A Narrow Margin of Error

by Faith Martin

  ‘Well, they didn’t know him, did they?’ Mark said scornfully. ‘That’s why they’re asking. Let me tell you, Rowan was something of a sexual gymnast, Officer. He could not only bend and cavort his own body, but he could twist and manipulate anyone around him. Young, old, male, female, one at a time, two at a go or even a group – he was up for it. He was really quite spectacular, wasn’t he, Jeff?’

  Sam, busily scribbling, went even redder.

  Jimmy pretended not to notice.

  ‘We have witnesses who claim that he, er, mucked you and your brother about. Is that true?’ he asked, his eyes on Mark.

  ‘Oh, he had us jumping through hoops like trained poodles, didn’t he, Jeff? I tell you, sometimes I thought I’d wandered into Crufts by mistake. I’m only surprised he didn’t make us go ‘woof’ and sit up and beg.’

  Jimmy did his best not to grin. ‘I see. It must have created bad feeling at the time?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, no. Well, sort of yes and no,’ Mark said, and this time it was his younger brother who snorted in scorn.

  ‘Now who’s the one not making sense?’ he drawled. ‘See, Officer, it was like this. Rowan came in one glorious afternoon to hire a bike for the term. I served him first, and we got chatting, and I knew that I was on to a winner straight away, let me tell you. Anyway, we go out for drinks, but nothing doing. Sort-of blowing hot and cold, like he couldn’t make up his mind. Well, all right, I thought, I don’t mind a bit of teasing. But when he comes back to the shop the next day to collect his bike, someone’ – here the younger man shot daggers at his older brother – ‘tried to muscle in. Well, this confused poor Rowan. Or so I thought.’

  Mark snorted inelegantly. ‘Of course, he knew just what he was doing, playing us off against one another.’

  ‘Anyway, in the end, just when we thought neither one of us was going to bag him,’ Jeff said, and took a breath, ‘he just ups and says that he can’t choose between us, so he’ll take us both!’ Mark put in, and then laughed. ‘And that was Rowan.’

  Sam scribbled furiously and went a very interesting shade of cerise, Jimmy thought.

  ‘I see. And this happened …?’ he probed delicately.

  ‘Oh, just the once,’ Mark said, with obvious bitter regret.

  ‘More’s the pity,’ his brother chipped in. ‘It was lovely.’

  ‘This must have made you angry?’ Jimmy said curiously.

  ‘Oh, as hornets,’ Jeff agreed at once.

  ‘JEFF!’ his brother shrieked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you see, the man thinks we killed him? And you go around saying we were mad at him.’

  Jeff turned his big blue eyes Jimmy’s way. ‘Oh, but we didn’t kill Rowan,’ he said. ‘Why on earth would we do that?’

  ‘Perhaps you wanted him back? You went to his house to ask him to come back to you – er, either one of you. Or both,’ Jimmy said, floundering suddenly.

  ‘Oh, no, we wouldn’t do that,’ Mark said. ‘We made the frat oath, see.’

  Jeff nodded seriously.

  ‘Frat oath?’ Jimmy repeated blankly. Somehow, this interview was beginning to get away from him.

  ‘Yes. Ever since we were kids, we’ve always fought like cat and dog,’ Mark explained. ‘Mostly we enjoyed it really, and it didn’t mean much. I mean, it never really hurt, or was meant to hurt, you see. But sometimes, it could get out of hand, and then it wasn’t fun anymore, so whenever we realized things were getting too heavy for one of us, we’d agree to settle our differences with a fraternal oath. If I was going insane because he would keep using my favourite razor, for instance, I’d scream at him, “Frat-oath. No more.” And he’d know I was serious, and not use the razor again.’

  ‘I see,’ Jimmy said faintly.

  ‘So when we both got all hot and bothered about Rowan, and very nearly went bald pulling each other’s hair out, we both did the frat-oath thing and promised not to see him again,’ Jeff said. ‘Either one of us. On pain of death.’

  Both brothers turned their big baby blues Jimmy’s way. ‘So you see,’ Mark said.

  ‘We never went near Rowan after that,’ Jeff said.

  ‘So it couldn’t have been one of us,’ Mark said.

  ‘You see?’ Jeff said.

