by Faith Martin
She became aware that Steven had finished reading and was watching her. She didn’t know how to feel about the look of concern in his eyes. On a personal level, it gave her a warm, gooey feeling inside. What woman didn’t like it when a new lover showed his emotions?
On a professional level, she wanted to tell him crisply that she could take care of herself. On a gut-feeling copper’s level, she wanted him to give her the Judith Yelland case.
‘You think her stalker and yours are the same?’ Steven asked eventually.
‘Possibly.’
‘And that – what – Judith Yelland has been murdered?’
‘Possibly.’
‘It all depends on whether the word JOY is a coincidence or not,’ Steven pointed out. ‘You could have misunderstood the message he was sending you. And Judith Yelland could be alive and well somewhere, having started over.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Stop saying possibly.’
Hillary smiled. ‘Sorry. Sir.’
‘And don’t call me sir either. Not after the last few days we’ve just spent together.’
Hillary smiled again.
Then slowly, both their smiles faded. ‘So what do we do about this?’ she asked, nodding down at the wooden cross and the Judith Yelland file in front of him.
Steven sighed. ‘We’ll have to go to Donleavy,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Before this, we could have made a case that we were keeping your admirer to ourselves because we wanted to keep a lid on it and solve it in-house, so to speak. But this changes the game entirely.’
Hillary nodded without enthusiasm. ‘Yes, I know.’
But would the commander let her investigate Judith Yelland’s disappearance? Even if she could, quite legitimately, claim that it came under her territory now, since it was, technically, a cold case.
‘Damn,’ she said, with feeling.
Steven Crayle then did something that none of her previous bosses had ever done before. He stood up and held out his arms, and said softly, ‘Come here.’
And Hillary found herself doing something she’d told herself she would never, ever do again.
She went, and let herself be held in a man’s arms and was comforted.
CHAPTER TEN
When she left Steven, she popped her head into the shared office, and saw that Sam was the only one in.
‘Sam, have you had a chance to check out Barry Hargreaves’s redundancy situation yet? Remember, I thought his wife seemed a little off about it, and I wondered if there was anything dodgy going on there?’
Sam was already nodding. ‘Yes, guv, I did, but his boss told me it was strictly on the up and up. He quoted the economic crisis as being the main factor for them having to cut back, and Hargreaves had the least time in, so was due the least redundancy, which was why it made sense to give him the elbow first. He seemed quite satisfied with his work and everything.’
‘You did a background check on the company, right?’ Hillary said, pleased when he nodded. Good, the lad was learning, she thought. ‘Did anything smell off?’
‘No, guv, not so I could tell. They’re a mid-level, mid-range accountancy firm, fairly well respected, been in business under one name or another for nearly eighty years. Mind you, they are still a private company, so public records aren’t as good as if they had shareholders to answer to.’
‘Right. So no whiff of financial hanky-panky?’
‘Not that I could find out. They don’t take on the really big clients, but cater more to the smaller and family-operated businesses. Which means, I guess, that it would be harder for them to cheat than if they had some really big clients, whose left hand didn’t know what the right was doing, if you see what I mean.’
‘OK. And did the boss of the firm seem to have any beef against Hargreaves?’
‘No. I got the feeling they got on all right together. But he was definitely curious as to why I was asking, like, and kept hinting that he’d like to know why the police were interested in him. But I think that was down to natural caution, more than anything else. He was worried in case anything might reflect badly on his firm, if something was in the air. I told him that it was just a matter of routine on a matter unrelated to his work record. I hope that’s OK. I didn’t like to drop Hargreaves in it, guv. He’ll be relying on them for his references and stuff.’
Hillary nodded in approval at his thoughtfulness. ‘Good. I’m going to re-interview him in light of what his daughters have told us. Want to come along?’
Sam grinned. ‘Need you ask?’
If Barry Hargreaves was surprised to see her back, it didn’t show on his face when he answered the door to them. He was dressed casually in rather baggy trousers and a thick-knit jumper.
