A Narrow Margin of Error

by Faith Martin

  ‘I’m impressed you remembered it all.’

  ‘Don’t be, guv. When I dealt out the background checks I handled most of the Thompson family myself.’

  ‘No skeletons in the family closet that you could find?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

  ‘Any sibling rivalry I need to know about?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Rowan was the youngest – he and his sister seemed to get on, and the elder son was older by some years and was mostly grown up and fledged before our vic could have got too many complexes over who Mummy loved best.’

  ‘Do I detect an edge of cynicism in your voice, Jimmy?’ Hillary asked with a grin, as he opened one side of a pair of black wrought-iron gates and let her precede him up a short gravelled driveway.

  ‘Who, me, guv?’

  They were expected of course, since Hillary had made a very discreet phone call to them on being handed the case, setting up this initial interview.

  The door was opened by a woman in her sixties, who was doing everything possible to appear to be a woman in her forties, and mostly succeeding. A very good and no doubt expensive facelift could only just be discerned by the barest of faint pale lines just behind neat ears. The earlobes were adorned with a gold and emerald set of studs. Hair that nature would have rendered silver by now was instead coloured ash-blonde, and shaped in a becoming, rather sixties-style geometric cut, that gave the impression of retro-youth.

  She was dressed in a white trouser suit, with a russet-coloured blouse and chunky, gold jewellery.

  ‘Mrs Thompson?’ Hillary said, and held out her ID.

  Rowan’s mother was roughly Hillary’s own height, but was much leaner, which gave her a rather straight-up-and-down boyish figure that spoke of many hours in a gym, probably with the services of a personal trainer thrown in.

  ‘Yes, Amanda Thompson. Please come in.’ Her voice had the pronounced regional twang that only a life-time native of Birmingham could achieve. ‘Go on straight through – my husband’s waiting in the lounge. He took the day off work – and if you knew how much of a workaholic he is…. Well!’ She shrugged her thin shoulders and led them through to a large, wooden-floored lounge area.

  Hillary had never been a fan of minimalism and to her the white-painted room seemed bare and unwelcoming. But her attention was quickly fixed on the man rising from a black leather chair.

  He looked a much older version of his son Rowan. Not particularly tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and big, wide-open brown eyes. When he smiled and held out his hand, Hillary had an overwhelming sense of the man’s charm.

  ‘John Thompson. How do you do.’ His own accent came from further north somewhere – Newcastle maybe.

  ‘John, this is Hillary Greene and … er … sorry….’ She looked at Jimmy helplessly, who quickly gave his own name and selected a chrome and black leather hard chair that was tucked away against one wall. There he took out his notebook and somehow, in that minimalist expanse, almost managed to disappear. It was quite some feat, and Hillary, at least, could appreciate it for the gift it was.

  ‘Please, sit down, er….’ John Thompson hesitated a moment, her lack of recognizable rank clearly throwing him a little.

  ‘Please, call me Hillary,’ she said quickly. ‘I used to be detective inspector before joining the CRT. But I think it’s easier if we’re all on first name terms. As I told your wife on the phone, I’m in charge of taking another look at your son’s case, so please feel free to call me anytime, or ask me any questions that you want to.’ She wouldn’t necessarily answer them, she added a silent, mental rider, but she’d at least keep them in the loop as much as she could.

  John Thompson nodded and waited until his wife was seated on a matching black leather settee before resuming his own seat.

  ‘Firstly, let me add my condolences on the loss of your son. I know it’s been many years, but I also know that’s totally irrelevant,’ Hillary eased into the interview carefully. ‘I take it you’d like a quick overview of what’s been happening?’ she added.

  Amanda Thompson made a compulsive, jerky movement, but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Hillary could see her chewing on her bottom lip in a nervous habit that she seemed unaware of.

  She kept her focus on John, who nodded briefly. ‘That would be appreciated, yes,’ he agreed simply.

  ‘Well, so far it’s very early days, but I’ve spoken to Rowan’s landlady at the time of your son’s death, as well as all those who shared rooms in the house with him at the time.’

