to their relationship? Or had Sally herself decided to call it quits?
‘Are you still together?’
‘Hardly. I’ve been living with my partner Jane Dailey for nearly five years now. She’s an interior designer.’
‘It sounds to me like you had a reason for wanting
to see Rowan Thompson dead, Ms Franks. And I know from reading the original notes that you never mentioned any of this to DI Gorman – the inspector in charge of the case at the time.’
‘I wouldn’t have told that insensitive clod anything,’ Marcie Franks shot back defensively, another dull, ugly flush suffusing her face. ‘And I’d hardly call that sufficient grounds for murder, Mrs Greene. Rowan was a nuisance and a pest, but that’s all.’
Hillary let that hang in the air for a moment, then decided to let it pass.
‘What can you remember about the morning Rowan died?’
‘I met Darla on the stairs that morning, and we had a quick word. I think Barry Hargreaves came down and left around the same time. As far as I knew, Rowan was still in bed. He always was a late riser. Both he and Dwayne were lazy sods. I went to my college, did some last-minute work, did a bit of shopping, and was, I think, the last one back at the house. By which point, the police were there. And before you ask, no, I didn’t see anyone suspicious hanging around; no, I never knew of any enemies Rowan might have had, and no, I don’t know who killed him.’
Hillary showed her own teeth. ‘Thank you for your time, Ms Franks. We may need to speak to you again.’
Marcie sighed heavily, but made no comment. Instead, she rose and left them without another word.
When she’d gone, she heard Sam let out a long, low breath. Hillary smiled across at him. ‘All right, Sam?’
‘Guv. I don’t think she looked at me once while she was here,’ he said, more in relief than irritation.
‘I don’t think you count, in Ms Franks’s world, Sam.’
‘You gave her as good as you got, guv,’ Sam said with admiration.
Hillary grunted. She wasn’t so sure about that. In fact, if Ms Franks had called her ‘Mrs Greene’ one more time, Hillary might have taken very voluble exception.
The trouble was, now that she was no longer DI Greene, she was Mrs Greene. And the only thing she could do about that was revert to her maiden name.
Which would make her a Miss.
Abruptly, Hillary gave a short bark of laughter. Sam smiled uncertainly.
‘Well, the ice queen has a motive, guv. No matter what she says,’ Sam said with growing eagerness, ‘I think Rowan Thompson put the kibosh on her relationship with Sally. And no matter what she says, I think she knows the two of them slept together. And she did keep quiet about it at the time.’
‘Oh, she’s a new lead all right,’ Hillary agreed. ‘When we get back, be sure to add your notes to the murder book right away.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘And find me a current address for Sally Jenkins.’
Sam grinned. ‘Yes, guv.’
Once back out on the streets, however, and traipsing back to the multi-storey car park, Hillary wondered why Marcie Franks should have been quite so forthcoming. After all, there hadn’t been any sniff of a motive for her in Gorman’s original investigation. So why had she put herself on the police radar by volunteering so much information now?
For some reason, Hillary was uneasily reminded about gift horses. But did she need to seek out the Greek bearing gifts, or did she need to check out the equine dental equipment?
Dwayne Cox took the train to London and, knowing the city well, had no trouble finding the Cosy Fox café in Camden. Taking a seat and ordering the vegetarian option, he people-watched for a while and flirted half-heartedly with the waitress, until Marcie could join him.
When she arrived, he smiled across the table at her grimly. Wordlessly she drew out her chair and slumped down.
‘You look like something no self-respecting cat would even dream of dragging in,’ he said. ‘For pity’s sake, why don’t you put on some make-up, or get a decent haircut at least?’
‘I don’t doll myself up to flatter the likes of you,’ Marcie shot back with a cool smile. ‘Just like I don’t wear high heels or thongs, or anything else that the male sex would like to see us women neutered with.’
‘Huh?’
‘High heels are bad for the spine. They force women onto their toes, hobbling their movement and damaging their physiology, just for the sake of making it look as if we have longer legs, thus reinforcing the doll-like image you have of us. And as for thongs – please.’
Marcie suddenly grinned ferociously, and Dwayne laughed.
‘Good to see you, Marce. So what’s up?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had the filth in. Just like you said I would. A rather tasty redhead, with a string-bean satellite in tow.’
Dwayne nodded. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing they didn’t already know, or could easily find out.’
‘So why do you want to meet now?’
‘I just thought we should clear the air a bit. Make sure we’re both clear on what’s at stake,’ she said flatly.
Dwayne speared a piece of asparagus and chewed on it thoughtfully.