‘Hello. Come on in, I was just about to put the kettle on. The wife’s out.’
He showed them through to a bright, cheerful, yellow and powder-blue kitchen. It was fitted out with modern-looking stainless-steel fixtures, sink and work surfaces. The big ex-construction worker looked oddly out of place in the setting, but he made tea and coffee happily enough, and set them down on a breakfast bar, where Hillary and Sam drew up stools.
‘More questions about Rowan, then?’ Hargreaves asked resignedly, making himself comfortable on a stool of his own and taking a sip of tea.
‘Yes, sir. We’ve had a chance now to talk to your girls,’ Hillary said, and saw the way the older man tensed slightly. Now, was that a father’s natural protectiveness towards his offspring, or something else? It was hard to tell, Hillary mused.
‘Oh? I wish you hadn’t had to bother them,’ he said, a shade coldly.
‘I understand that, sir, but this is still a murder inquiry,’ Hillary pointed out firmly. ‘Just because it happened a number of years ago doesn’t make it any less important.’
Hargreaves had the grace to look a little abashed, and stared down into his mug of tea and heaved a sigh. ‘No, of course it doesn’t. Sorry, you’re quite right. Ask away.’
‘One of your daughters categorically denied ever having had any kind of personal relationship with Rowan Thompson,’ Hillary said, choosing her words carefully. She didn’t want to mention which daughter had done so. She wanted to see just how well he knew the girls and, by being ambiguous, try and get an idea of just how much he actually knew about what had gone on back in 2001.
The oldest of Rowan Thompson’s housemates looked at her with a wry smile. ‘Meaning, by innuendo, that one of them did say that she’d slept with the randy little sod, I take it? Which in turn would imply that I had a reason to stick a knife into him?’
Hargreaves tilted his slightly whiskered chin at a challenging angle, but his eyes looked annoyed. ‘Sorry, but I still don’t believe that either one of the twins had anything to do with him. If it was Natasha who told you she had, you have to take it with a pinch of salt. Tasha likes to dramatize things sometimes.’
Interesting, Hillary thought. He’d got it the wrong way around.
‘And yet it’s Romola who does the acting,’ she pointed out mildly, taking a sip of her own coffee. ‘A leading light in am dram, isn’t she?’
Barry Hargreaves let out a reluctant chuckle, and his tensed shoulders slumped just a bit. ‘That’s right. And yet, for all that nonsense, Rommy’s actually the sensible one out of that pair. She’s married well, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s got kiddies and is now thoroughly settled, praise be! No, it’s Tasha that I worry about.’
‘Did you worry about her when she was fifteen?’ Hillary asked quickly.
Hargreaves both bridled and looked suddenly wary, at the same time. ‘Of course.’
‘From what I’ve learned about Rowan, fifteen-year-old identical twins would have been irresistible.’
‘So you keep harping on! Look, I told you before, and I’ll say it again now if you like, I made sure that he didn’t get his mitts on them,’ Hargreaves said flatly.
‘And if I told you that one of your daughters admitted to me in interview that h
e had “got his mitts” on them?’ she asked, again in that calm and neutral voice as she looked at him levelly.
Hargreaves shrugged. ‘What can I do about it now? Nowadays, you’re lucky if your thirteen-year-old daughters know enough about birth control not to come home pregnant. I had a mate of mine, when I worked construction, who had a girl the same age as mine who used to drive her to and from her boyfriend’s house, last thing at night, and pick her up first thing the next morning. He reckoned she was in more danger when she was walking home, than she was, tucked up in bed with him. He made sure she took precautions, made sure they both had regular VD check-ups and what not. He’d met and sort-of approved of the lad concerned, and had the attitude that if he kicked up a fuss, she’d only do it anyway, and maybe get into even more trouble.’
Hargreaves sighed and took another mouthful of tea. ‘And who’s to say he’s not right?’
Hillary nodded slowly. ‘A very enlightened attitude, I’m sure,’ she agreed, with a trace of irony. ‘Are you saying you share that view?’
