by Faith Martin
The country club had its own golf course (of course), plus tennis courts and the usual array of spa extras. And being in Henley, it naturally had a flotilla of boats at the bottom of a perfectly manicured lawn. Not to mention some expensive and nifty little water craft for those who liked to mess about on the water in style and comfort.
‘Very nice,’ Hillary said sardonically, as Sam parked in a space with a Ferrari on the left and a BMW convertible on the right. His sporty little Mini somehow managed to look jaunty and undaunted by the foreign competition. ‘I wonder what they’d do if I chugged my narrowboat up here and moored on their jetty?’
Sam grinned, somewhat nervously, since he wasn’t actually sure if she was joking or not.
They found Natasha Hargreaves by the simple expedient of asking the first person they saw wearing the acorn and crown motif of the country club on the navy-blue T-shirt of their uniform. He was twenty-something, looked as if he’d been carved from oak, and was already sun-browned. And if the muscles in his upper torso were anything to go by he would probably be rowing for his country in the next Olympics.
‘Oh, the PR people – they’re all in the bar,’ he grinned. ‘Go around the side there, past the big conservatory and take the next door in. The hospitality suite is right in front of you.’
They thanked him and followed his instructions. Inside, Hillary had no difficulty in pinpointing the regulars, who were mostly scattered about in armchairs, dressed in tennis whites and quaffing gin and tonics. Over by the bar area, however, were a small gaggle of business-suited men and women who seemed to be hanging onto the words of a white-haired man with the red-veined nose of a serious drinker.
‘I’ve seen him somewhere before, guv,’ Sam said uncertainly.
Hillary smiled. ‘Nice to see our student body is still socially aware enough to recognize an MP when it sees one, Sam,’ she said. ‘Let’s not go in mob-handed. Natasha’s working, and it won’t put her in a good mood for talking to us if we go in flashing our Old Bill IDs and making her boss wonder what’s up.’
As she was speaking, Hillary was taking one of her cards from her bag, and wrote a few brief words on it and it handed it over to Sam.
‘See the tall brunette, beside the bald-headed bloke? Unless I miss my guess, that must be her. The other two women with them are too old. Hand her this and then go to the bar and stand me a pint. Since you’re driving, you can stick to orange juice.’
‘Thanks, guv,’ Sam said, with a grin of his own. Hillary nodded. It was nice to see the youngster was starting to relax a little more around her now.
She looked around, saw a quiet spot in one corner, and went over to it slowly and sat down. As she looked up, she was just in time to see Natasha glance down and read with a puzzled frown the short message on the card that Sam had just handed to her.
She looked around the room and saw Hillary half-raise her hand in acknowledgement, then she whispered something to the bald-headed man beside her and walked over.
As she did so, Sam came up beside her, two glasses in his hands, and followed her to the table.
‘Miss Hargreaves?’ Hillary showed her ID. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I still have one untouched somewhere. Police? Are you the same people who spoke to Dad? He said you were looking into Rowan’s case again.’
Natasha was one of those tall, willowy women with long hair and oval faces who looked like they should be modelling for a pre-Raphaelite painting. She was wearing a short, dark-blue skirt and matching tightly fitted jacket with a discreet red pin-stripe, and a plain white blouse. She wore black tights and a neat black shoe with a modest heel.
She sat down in a single folding movement that kept her knees together and left her posture almost as rigid as that of a Victorian lady in tight corsets.
‘Yes. Your father was very helpful,’ Hillary acknowledged. ‘I just have a few follow-up questions for you. I won’t be long, I know you’re working.’
Natasha cast a quick look over at the bar and gave a brief smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m pretty low in the pecking order for this account. I’m only along to make up the numbers.’
And provide eye candy, Hillary thought cynically and silently.
‘So, what on earth can I do for you?’ Natasha asked brightly. ‘I can barely remember Rowan.’
Hillary sipped at her pint and nodded. Somehow she doubted the veracity of that statement.