  ‘Inspector Gorman seemed convinced it was one of those living at the address who was responsible for our son’s death,’ John said, the lift in his voice at the end of the sentence making it more of a question than a statement.

  ‘I agree they’re a top priority, but I’m also looking outside that circle as well,’ Hillary said, keeping her comments truthful, but broad enough to not give much away. Although she could understand and respect a victim’s family wanting to be kept up to date, it was not her job to be specific.

  Especially since, for all she knew, Rowan’s killer might be in the room with her right now.

  Although Gorman had found no trace of any member of the Thompson family being in Oxford on the day Rowan died, Mrs Thompson’s non-existent alibi consisted of being home alone while her husband was at work. But John Thompson had worked in an environment where it would have been easy for him to slip away for a few hours unnoticed. So neither of them was ruled out yet, even though Gorman’s initial investigation had shown no major rifts or problems in the Thompson family unit.

  But Hillary, as was every copper, was well aware that statistics showed that most murder victims were killed by family and friends, and just because you couldn’t find a problem in those nearest and dearest to your victim didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

  ‘Your son … Rowan, touched a wide range of people, and the motive for his death might not lay in the house where he was lodging,’ Hillary said, choosing her words carefully.

  John Thompson smiled at her briefly. ‘You needn’t pussyfoot around us,’ he said, casting a quick eye at his still-silent wife. ‘We know that Rowan was what my granny would euphemistically call a bit of a scamp. Especially with the women.’

  Hillary nodded, and shot a quick glance of her own at the dead boy’s mother.

  She was still chewing nervously on her lower lip. Her hands, clenched in her lap, bore many rings – mostly in gold, diamonds, and emeralds. Hillary doubted she found much comfort in all the expensive bling, though.

  Her son might have been dead for more than a decade, but she had the feeling that for Amanda Thompson, time had tended to stand still. Was that what her pursuit of perpetual youth was all about? If she could somehow stop the time from passing, her son might yet still be young and alive as well somewhere? She was no psychologist, but she wouldn’t have bet against it.

  ‘Has anyone approached you during the past years since Rowan’s death?’ she asked gently. ‘Old friends, perhaps, wanting to talk, or asking for a little keepsake? Something that didn’t seem to mean much at the time, but now strikes you as odd?’ she asked quietly.

  She had always had the sense that Rowan’s death had been impetuous and deeply felt. Whatever had motivated the killer had come from the heart and the wellspring of human emotions, not from a cool and calculating mind. And killers of that ilk sometimes obsessed about the act itself, or could simply not let go of the victim. They felt this need to remain close by, seeking out contact with the victim’s family and friends, and often tried to insert themselves into their victim’s now-defunct life.

  But both Amanda and John Thompson were shaking their heads. ‘No. We had the usual sympathy cards, and telephone calls. But no one ever approached us.’

  ‘And the last time you saw Rowan?’

  ‘Our anniversary in October.’ John again answered the question. ‘He came down to spend the weekend. Gave us a silver-engraved ice bucket.’

  ‘We st
ill have it,’ Amanda said, then looked startled at the sound of her own voice.

  ‘Did he appear different in any way? Nervous or pensive? Maybe quieter than usual?’ she pressed.

  ‘Not Rowan,’ John said, with that smile that could charm a snake from its basking rock. ‘He was as full of himself, and of life, as ever.’

  ‘You knew his girlfriend, Darla?’

  ‘She was only the latest in a long line, I’m afraid,’ John said. ‘Rowan mentioned she liked making clothes, and she was going to make him some sort of outfit for Christmas. He thought it was funny – he said he’d probably look like a bad Adam Ant wannabe, but he’d wear whatever it was, if only for a laugh.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to be cruel,’ Amanda Thompson said, with anger in her voice, and her husband shot her a worried look.

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that he was, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But we both know he didn’t always think before he spoke. Or acted.’

  Hillary thought that both of the Thompsons probably understood all their children better than most. But in the end, what good had it done either of them?