Again Hargreaves sighed. ‘Not particularly. But this was all a long time ago.’
‘Someone killed Rowan,’ Hillary said flatly.
‘Granted. But it wasn’t me.’
And with that, Hillary had to be content.
Back in the car outside, Sam buckled up, watching his boss closely. ‘Do you think he did it, guv?’ he asked curiously.
Hillary hid a smile. Who did Sam think she was? The Delphi oracle? Still, his faith in her was rather touching.
‘Maybe,’ she hedged.
‘He seemed like a good father to me. You know, like he really cared about his girls. And understood them, too,’ Sam carried on.
‘Yes,’ Hillary agreed. And yet, Hargreaves had got it wrong about which daughter had confessed to having sex with the victim. Unless it had been a double bluff, and he’d known all along that Rommy would be the most likely one to be truthful. In which case, did he know that both of them had succumbed to Rowan’s charms? And if so…. Was he trying to protect them?
Or maybe just one of them?
What if Barry Hargreaves knew his daughters very well indeed?
‘Suppose you had an identical brother, Sam. He looked exactly like you, and you both fancied the same girl. How would you feel about it?’
Sam looked uncomfortable at being put on the spot. ‘I’m not sure. Identical twins are supposed to be close, right? I mean like super-close, can sense when one of them’s in trouble, even if they’re hundreds of miles apart, right?’
‘So they say,’ Hillary agreed sceptically. But into her mind’s eye came a picture of the business-suited Tasha, and the eco-aware Romola. She hadn’t had the impression, when interviewing them, that they’d been particularly close. But perhaps they’d grown apart in the adult years. As fifteen-year-olds, perhaps they’d been inseparable. And able to read each other’s mind.
‘In which case, I don’t know that a girl could cause that much trouble,’ Sam said, somewhat naively. ‘Although, I suppose, the opposite could be true. I mean, it’s a classic sort of thing, right, guv? Siblings torn apart by jealousy.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Classic. Yes,’ she agreed thoughtfully. If Tasha had bedded Rowan first, and then discovered that Romola was also sleeping with him, or vice versa, could that provoke a rage strong enough to end in killing?
Perhaps.
And maybe Hargreaves knew or guessed, and was covering for them by denying it had ever happened.
But what if both twins had been in Rowan’s bed in a ménage à trois? One would suppose that that scenario spoke of mutual consent and willingness to share and share alike.
But was that really feasible where volatile teenagers were concerned?
Hillary sighed.
‘The problem after all this time is getting proof,’ she said shortly. ‘Hargreaves can plead ignorance as much as he likes, and as much as I’m sure in my own mind that that’s just so much tripe, I haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance of proving it now, after all this time.’
Sam, not knowing what to say, simply sat in silent sympathy.
With a grunt, Hillary turned the ignition key. Puff gave a tragic cough and went quiet.
Hillary stared out of the windscreen at the bonnet in front of her. ‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ she told it quietly. ‘I am definitely not in the mood for this.’
She turned the ignition again, and her wagon purred as sweetly as a pussy cat. In the passenger seat, Sam Pickles managed to keep a straight face.
Hillary was quite impressed.
That night, Simon Riggs arrived in Thrupp at just gone ten o’clock. He’d put his fishing gear in the back of the boot of his station wagon, telling his long-suffering wife of more years than he could ever remember, that he was going night fishing. And since he had, in the past, won the odd angling cup or two for carp, which were best caught, he always maintained, by moonlight, she hadn’t been suspicious. In fact, he rather thought she was relieved, since she claimed he snored like a trooper, and was probably looking forward to a good night’s undisturbed sleep on her own.
Since Simon was seventy-two, had a tricky back, and had never been much of a one for the ladies, even in his youth, the thought that he might be lying to her had never crossed her mind. And if she’d known he’d brought night-vision binoculars with him so that he could spy on a lady, the old dear would have swallowed her dentures in shock.