‘You and your twin sister used to regularly visit your dad in Oxford, back when he was getting his degree, or so he told us?’
‘Yes, that’s right. But me and Rommy spent most of our time in town though, shopping or hanging out at a burger place we liked.’
‘But you went to the house in Kebler Road from time to time. To your father’s room there?’
‘Oh sure.’ Natasha began to fidget with her watch, a small discreet affair with a black leather band.
‘And you met Rowan?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old were you at the time?’
‘We were both fifteen. We were sixteen and a half when Dad got his degree. He was so proud of himself. Of course, it had a good effect on us, really, because both Rommy and me went on to uni ourselves. Until then, neither of us had really thought about it.’
Hillary smiled. ‘From what I’ve been learning about Rowan, he must have made quite an impact on a fifteen-year-old girl. From his photographs, you could tell he was a good-looking boy.’
‘Sure, if you like that sort of thing. I prefer the David Tennant type myself,’ she smiled widely. ‘You know – tall, dark and dishy. But Rommy liked the blond cheeky-little-boy type more.’
Hillary nodded. ‘So he flirted with her, did he?’
‘Oh, all the time. But we never took him seriously. Even at that age, we knew he was just being over-the-top with us. You know, kissing our hands, putting on a funny French accent, playing the clown. He did that sort of thing really well, but it wasn’t anything serious.’
Again Hillary took another sip from her glass. ‘Did you know that Inspector Gorman – he was the officer in charge of the original murder case – discovered a rumour going around that Rowan had slept with a pair of young identical twins? A deux, as it were.’
Natasha Hargreaves’s classically beautiful face wrinkled up in a brief flash of disgust. ‘Ugh! That sounds so tacky, doesn’t it? But what can I say?’ She spread her well-manicured hands in a graphic gesture. Her nails, Hillary noticed, were coated in clear varnish. ‘It wasn’t us. But it was just the sort of thing Rowan would probably make up and boast about, if you ask me. Probably more as a lark than anything else.’
‘So you never slept with him yourself?’
‘Good grief, no.’
‘What about your sister?’
Natasha opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Instead a thoughtful look settled down between her dark, plucked brows. ‘You know, I was going to say “no way” without even thinking about it, but I can’t really be sure, can I? Even though we’re identical in looks, we definitely don’t think the same – we never have. Rommy may have slept with him. She was always more adventurous than I was. And I have to admit, she grew up faster than I did, in many ways. So she might have done. But I still rather doubt it.’
Natasha opened her eyes wide in a ‘see-how-painfully-honest-I’m-being-with-you’ look.
Hillary smiled her appreciation. And ploughed on. ‘How did your father react to Rowan flirting with you?’
Natasha smiled and again waved her expressive hands in the air. ‘Oh, you have to know Dad. He didn’t really like it, but he didn’t go all Raging Bull about it. He warned us both what Rowan was like, said how much he trusted us girls to be sensible, and then made damned sure that whenever we came to the house we were never left alone with him. Rommy thought it was hysterically funny the way Dad guarded us.’
‘And how did Rowan react to this?’
‘Oh, he played it up to the hilt. Made out he was this big bad-wolf Lo
thario who would have to go to outrageous lengths to circumnavigate the ever-observant Victorian-attitude father. You know, in clever Oxford academic-speak. It was all very gratifying and ego-massaging for a fifteen-year-old.’
‘But it didn’t go to your head?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘He never got you into bed?’
‘Oh, no.’
Hillary nodded and sipped some more of her pint. ‘Did you ever hear him admit to being afraid of anyone?’
‘Rowan? Definitely not. He was fearless.’
Hillary sighed. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Hargreaves. And sorry to have had to take you away from your work.’
‘Oh think nothing of it. I doubt Geoffrey’s even aware I’ve been gone,’ Natasha said with a small laugh, and with another graceful unfolding, stood up in one lithe movement, turned, and walked away.
Sam finished his orange juice rapidly as Hillary drank up. Outside, the clouds were finally beginning to roll away, and a cheerful blackbird sang loudly from one of the old cedar trees lining the gravel drive.