  ‘So, as far as you know, Rowan was acting and feeling as normal the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yes. We told all this to Inspector Gorman,’ John Thompson said.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry if it seems to you that we’re just going over the same old ground,’ Hillary apologized. ‘Did your other son or daughter visit Rowan at Oxford at all?’

  ‘No. Rex was already in Australia by then, and Therese was always too caught up in trying to be a fashion model to ever leave London. Luckily, she grew out of that after a couple of years of catalogue work,’ John said with a wry smile.

  ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ Hillary asked simply, hoping there wasn’t.

  ‘Will you get them?’ Amanda Thompson said abruptly, her voice hard and sharp. And Hillary noticed a small red splash of colour on her bottom lip that owed nothing to lipstick.

  Amanda Thompson had drawn blood. Her own.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can, Mrs Thompson,’ Hillary said.

  And meant it.

  Outside, Jimmy Jessop stretched shoulders that felt tight with tension and let out a long, heartfelt breath.

  Hillary knew how he felt.

  ‘All the years I’ve worked, it’s always the families that get to you,’ he said. ‘I thought working cold cases might mean that the years in between would make it easier. For them, and for me. But it doesn’t work that way,’ he said, somewhat ungrammatically, but Hillary knew instantly what he meant.

  ‘Think she drinks?’ Hillary asked abruptly. She felt no need to elaborate, and sure enough, Jimmy’s response was almost immediate.

  ‘The hubby thinks so. Did you clock the way he kept an eye on her?’

  Hillary sighed, and walked back to her ancient but obliging car. They drove back to Oxford in silence.

  It was nearing lunchtime, so Hillary dropped Jimmy outside the Black Bull for a pie and a pint, before driving the few hundred yards back to HQ. After talking to the Thompsons she herself had no appetite.

  She walked with her head down and a thoughtful frown on her face, and jogged down the wide concrete steps into the basement where the CRT hung its hat, her mind still on Rowan Thompson.

  Just what had he done to earn him that pair of scissors in his gut? Was it really a case of one sexual conquest too far? Or one outrageous stunt that someone, somewhere, had been unable to forgive? It seemed, on the face of it, to be the most likely explanation. The drugs angle was too tenuous, and there certainly couldn’t be any monetary motive. Although his parents had plenty, he himself had been a debt-ridden student. And yet…. The jealous boyfriend or the disgruntled sexual partner just didn’t ring true to her for some reason. There was nothing she could put her finger on, and she certainly wouldn’t voice the thought out loud to anybody else on her team without something solid to back it up with. But she knew from experience that, a mere hunch or not, it didn’t pay to ignore her instincts. But it was hard to pin down exactly where the problem lay.

  The whole thing just wasn’t … meaty enough. To stick a pair of scissors into someone, face to face … that spoke of something … desperate. Something big. A spat due to boy-girl, or boy-boy, or boy-twosomes just didn’t seem to have enough weight behind it to make sense.

  And yet what else was there?

  She walked into her stationery cupboard, determined once more to read through every scrap of paper in the Thompson case in search of a sniff of anything more substantial than mere sexual peccadillo, and found instead a wooden cross lying on her desk.

  She froze momentarily in the doorway, and then glanced behind her. Which was absurd, of course. The basement was a rabbit warren of corridors and little offices. And whoever had left her latest ‘gift’ was long gone.

  Cautiously, wearily, she tossed her handbag into the space under her kneehole desk and walked forward.

  The cross wasn’t big – about twelve inches tall by five or six inches across, and was evidently hand-carved from some sort of native wood. She was no expert, but it could have been ash. Or hazel, maybe. No doubt there’d be an expert somewhere who could tell her what it was, and maybe even the area where it had been cut from. Although what good that would do her, she wasn’t sure.

  The bottom of the cross had been whittled into a sharp stake – like someone out to give a vampire a bad time.

  She reached into the pocket of her jacket and drew out a pair of thin latex gloves. It was an old habit, carrying them around with her, since her work at the CRT made them largely unnecessary now.

