by Faith Martin
George opened his mouth to remonstrate, then closed it again.
‘But I bet you didn’t have to turn sideways when you went in,’ Hillary said softly, and the little girl instantly shook her head.
‘No, I could just walk in.’
‘And that’s what you did yesterday. Just walked in?’
‘Uh-huh,’ the little girl said, giving that over-emphatic nod that children were prone to.
‘And you saw Billy. He was sitting on the sack of potatoes wasn’t he?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Again the giant-sized nod.
‘And you went up to him?’
‘He wouldn’t answer me when I called him. He did that sometimes, pretended not to hear me.’
‘Bet that made you mad,’ Hillary said with a grin, and noticed George Davies begin to shift uneasily in the doorway. ‘Did you go up to him and shake him, Celia?’
‘How did you know?’ the little girl raised her head for the first time and stared at her, round-eyed.
‘Oh well, I’m a policewoman,’ Hillary said solemnly. ‘We know things. So, what did you do then? Billy still didn’t answer, did he?’ she added gently.
‘No. And I could see his shirt was all red,’ Celia said. And scowled. ‘I didn’t see that before. I don’t know why.’
‘That’s because it was light outside, and dark inside. It takes time for our eyes to adjust,’ Hillary explained patiently, knowing they were coming to the crucial bit and wanting to take it steadily. ‘So what did you do when you saw how red he was. Did you touch it?’
‘Oh no. Ick!’ the little girl screwed her face up, then looked down at her pens. ‘I think I’ll make her dress orange.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Good choice – it goes with her nice brown hair. Celia, did you see the shears in front of Billy. The ones that were, well, sitting on his chest?’
‘They weren’t sitting on him, they were sticking out of him,’ Celia said at once, boldly, and without the least hint of distress. And in that moment, Hillary knew that Celia had never loved her brother.
There was nothing wrong with that, of course. Young children who were at loggerheads with siblings very often didn’t form strong emotional bonds with them until they matured and became more understanding. It was then that affection finally came into play. But in the case of Billy and his younger sister, that could now never happen.
Celia’s apparent callousness certainly didn’t indicate anything sinister. In fact, it made it easier for Hillary, because now she could proceed without feeling as if she was walking on eggshells.
‘Yes, of course they were,’ Hillary said carefully. ‘Celia, did you touch them at all? The shears, I mean.’
Celia frowned and ducked her head down, and began scribbling orange all over Cinderella’s ballgown. ‘No,’ she said petulantly. Hillary saw that the colouring pen kept slipping outside the black outlines of the dress. The previous pieces she’d coloured in, however, were all neatly done, and flush to the edges. Obviously her question had hit a nerve.
And Hillary thought she might know why. Celia had sensed she’d done something wrong, or might have, and was retreating into denial. Quickly, Hillary slipped from the bed and on to her knees. Over by the doorway George Davies took a step inside, and Hillary prayed he wasn’t going to interrupt now.
‘Celia, it’s all right if you did,’ Hillary said softly. ‘Nobody’s going to tell you off. I just need to know, that’s all.’
‘What’s going on?’ the voice was high-pitched and very nearly hysterical. Hillary felt Celia wince, and she slowly sat back on her heels with a resigned sigh, and looked up at Marilyn Davies, who’d just pushed her way into her daughter’s bedroom.
‘Hello Mrs Davies,’ Hillary said calmly. ‘I was just having a chat with Celia here. She’s very good at colouring in, isn’t she,’ she said, allowing her voice to harden just a shade, warning the other woman that she wasn’t going to take any flak.
‘I can hear what you’re doing,’ Marilyn Davies said angrily. ‘Just what do you mean, asking her if she touched … if she touched those … things … what the hell are you trying to say?’
‘Now, come on, love,’ George Davies said uneasily. But it was obvious he was relieved to see her and Hillary had no doubts about who was going to be the primary force in this scene. Before it could get out of hand, she stood up and faced the mother hen who was intent on guarding her remaining chick.