‘So what do you think of her story, Sam?’ Hillary asked, as they made their way back to the little Mini.
‘A beautiful girl, guv. Way out of my league, mind,’ he added ruefully. ‘Her sort wouldn’t give the likes of me a second look. What do you think?’ he asked curiously.
Hillary Greene smiled wisely. ‘I think that woman wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the backside,’ she said simply.
When she got back to HQ, a note was waiting on her desk from Sergeant Handley. It was short and to the point.
No woman named Joy reported missing in the last ten years.
No woman named Joy dead in suspicious circumstances, ditto.
No woman named Joy reported a stalker, ditto.
Hillary leaned back in her desk and let out a long slow breath. She hadn’t realized, until then, just how very tense she’d been.
Ah well.
She rose, stretched, and reached for the pile of paperwork on her desk.
Time to re-read every scrap of paper once again in the Thompson case. With a sigh for the eyestrain that would inevitably follow, Hillary opened the first file.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jimmy glanced at his watch, and saw that there was still a good two hours left until clocking-off time. He knew that Hillary was closeted in her office re-reading every scrap of paper on the case, but he was so tired of doing his own paperwork that he checked his to-do list in an effort to find something better.
So far, he’d ticked off several items, and had currently reached the entry marked ‘The Freeling Brothers – check circs.’ Of course – these were the two brothers who’d competed for and slept with their victim. He grinned, remembering Hillary’s advice to take Vivienne Tyrell with him for protection when he went to talk to them. As if anybody, a pair of gay brothers or anyone else, would look twice at him, let alone make so much as a pass!
But it would be good experience for Sam.
‘Doing anything, youngster?’ Jimmy asked, standing up and reaching for his coat.
Sam looked up from the laptop in front of him, his eyes sharpening with interest when he saw that the older man was getting ready to go out. Although he loved working for the CRT, and was definitely going to join the police as soon as he could after getting his degree, like nearly everyone else he preferred to be out and about and away from the office. Doing actual police work, instead of babysitting computer programs and staying on top of the seemingly never-ending stream of boring office routine was what he’d actually signed up for.
Not that he was complaining or anything. He might still be as green as a cabbage and wet behind the ears, as nearly everyone he ran across at HQ often told him, but even he could appreciate that having Hillary Greene for a boss was like winning the jackpot.
Superintendent Crayle made a good commander, of course, but for on-the-spot training he knew that he’d learned more about the job in the few weeks since Hillary Greene had joined the team, than he had in all the months that had gone before.
Jimmy, too, knew his stuff, of course.
‘Where we going, Sarge?’ he asked eagerly, as he followed the old man up the stairs and into the light of the afternoon. He often felt like a mole emerging into unfamiliar daylight after a few too many hours down in the basement.
‘We’re going to see a pair of gay brothers about an orgy,’ Jimmy said, deadpan.
‘Oh,’ Sam said. Was the sarge joking?
No, he realized, some half an hour later, as they walked into a bicycle shop in the suburb of Botley, the sarge hadn’t been joking.
He’d read the murder book every day, of course, and the sign outside the shop telling tourists and students alike that bicycles could be hired by the month had triggered his memory.
‘These are the two that Rowan Thompson slept with, right?’ he asked, as Jimmy pushed open the door of the shop and they both heard the old-fashioned bell ring overhead.
‘Right. By the name of Mark and Jeff,’ Jimmy said, without having to refer to his notes.
Inside, a range of racing bicycles lined the walls, amid some rather more mundane machines. A few of them even hung suspended from wall brackets. There were even some really old models in the shop window. One old bone-shaker, Jimmy was sure, was a dead ringer for the first grown-up bike his Dad had bought him, back in the late fifties.
‘I can see you’re a man of taste,’ a voice said behind him, and Jimmy quickly turned. The man in front of him looked to be a very well-preserved fifty-something, with dyed black hair, big blue eyes that looked disconcertingly wide-eyed and innocent, and a slim build. His eyes kept straying from Jimmy to Sam, who was shifting a shade uncomfortably from foot to foot and beginning to go a dull red.