  Jimmy took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I think that’ll be all for now.’

  Sam slapped his notebook shut at the speed of light and shot to his feet. Jimmy, wisely not wanting to be stampeded, stood well to one side and let the youngster leave first.

  Once outside, Sam stood by the car, watching Jimmy approach. He had, Jimmy was glad to note, turned back to a paler pink colour.

  ‘Bloody hell, Sarge, were they having us on or what?’ he asked indignantly.

  Jimmy had to grin. ‘I’m not sure, son. But I’m telling you this, if the guv wants that precious pair reinterviewed, she can do it herself.’

  Hillary’s next interview, however, was already set up with Romola Perkins, formerly Hargreaves. She had relocated to Bristol, and for once, Vivienne had been in the office, and had been happy enough to get out of town for what remained of the rest of the day. She was less than happy to have to take Hillary’s car, however, and even less than happy not to be allowed to drive.

  Romola had gone into the acting profession, according to her updated background check, but this consisted more of am-dram than RADA. Now comfortably married to an advertising executive, she lived in a nice little detached place in Clifton, with a quite spectacular view of the famous bridge.

  Vivienne navigated with surprising accuracy, and they made good time in the light-early-afternoon traffic.

  When they arrived, Vivienne got out and looked around with the bright enquiring eye of a blackbird spotting a worm. She was dressed in black leggings, with a leopard-print top, and carried a knock-off black leather bag that was pretending to be Prada.

  ‘This isn’t too bad,’ Vivienne said, then added with searing scorn ‘for suburbia.’

  Hillary nodded. It wasn’t bad at all. Mr Perkins, she thought, must be seriously high-up on the pecking order in the advertising firm.

  ‘I called ahead, so she should be in,’ Hillary said, walking up a set of garden steps towards the house, which, like its neighbours, had been built on a ferocious angle on a steep hill. Cleverly terraced gardens frothed with spring colour, and the dull roar of the perpetual traffic in the city spread out below and beyond was almost drowned out by the drone of buzzing insects.

  Hillary paused by one prominent flower bed nearest the steps, where a small information placard had been set up, for the edification of the Perkins family visitors.

  THIS FLOWER BED HAS BEEN PLANTED WITH NATIVE PLANTS, RICH IN NECTAR AND POLLEN TO HELP FEED AND PRESERVE OUR BEES AND OTHER POLLINATING INSECTS. PLEASE PLANT BIODIVERSELY.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Quite right too,’ she said.

  Vivienne merely read it and snorted.

  Hillary sighed. If the fate of Britain’s wildlife rested solely with people like her young assistant, the entire human race might just as well book its own funeral now, she mused.

  ‘So who is this again?’ Vivienne hissed, as Hillary rang the doorbell.

  ‘One of Barry Hargreaves’s twin daughters, alleged to have had an inappropriate sexual relationship at the age of fifteen, with the murder victim, Rowan Thompson,’ Hillary intoned patiently. ‘Have you read the murder book lately?’ She turned, caught Vivienne’s pansy-brown eyes, sighed, and said, ‘Have you read the murder book at all?’

  Vivienne was saved from having to answer that by the opening of the door. ‘Hello? You’re the people from Thames Valley Police?’

  Romola Perkins was indeed the identical twin of Natasha. Here was the same long dark hair, the same Pre-Raphaelite, beautiful oval face and tall, erect figure. But Romola’s make-up was far more slick and professional, her clothes much more colourful and expensive. She wore not only a wedding ring but diamonds on her fingers and in her ears. She was also just a littl
e bit more curvaceous – probably as a result of having borne two children. She did indeed seem far more grown-up and mature than her twin, who had seemed to Hillary to be only playing at being a businesswoman.

  ‘Yes. I’m Hillary Greene, an ex-detective inspector from Thames Valley, and this is Vivienne Tyrell.’ She showed her ID, but Romola Perkins was already turning away, and ushering them through.

  Inside, there was not a hint of neutral beige or safe pastels. Instead, everywhere Hillary looked she could see the mark of an up-to-the-minute designer, from the big bold pieces of bright pottery that passed as sculpture set on their own plinths, to the double-backed butterfly rattan chairs in the conservatory, to the seriously Scandinavian furniture and African rugs.