But that night, ex-Sergeant Simon Riggs settled down in his car, parked just outside The Boat pub in Thrupp, and did just that. Or rather, to be more accurate, he divided his attention between Hillary Greene’s narrowboat and her car. Of the lady herself, there was neither sight nor sound, and he guessed that she had probably already turned in for the night.
Jimmy Jessop and Riggs had shared a patrol car back when Z-Cars had still been on the telly – or so it seemed – and they’d kept in touch over the years, even when they’d been stationed at different nicks.
So when Jimmy had called around explaining what was up and what he’d needed, Simon had been only too happy to oblige by taking on a few night shifts. He’d worked for a couple of years out of HQ, and knew Hillary Greene mostly by sight and reputation only, and had been more than interested to hear what his old mate had had to say about working at the CRT, and for the famous Hillary Greene.
He could tell Jimmy was getting on well with her, and rated her as much as the likes of Donleavy and the other brass did. Which was recommendation enough for Simon.
He didn’t like stalkers, or any of the kind who liked to prey on women. Rapists and granny-bashers had always been high-up on his personal shit-list. And the thought of one them stalking one of their own had set his blood boiling. That alone provided incentive enough.
Besides, as he’d confided to Jimmy, he was bored enough to be up for some unpaid obbo work, if only for the sake of nostalgia.
Now, he settled down quite happily. It was a warmish night, and he’d dressed comfortably in thermals and two layers of jerseys. He had his thermos of tea with him, and was escaping from the house and the missus for a night or two. What more could a man ask for?
Now all he had to do was stay awake. A doddle, for an old hand like him, he thought confidently.
It was an owl, of all things, that woke him up. A little owl, or screech owl, as his old man had called them – for good reason. He found himself suddenly jerking upright against the steering wheel, and he cast a quick, guilty look around as the owl’s strident racket echoed around the dark countryside.
The car park was now more or less empty. He’d stayed awake long enough to see the pub shut up shop and the customers leave. That left just a few vehicles which, like Hillary’s old VW, belonged to residents of boats who had permanent moorings.
Now he glanced down at his watch, glad of the luminous dial.
It was nearly 1 a.m.
He rubbed his face and, by the light of a nearly full moon, poured himself a cup of tea. He checked on Hillary Gree
ne’s narrowboat. Jimmy had told him it was called the Mollern, and, picked out in his night-vision binoculars, it looked calm and peaceful. Funny sort of place for a former DI to live, he thought.
Then he remembered that it had been the only place she could afford when she was divorcing that bent waste of space, Ronnie Greene. Obviously she must have got a taste for living on the canal, since he was sure she could have found a house to rent by now, if she’d been of a mind to.
A mate of his who owned a boat had told him that once you’d lived on one, you didn’t want to live on anything else. Addictive they were, he’d said.
Simon couldn’t see it himself.
He grimaced at the stewed, lukewarm taste of the tea, but drained his plastic cup anyway, then decided he needed to make room for it and quietly stepped out of his car. In one far corner of the car park he found a convenient tree and relieved himself. Not easy, with a large police truncheon tucked down into the small of your back.
Being a modest man, he’d chosen a spot well out of sight of the car park and any possible eyes that might have caught sight of him from the few scattered cottages that overlooked the canal.
He wasn’t sure what made him stand slightly behind the tree after he’d finished and check the car park again with his binoculars before going back to the car. Perhaps it was sheer luck, or maybe it was the result of a once-acquired, never-lost, copper’s instinct.
But he was glad he did.
At first sweep, nothing seemed to be out of place. Then, a sense of movement had him swinging his binoculars back again to a particular patch of dense shadow. Had something moved? Maybe a branch, swaying slightly? But there wasn’t much of a breeze.
And then a figure stepped out of the shadows and approached the old Volkswagen Golf, which was parked at the far end of the tarmac area, nearest the entrance to the towpath.
Simon felt his heartbeats rack up a notch and that old tingle of excitement rush through his bloodstream. He’d almost forgotten how good that sudden surge of adrenaline could feel. Yes! Got you, you bastard, he thought.