  But she was glad of them as she picked up the cross and inspected it closely. In the crossbar section, on the horizontal bar that joined the vertical shaft, a hot poker had been used to carve the letters JOY.

  Hillary slowly sat down and stared at the cross thoughtfully.

  This, she could see at once, was different.

  No more roses.

  Or chocolates.

  Or Valentine cards.

  Or text messages.

  This felt like the next level to a very different game.

  Briefly, she wondered if the cross could have been left by anyone other than her stalker, but quickly dismissed it. Likewise, it could have no bearing on the Thompson case.

  No. This was him.

  So. What exactly was this wooden cross supposed to tell her? This cross with a lethal spike on the end?

  Well, the cross was symbolically a religious symbol, of course, but she didn’t think her stalker was a man of God. Or interested in His edicts.

  The cross was a symbol of death too. Wooden crosses marked graves.

  And the word JOY.

  The death of joy?

  Was her charade with Steven Crayle paying off? Had her stalker finally heard the rumours about her and Steven? Perhaps seen them together? Was this meant to tell her that she had killed his joy by being unfaithful?

  Maybe. A bit tenuous, though?

  Gingerly, through the rubber of the thin glove, she touched one finger to the tip. It was sharp. Very sharp.

  The cross obviously represented a lethal weapon. A killing weapon.

  Kill joy.

  She was being a killjoy perhaps? Hillary had to laugh a little at that. So her stalker had a sense of irony, maybe.

  Then she felt a cold hand suddenly grip the back of her neck, making her swallow hard. Or maybe it meant something else entirely.

  She got up on legs that felt just a little bit rubbery themselves, and reached into the lower left-hand drawer for an evidence bag, and dropped the cross inside. Not that she expected to get any fingerprints from it, of course. She doubted the wood would take them well, even if her stalker had been so stupid as to forget to wear gloves himself when handling it.

  Locking it in the bottom drawer of her desk, she then walked down to the main computer room.

  Sergeant Handley saw her first, and raised an eyebrow. He knew Hillary as Steven Crayle’s
chief investigator, and as such, she rarely put an appearance in with the statisticians and the number crunchers.

  ‘Hillary,’ he said curiously, as she approached his desk.

  ‘Sarge,’ she said briskly. ‘Can you do me a favour when you’ve got time? Can you ask your babies’ – she indicated the busily working computers all around her – ‘to cough up the name of any woman with the first name of Joy who reported having picked up a stalker within the last ten years? Or any woman with the same first name who was reported missing, or has come up dead in suspicious circumstances, again in the last ten years?’

  ‘This for Superintendent Crayle?’ Handley asked sharply.

  Hillary smiled briefly. ‘Of course.’ She could lie with the best of them. The truth was, she wasn’t going to take this to Steven until she had to. Especially since she might be on the wrong track entirely.

  No woman liked to look stupid in front of her boss. Especially one who was making her libidinous hormones jump through hoops.

  ‘OK. It shouldn’t take too long,’ Handley agreed, losing interest. ‘Luckily Joy’s not a very common first name.’

  Hillary thanked him and left.

  Natasha Hargreaves worked for a large PR firm in the Smoke, but luck was for once on their side. When Hillary telephoned her work number, she was informed by a very helpful assistant that Miss Hargreaves was actually in Henley-on-Thames for the day. She was there, apparently, checking out a venue for an advertising campaign for an unpopular politician, who was trying again to be flavour of the month.

  The very helpful young lady then gave her directions to a large country club on the river Thames, which made Sam’s eyes widen as they pulled up to the entrance to the car park.

  The country club had once obviously been a large house for a Victorian gentleman and his very extended family. It had gables and turrets, dormer and round windows, bits here and bobs there, even a bit of gingerbread trim. It should have looked like something of an architectural dog’s dinner, but, in that magical way that some buildings have, managed to look quirky and charming instead.

  In the car-park, there were an awful lot of Mercedes, and Jaguars and others of their ilk. Hillary hoped the unpopular politician wasn’t hoping to reach out to the ‘common’ man by having a photo opportunity here.