  Romola showed them into a large open-plan living area where one entire wall was glass. The view it gave of the Clifton Suspension Bridge made it look almost unreal – as if they’d walked onto a film set, and the view was actually a video stills shot lit up on a white sheet.

  ‘Wow,’ Vivienne whispered softly and approvingly beside her. ‘Now this is the way to live.’

  ‘Tea or coffee? Or would you rather have mineral water?’ Romola asked, looking from Hillary to Vivienne and back again. ‘Please, have a seat.’ She indicated a nest of white leather chairs, created around a conversation circle that consisted of a weirdly shaped, sci-fi-looking white plastic coffee table and an orchid.

  ‘Not for us, thank you, Mrs Perkins.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Rommy. Everyone does.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘You’ve spoken to your sister Natasha?’ she asked, feeling her way in carefully. She was not sure, yet, how close the twins were. Or weren’t.

  ‘Yes, she phoned almost right after you’d spoken to her.’

  Well, that answered that, Hillary mused. ‘You’re close, then?’ she confirmed.

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, sort of. I mean, we live a fair way apart, so we don’t see each other as often as we would like. But that’s what webcam is for, isn’t it? She tells me you caught up with her when she was on a job at Henley?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hillary said. ‘I hope her boss didn’t mind. She didn’t seem that worried about it, but maybe she was just being polite.’

  ‘Oh, no, it was fine,’ Romola said vaguely, and crossed her legs elegantly. ‘So, Rowan’s case is being looked at again, is it? I’m glad. It’s always rankled that nobody was ever brought to book for what happened to him.’

  ‘You were fond of him, then?’

  ‘Of course I was. We all were – Dad, Tasha and me.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘If you’ve spoken to your sister, then you already know most of what I’m about to ask you.’

  Romola nodded gravely and seemed to straighten her shoulders. Hillary wondered if she was practising her acting now. ‘Yes. I think so,’ she said simply.

  ‘The original senior investigating officer uncovered a rumour, shall we say, that Rowan had claimed to have slept with a pair of underage identical twins,’ Hillary kept her voice flat and even. Beside her she could see Vivienne glance curiously at the other woman, no doubt interested to see how she was reacting to this opening gambit. ‘Your sister Natasha claimed that it couldn’t have been you or herself. Is that true?’

  Romola smiled a shade grimly. ‘Partly.’

  ‘Care to explain that?’

  Romola sighed. ‘Well, I did sleep with Rowan – a few times, actually. But Tasha didn’t.’

  Hillary let that sit for a minute, whilst Vivienne made a note in her notebook.

  At least the girl was making the effort to record the interview, Hillary thought, supposing she should be grateful for that at least. Even so, she’d rely on her own memory as well. She had a feeling that Vivienne’s notes might be rather too edited to be of any real use.

  ‘How old were you at the time?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly sixteen.’

  ‘So legally, he was committing statutory rape?’ Hillary pointed out.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Romola shrugged one elegant shoulder graphically. ‘ I’m not a lawyer.’

  ‘Did it seem to worry him?’ Hillary asked curiously.

  Romola laughed. ‘Not him.’

  ‘Did your father know about this?’

  ‘Good lord, no. I didn’t tell Daddy.’

  ‘How about your sister?’ Hillary pressed.

  ‘She might have guessed.’

  ‘Would she have been jealous?’

  Romola thought about the question for a moment, then sighed. ‘Maybe. Tasha could be a bit jealous of me at times.’

  Hillary nodded. Then leaned forward a little in her chair. ‘Mrs Perkins, I don’t think you’re being perfectly honest with me,’ she said softly.

  The other woman stiffened, but remained silent.

  Hillary slowly leant back again in her chair. ‘I think that Rowan did, in fact, sleep with both you and your twin sister. Whether separately, that is, on separate occasions or in a threesome, I’m not quite sure. Or perhaps he did both. You see’ – Hillary glanced casually around the stunning room – ‘from what I’ve been learning about Rowan, he wouldn’t have been able to resist you. Not only were you his house-mate’s daughters, you were twins, and not only twins, but identical twins. Add in the fact that you were beautiful and underage – well, the challenge to his sexuality would have been irresistible for him.’