‘Mr Freeling?’
‘Yes, I’m Mark Freeling. Let me guess – you used to have a bike like that one when you were a young stripling,’ he said, indicating the red-painted model that Jimmy had been eyeing up.
Jimmy smiled. ‘A real bone-shaker, yes. I’m surprised you still deal in them now,’ he said, looking at another, even older, black-painted relic, complete with what looked like its original wicker basket fastened in front on the handlebars.
‘Oh, those are mainly for the dons who like to play the part,’ Mark Freeling said, rolling his big blue eyes in mock-despair. ‘What can you do? They like to play up to the tourists, and cycling around in full regalia on a machine you or I wouldn’t be seen dead riding is part of the thrill for the old dears.’
Jimmy pulled out his ID, and although the blue eyes flickered slightly, Mark Freeling didn’t look particularly put out to find a member of the constabulary in his establishment, even a retired, civilian version of the same, as Jimmy’s ID clearly indicated.
‘Is your brother Jeffrey here, sir?’ Jimmy asked. ‘It would just save me some time and some leg work if I could have a little chat with both of you together.’
‘Oh yes, he’s around somewhere. Just a mo. Jeff! JEFF!’ he yelled, making Sam jump nervously.
The two customers in the shop, two young lads who were arguing over the best mountain bike, momentarily paused in their bickering. But they only gave the shop owner a mild look of annoyance before getting back to discussing which was, and definitely wasn’t, the best time to change gear when going down Mount Snowdon in a blizzard.
A moment later, a younger version of Mark Freeling emerged from a door at the rear, where, no doubt, they kept their office. He was slightly taller than his brother, slightly leaner, slightly better-looking and appeared to be a good decade younger.
He could well believe that the Freeling brothers regularly competed and argued over everything. Including a prize like Rowan Thompson.
‘What are you shrieking about?’ Jeff Freeling asked in a disgruntled voice that didn’t seem to match the speculative look in his eyes as they went from Jimmy, and then fastened speculatively on the tall, tender redheaded youngster behind.
‘Hello there,’ Jef
f said, clearly addressing Sam.
Sam went a brighter shade of red.
‘I saw him first,’ Mark said, purely out of habit, Jimmy was sure, because he then went on with barely a breath, ‘These two gentlemen are with the police. We haven’t been doing anything naughty recently, have we?’ And he shot his brother a fulminating look.
‘No, we haven’t,’ Jeff shot back. ‘We check the stolen bikes register regularly, and record all serial numbers religiously.’
Sam knew that bicycle theft in Oxford was something of an epidemic, and said shortly, ‘This isn’t about stolen property, sir. We’re working on a murder inquiry.’
He’d always wanted to say something like that, but the moment he’d done so, he instantly wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. He gave Jimmy a quick, anxious look, but the older man didn’t seem that put out.
The Freeling brothers, on the other hand, started to twitter like a pair of disturbed starlings. Quickly they ushered the two of them back into the office, and ordered a morose, middle-aged woman who was working on a computer to go and mind the shop.
She went with a huge, put-upon sigh.
‘Who’s been murdered? Was it a gay bashing?’ Mark asked at once. ‘Oh, can I get you a coffee or anything?’
‘No, thank you. We work for the Crime Review Team. We’re taking another look at the Rowan Thompson case, sir,’ Jimmy explained patiently.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, why didn’t you say!’ Jeff said. ‘Please, take a seat. Poor Rowan.’
There was a general bustle as all four men found various seats in the small office. Mark sighed heavily. ‘He was a wonderful boy, Rowan. A bit of a bastard, mind you, but lovely.’
‘How was he a bastard, sir?’ Jimmy asked, glancing at Sam to make sure that he was taking notes.
He was.
‘Oh well, you had to know Rowan to know that,’ Jeff said, and then said, ‘What?’ as his older sibling snorted at him.