‘Mrs Davies, your daughter’s fingerprints were found on the shears that had been used to stab Billy. Now, I just need to find out exactly how and when that happened.’
‘You think our Celia did it?’ Marilyn Davies shrieked, her face going from red to white with alarming speed. ‘How could you be so bloody stupid? You can see she’s just a little girl.’
And in that moment, Hillary realized why Marilyn Davies was so terrified. She thought that her daughter might have killed her own brother. Which was why she’d been so quick to transfer her own darkest suspicions on to the police officer investigating the case.
Suddenly, Hillary understood that the sibling rivalry between those two must have been vicious. Far worse than mere big brother/little sister jealousies. Had they come to blows before? Had Billy been violent? Or had Celia devised ways to torment her brother, and did Marilyn Davies fear that she’d gone too far?
‘I tried to pull them out.’ The words, quiet and defiant, slipped into the sudden fraught silence, and Hillary turned and looked down at the little girl.
Celia had put the top back on her pen and had closed her book. She was looking at Hillary, not her mother, and she was holding one shoe underneath her and rocking slightly on the floor. ‘I went in and saw him, and thought the shears must be hurting him, so I tried to pull them out. I got hold of them real hard and tugged but nothing happened. Then I thought I’d better get Mum. She’s stronger, and she could pull them out.’ Celia shrugged. ‘So I came home, and Dad went instead.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Thank you, Celia. That’s all I needed to know.’
She turned round and saw a look of relief pass between the Davies. Relief because they believed their daughter, or relief because Hillary had seemed to? It was impossible to say.
‘I’ll let myself out, shall I?’ she murmured.
Outside, she stood in the small garden, taking long, slow breaths. What a nightmare it was. For all of them. Did Celia know, or sense, that her parents had thought she was a killer? Had the mother and father, in fact, even openly admitted their own, private fears or had they kept it all bottled up inside? Just what had been going on in that family that could lead to such a possibility even existing in their minds?
Hillary walked to her car and again went through the ritual of opening all the doors and windows to release the accumulated heat. Suddenly sick of the hot day, she decided to head back to the office and spend the afternoon reading the preliminary interview reports and forensics. She needed a breathing space from the mess of all these human emotions.
As she drove back to HQ she wondered if she believed Celia Davies’s story of what had happened when she found her brother.
And, on the whole, thought that she probably did.
chapter seven
Janine glanced at her watch, scowling to see that it was nearly five past six. Still, with a bit of luck she could be home by half past seven and tucking into a takeaway. Nowadays that and the X-Factor were the highlights of her social life. She was simply going to have to find another man – otherwise Mel might start thinking that he was irreplaceable.
The bastard.
She got out of the Mini and looked over the middling-sized bungalow in front of her, feeling distinctly disgruntled to even be here. Strictly speaking this was Frank’s call, since he’d been given the task of following up on the interviews of all the Davies’ neighbours, but neither of the Cleavers had been available at work and, of course, Frank had clocked off on the dot of five. Worse, she’d been the only one in Hillary Greene’s line of sight when she’d noticed the
oversight. She could have foisted it off on Tommy in her turn, she supposed, seeing as she had seniority, but what with his transfer in the offing, and his marriage coming up next month and all the hundred-and-one-details that generated, she’d reluctantly decided to give him a break.
So here she was, back in the thriving metropolis that was Aston Lea. As she sighed and walked up the small, weed-free path, she couldn’t help but compare this place with its neighbour, the Davies residence. Although the Cleaver’s bungalow was the same basic design, there all similarities ended. ‘Sunnyside’ was obviously privately owned, and had recently had money lavished on it. Attractive diamond-paned windows had been installed and the external walls had been freshly painted a deep cream. Hanging baskets festooned with red, white, blue and purple flowers hung from every available wall. A trellis supporting huge, pale pink clematis clung to the walls and, through the windows, rich silk mulberry-coloured drapes tied back with velvet ribbons could be seen. The gardens were immaculate as well, and sported a little fountain tinkling away in a small pond, where goldfish darted.