  Romola sighed slowly. ‘Natasha, working for a PR firm, is very wary about garnering any bad publicity to herself, as you might expect,’ she said, changing the subject slightly. But Hillary followed the reasons for it effortlessly.

  ‘Yes,’ Hillary agreed, ‘I can see how she might be.’

  ‘She’s seen too many people, and not just celebrities, get torn apart by a media frenzy to ever risk putting herself in the position where she herself might be fodder for the press. So, even if she had slept with Rowan, even if we both had slept with him, she’d never admit it, because if you catch his killer, and it comes to court, the chances are it will all come out.’

  Hillary met the other woman’s steady gaze and nodded, letting her know that she was following the unwritten subtext. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘And, of course, even if what you said is true, I would never admit it either, because I have a very happy marriage, and wouldn’t want to do anything to put that in jeopardy.’

  Hillary nodded slowly. ‘But just supposing that it was true,’ she began, willing to go along with Romola Perkins’s game for now, ‘do you think your father would have known about it.’

  Romola’s eyes flickered for an instant, before she slowly, unwillingly, began to smile. ‘Now that, if I may say so, is a very leading question. Of course I’m never going to say “yes”, because if I do, it automatically gives my father a motive for murder. And if I say “no, of course he didn’t” aren’t you automatically going to think I’m lying anyway- just to protect him?’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘At this moment, Mrs Perkins, I suspect absolutely everybody equally. Including you, your sister, your father, and all of Rowan’s housemates, his girlfriend and, indeed, his family. So what I need are plain and simple facts. Let me ask you this: do you think your father killed Rowan?’

  ‘Bloody hell! No, of course I don’t,’ Romola said, suddenly looking properly animated for the first time. ‘Dad wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Then the truth can’t hurt him, can it?’ Hillary said simply.

  Romola laughed, but the look in her eyes was as hard as the black granite plinths on which her great pottery sculptures rested. ‘Do I look that naive, Inspector Greene?’

  Hillary spread her hands helplessly. ‘OK. Did Rowan ever confide in you that he was worried about anyone? Anyone making a nuisance of themselves, threatening him, hassling him?’

  ‘No. Rowan just breezed through life without a care in the world,’ Romola said, a shade wistfully – a shade resentfully, Hillary thought.

  ‘And you have no idea who might have killed him?’ she pressed. ‘Now that all this t
ime has passed, and you’ve grown up yourself, and can look back on that time with an adult’s eye, and an adult’s experience, has anything struck you as odd now, that didn’t really register at the time?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘All right, Mrs Perkins. Thank you for your time.’

  Romola looked relieved and rose to show them out.

  But on the drive back to Oxford, Hillary knew that another talk with Barry Hargeaves was now a top priority.

  Tom Warrington had first seen the notice for the police picnic that was to be held at the weekend several days ago. Now, as he passed it on the way out of HQ, he didn’t give it a second glance. The picnics were held three or four times a year, and were supposed to encourage friends and families of police officers to get together at a local park. Somebody set up a barbecue, and most brought picnic baskets of their own, and although booze was supposed to be off limits, a lot of people showed up with either cans of beer or bottles of wine – depending on the rank and the level of alcohol dependence.

  It was also an unofficial opportunity for the lower orders to network with the brass, and although Tom had gone to one or two to begin with, he now avoided them like poison. Nobody bothered to talk to you, and you just ended up feeling like a tosser.

  As he sailed out on that Friday evening, with the weekend looming free ahead of him, his thoughts were far away from such petty offerings. Instead, he was going to devote the entire weekend to Hillary.

  He knew that she must have got his latest love token by now, and no doubt her agile, clever mind was already at work on it.

  Tom was very proud of his latest gambit. As he got into his car and drove towards the house he still shared with his parents, he found himself grinning.

  He knew that the cards and flowers were all very well, but she was quite right not to be overly impressed with them. The wooden cross, he was sure, would have pleased her far more. It would have given her something to think about and investigate. Given her a chance to do what she did best.

  Had she figured it out yet? He laughed, a delighted little chuckle, as he thought of her handling the cross, that wonderfully quick, copper’s brain of hers going through all the permutations.