‘You didn’t wait to order, then?’ Marcie said sardonically and, catching the waitress’s eye, ordered the same vegetarian option and a cup of herbal tea.
‘I thought we’d already decided to lie low for a bit,’ he pointed out. ‘You didn’t need to drag me here just to ram home that message.’
‘Yes. But I know you. You’ve always got an angle. Besides, you like to have your cake and eat it too,’ Marcie said flatly.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, you won’t be happy to have Rowan’s case opened again, and having the police sniffing around will make you doubly nervous. You like to think you’re one of the Wild Bunch, but you like to feel safe, Dwayne. You always have.’
‘Again, meaning?’
‘If you thought you could feed me to the cops to save your own worthless hide, you’d do it in a nano-second. I just want to make sure that you realize that wouldn’t be a good idea, that’s all.’
Dwayne smiled. ‘You worry too much.’ And she knew him so well, damn her. ‘Besides, it’s not as if either one of us has to worry. We didn’t kill Rowan. Right?’ he asked, spearing a sautéed piece of aubergine and looking at her closely.
‘Well I certainly didn’t,’ Marcie agreed coolly. ‘Did you?’
‘Nope.’
Marcie nodded. Just then the waitress brought her dish, and for a few minutes they ate in silence.
‘I did just wonder though,’ Dwayne said at last. ‘That last, er, present I sold to Rowan. You didn’t spice it up a bit too much, did you?’
Marcie smiled grimly. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ And when Dwayne looked at her questioningly, she smiled that wide, humourless smile again. ‘It was a pair of scissors that did for our little Rowan.’
Dwayne nodded. ‘Yes. I know. But what if he was feeling somewhat, shall we say, incapacitated at the time?’
Marcie sighed and sipped her tea. ‘Just what have you been fantasizing about now? Why would I want to help someone else bump off the annoying little sex-maniac? Now, when you do want the next delivery?’
‘Not for a while,’ Dwayne said quickly, suddenly looking alarmed. ‘Not until the police have finished nosing around. I thought all that was settled.’
Marcie suddenly laughed. ‘I know, and I agree. I just wanted to see the look of fear on your face. You really are a spineless little shit, Dwayne.’
Dwayne smelt the acrid scent of sweat seeping out from his armpits and swore softly under his breath. Amused, Marcie continued to eat, then added slyly, ‘But aren’t you worried that all your neurotic little bunnies will desert you when their candyman suddenly loses his sweetness?’
Dwayne grunted. ‘You always were a first-class bitch, Marcie.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ Ms Franks said shortly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day, with Vivienne Tyrell still being ‘too busy’ to accompany her with work on the Thompson case, Hillary collected Jimmy from the HQ and, in a still distinctly floral-scented Puff the Tragic Wagon, headed north, for the outskirts of England’s second biggest city.<
br />
Brum, as the locals called Birmingham, was relatively unfamiliar territory to Hillary, but not to Jimmy Jessop.
‘The missus came from Kingstanding way. We used to take regular trips up see her family when her mum was still alive. And to do some shopping, naturally,’ he drawled.
‘Oh, naturally,’ Hillary agreed, indicating to overtake a trundling lorry containing something that needed a warning diamond panel on the back of it. She gave it a wide berth.
‘Reckon I know my way around the Bull Ring better than most,’ Jimmy continued ruminating. ‘Mind you, it’s been some years now since I was up there. So with the way they’re building on anything that doesn’t move these days, I dare say I won’t recognize a bloody thing,’ he muttered darkly, staring out at the passing scenery.
May was nearly upon them, and although the day was so far overcast, the hedgerows were white with hawthorn blossom and the roadside verges frothy with cow parsley.
‘What can you tell me about Solihull, then?’ she asked. ‘Rowan’s parents still live there, according to the latest updates.’
‘Posh area, or so my missus always said. Although that could mean anything, mind you, from millionaires’ mansions to four-bed semis. My wife’s family made church mice look like Richard Branson, bless ’em, so anything that wasn’t the slums was posh to her.’
Hillary nodded. ‘So long as you can point me in the general direction, I won’t complain,’ she promised.
In the end, the childhood home of Rowan Thompson was relatively easy to find. As they climbed out of the car and looked around, the road reminded Hillary of those to be found around north Oxford. Cherry trees, some still flowering, were the norm, with fair-sized gardens fronting fair-sized houses.
‘Posh enough,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The Thompsons had three children, right?’ she asked, although she didn’t really need reminding. She’d read up on their file before heading home yesterday.
‘Right. One son now lives in Australia, where he manages a sheep farm the size of Wales. The daughter married something well-heeled in publishing,’ Jimmy confirmed.