Janine rung the bell and rummaged in her bag for her ID. The man who answered was unexpectedly good looking, with dark hair and a well-sculpted body; somebody who obviously worked out and bought Armani. It was like being confronted by Pierce Brosnan or George Clooney when you were expecting Chris Evans, and Janine blinked a bit before introducing herself. And firmly reminded herself that the man was married.
Presumably, happily.
‘Mr Cleaver? DS Tyler. I wonder if you have a few minutes to discuss William Davies?’
‘Sure, but I’ve already spoken to a constable.’
‘Yes sir, this is a follow-up interview. It’s strictly routine.’
‘Better come inside then.’ He stood aside and Janine brushed past him, catching a whiff of expensive cologne as she did so.
Inside, the bungalow had been opened up, with the narrow corridor that was still in existence in the Davies’ home having been ripped out in preference for a more open-plan arrangement. The walls were uniformly white, and French windows had been added at the rear, leading out to the back garden and a patio furnished with white chairs and tables, and tubs of scarlet geraniums. Two massive white leather sofas dominated the room, and a small, neat, marble fireplace played host to an arrangement of gladioli.
‘Nice place,’ Janine mused. The Cleavers obviously had money, and plenty of it. Either that, or they were in debt up to their eyeballs.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Darren Cleaver offered. ‘Drink? I have a fine oloroso?’
‘Better not, not when I’m driving,’ Janine said and got out her notebook. ‘Your wife not at home, sir?’
‘No, she’s still in London. She works for a PR firm with a branch in Oxford, but just lately she seems to be doing most of her work in the London office. I think there’s a promotion in the offing, and she wants to get in good with the bosses. You know how it is.’
Janine nodded, trying to pretend she didn’t feel jealous. ‘Is she due back soon?’
‘She’ll be home around eight, half past eight I expect. Depends on traffic.’
Janine sighed. In that case, Frank could bloody well pencil her in for tomorrow night. Let him put in some unpaid overtime for once, she thought sourly. ‘I see. Have you lived here long, Mr Cleaver?’
‘About seven years, I think. We bought the place privately when the whole hamlet came under the housing association back in ’98.’
‘So you know the Davies well? They’re right next door on the left, yes?’
‘Yes. I have to say, we were both very shocked to learn of Billy’s death. It was terrible.’
‘You were at work that day?’
‘Yes, I manage a big dairy, just outside of Banbury. We’re national – provide milk and milk products all over – as far afield as Glasgow.’
Janine nodded, uninterested. ‘Did you see Billy Davies that day?’
‘No.’
‘And do you or your wife ever have cause to visit the allotments? You don’t own one, do you?’
Darren Cleaver laughed, showing gleaming white, perfectly straight teeth. ‘Good grief no. Neither Jenny or I have green fingers, I’m afraid. Besides, when would we ever get the time?’
‘Did you know Billy Davies used to frequent the allotments regularly?’
‘No. No reason why we should.’
Janine nodded, but caught a sudden sharpness in his voice. He’d poured himself a sherry and was standing with his back to the fireplace and for the first time he looked a little nervous. She might have told him the gladioli were getting pollen on his expensive fawn slacks, but didn’t bother.
‘Did you ever see anybody threatening Billy Davies? Or hear about any bad arguments he’d had with somebody. Did you ever see him talking to strangers, perhaps getting into a car you didn’t recognize? Anything of that nature?’
Darren Cleaver shook his head decisively. ‘No, nothing like that. And I have to say, I don’t think Billy was the sort to be so foolish. He had a very wise head on his young shoulders. He always struck me as the sort who was well able to look after himself.’
‘Well, evidently he wasn’t, sir, was he?’ Janine said softly, and watched the other man flush.
‘Well, no. No. As I said, we were both very upset by what happened.’
Janine nodded and rose slowly to her feet. ‘And you have nothing you want to add to your original statement? You haven’t thought of anything which you thought we might like to know since talking to the constable? Sometimes memories can take a while to come to the surface.’
‘I wish I could help,’ Cleaver said, spreading his fingers in a helpless gesture. Janine noticed they were impeccably manicured. He might manage a dairy, but she doubted this man ever saw a cow, let alone handled one.
‘Well, thank you Mr Cleaver. A colleague will be getting in touch with your wife at some point.’
‘That’s fine,’ Darren Cleaver said, and smiled as he showed her out.
Janine got in her Mini and headed for Oxford. At this time of night, at least the rush hour was over. She tuned the radio to Fox FM and hummed along to an old Carpenter’s song.
She was in the mood for chicken tikka. Or maybe Chinese.
Hillary too was headed for home, although in her case this meant a barely three-minute drive from HQ, to the tiny village of Thrupp. She was waiting on the main Oxford–Banbury road to make the right-hand turn into the lane, making time for an approaching lorry to pass her; the moment it was gone, she started to move out, but behind him, almost unseen, came a cyclist, and she had to quickly jam on the brakes. As the cyclist nodded a thanks as he sped by, Hillary finally made her turn, then, almost at once, jammed on the brakes again. Puff the Tragic Wagon came to an obliging halt underneath a flowering laburnum tree.
Hillary hit her hand lightly on the steering wheel. That’s what it was! The cyclist had triggered what had been niggling away at her all day. Suddenly she was back at the Davies’ bungalow, stepping outside the door and looking into the shed, and seeing Billy’s mountain bike. At the time it had struck her as a sad and poignant sight. What should have struck her was the cost of it.
Most definitely, she’d been off her form that night, otherwise her first thought would have been to wonder how a fifteen-year-old boy from a poor working-class family, had been able to afford a multi-geared, new, state-of-the-art mountain bike.
Although she herself had been eleven or twelve the last time she’d owned a bike, she was pretty sure that nowadays, such a sleek vehicle could cost as much to buy as some second-hand cars. She could distinctly remember seeing a mountain bike in a shop not so long ago, and gasping at the price tag.
Thoughtfully, she put the car back into gear and drove the few hundred yards needed to pull into the large car park of The Boat pub, where she habitually stabled her trusty Volkswagen. The landlord didn’t mind since, more often than not, Hillary ate her Sunday lunch in there. Now, as she closed and locked the door, she g
lanced at her watch. Nearly seven. Time for a quick drink and maybe she’d treat herself to a pie. She couldn’t be bothered with cooking tonight.
She walked to the pub door, making a mental note to ask Tommy tomorrow to check out the bike and make sure it really was as new and expensive as she remembered it, then question the Davies as to how Billy had come by it.
The pub was still largely deserted so early in the evening, so when Hillary walked in, she spotted him right away. Sat on a window-seat in the snug, he looked up at her and smiled the moment she walked in the door. A lean man, only a few inches taller than herself, with thinning dark hair, and a narrow, intelligent face. She had no doubt at all that he’d been sat by the window in order to see her arrive.
She smiled back, trying to pretend that her heart-rate hadn’t just gone up a notch, and walked to the bar. There she ordered a white wine spritzer and the salmon salad, paid for both, then took her drink to his table. ‘Hello Mike,’ she said to DI Mike Regis. ‘Glorious evening.’
Outside, on the canal, a mother duck and a dozen little ducklings were slowly cruising past, ignoring the swallows and house martins who were hawking for flies or skimming the surface for water to help build their mud nests.
‘Sure is. Got a new case, I hear?’
Hillary nodded. It was easy to talk about work, so she filled him in, keeping to the basics of the case and her lack of progress so far. The usual copper’s lament.
‘You’ll crack it,’ he said, with flattering certainty. ‘And congratulations on the medal. I wanted to be at the ceremony, but you know how it is.’ He nodded at her drink. ‘Get you another?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll make this do. And as for the medal, well, you were there that night. It was no big deal.’
Mike Regis, as a vice-squad member, had been there the night she and her team, Superintendent Jerome Raleigh and Mel had raided Luke Fletcher’s farmhouse. Fletcher, a well-known drugs dealer, suspected murderer, and all round villainous piece of scum, had died that night, and Hillary too had been shot.
