Through a Narrow Door

by Faith Martin

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. You saved Mel’s life, no question. The medal was well deserved, so be proud of it.’ Regis took a sip of his own pint, then pinned her beneath an emerald gaze. ‘I was surprised to hear that Raleigh up and quit. He left pretty damn quick didn’t he, considering he’d only been at Thames Valley a few months?’

  Hillary smiled grimly. She knew Regis was fishing, and wasn’t about to bite. ‘I daresay he had his reasons,’ she said flatly. Namely – if he hadn’t, he’d probably have been arrested.

  But she wasn’t going to go there.

  ‘So, how’s things with you? Colin all right?’ Colin Tanner was his sergeant, and the two had worked together for years. Some said they were telepathically linked.

  ‘He’s fine, and I’m fine,’ Regis paused, then added quietly, ‘And free. I wondered if you might fancy going out for a bite to eat some time?’

  Hillary sucked in a long, slow breath. So here it was, at last. Regis, divorced and available.

  When they’d first met, she’d had to acknowledge the mutual attraction that had flared up between them. They had worked well together, saw things the same, and obviously connected. Then she’d learned that he was also married, and had quickly given him the bum’s rush. A while later he’d told her that he and his wife were getting divorced, and again, she’d more or less told him to come back when the divorce was real. An attitude so lacking in trust that it hadn’t exactly endeared her to him, it had to be said. For a while there she’d been afraid that she’d seen the last of him. But now here he was, back again and having metaphorically picked himself up and dusted himself down, ready for round three.

  But this time, there were no more excuses. If she said yes, there was no point kidding herself that she was doing anything other than taking her first step towards getting herself a man. And yet taking the plunge into another relationship wasn’t something that she could do lightly. After her fiasco of a marriage with Ronnie Greene she’d thought she’d never want to get mixed up with another man for as long as she lived. But it had been three years now. And that was a long time to be celibate. And perhaps she’d healed.

  Time, anyway, to find out.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Sure, I’d love to,’ she said, but a momentary sense of panic had her adding quickly, ‘but I’m up to my eyeballs at the moment with Billy Davies. Call me next week, yeah?’

  Mike Regis smiled and his green eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Hillary took a hefty gulp of her wine.

  Janine pushed open the door of the three-bed semi she shared with two other working women, and dumped her plastic bag of Chinese takeaway on the kitchen table. It was her turn for kitchen duty, the three of them having a roster, but for the moment she ignored the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, ladled her meal on to a plate, and headed for the living room.

  Nobody else was home. Of course, they all had lives. She hunted around for the remote and turned on the telly. The end credits for Emmerdale filled the empty house with noise, and she sighed as she tucked into spicy beef.

  During the adverts for Coronation Street, she tackled the washing up and when she came back, noticed the answer phone blinking. They were probably all messages for her housemates, and she quickly skimmed over the familiar voices of Joyce’s mum and Miranda’s latest fella. Then froze as she heard Mel’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Janine. Just thought I’d give you a call. Now we’re not seeing so much of each other at work, I just wanted to make sure you were doing OK.’ There was a moment’s pause, as if he was unsure of what to say next, then, ‘I wondered if you might like to get together for lunch one day, when you’re not busy. I know you’ve got a murder case on at the moment. Why don’t you give me a call sometime, when you’re free and we’ll get together. Just as friends, naturally. OK? Call me.’

  He sounded anxious to ring off. No doubt he’d been having second thoughts already.

  Janine turned off the machine and stared down at it. Just friends? Who was he kidding? And what was really behind this let’s-get-together offer. Feeling his lonely bed at nights was he? Well, he had nobody but himself to blame for that. And did he really think all he had to do was snap his fingers and she’d come running back?

  Hah!

  Janine stomped into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, reached for her mug and the teabags, then abruptly changed her mind, grabbed her bag, and slammed out of the house, heading for her local. Damnit, she wasn’t going to sit at home watching telly and pining for an old flame.

  She just wasn’t.

  The next morning, Tommy was only too pleased to spend the morning with Hillary. When he’d got in and she’d explained about the bike, he’d hit the internet, printing off pictures of various bikes, and price lists. Now, as they pulled up outside the Davies bungalow once more, he reached behind him for the papers he’d tossed on to the back seat.

  ‘So, the wedding’s in – what – six weeks time now?’ Hillary asked, opening the passenger-side door and stepping out. ‘Where are you going on honeymoon?’

  ‘St Lucia. Jean has relatives out there. They’ve offered us the use of their beach bungalow free for a couple of weeks. I don’t suppose it’s anything fancy, but with a Caribbean beach on your doorstep, who cares?’

  Hillary grinned. She’d bought the couple a sofa-bed for their wedding present, since she was feeling so flush after selling her house, and figuring it would always come in handy for a couple buying their first house. She’d chosen a neutral oatmeal colour scheme, and only hoped they liked it.

  ‘Let’s not bother the family just yet,’ she said now. ‘If the bike’s still in the shed, we won’t need them anyway. It looked to me as if they kept it unlocked,’ she added as they walked up the narrow, cracked concrete pavement towards the outbuildings.

  The shed door was indeed open, and inside the blue bike gleamed as new-looking and impressive as she remembered it. Tommy checked it over, and whistled silently through his teeth, then quickly checked the printout. ‘Yeah, I reckon it’s this model,’ he said, pointing to a photograph of a man on an identical bike, pedalling up what looked like K2 but was probably in Scotland somewhere. ‘Twelve gears, superannuated …’ Tommy began to list the bike’s merits with the usual male appreciation of all things mechanical, but Hillary had already tuned him out, and only paid attention again when he mentioned the price tag. ‘£650 new.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘I thought so. Where did he get the money for that?’ Blackmail once more seemed to be firmly in the picture. Either that or drugs.

  ‘Didn’t you say he had an expensive camera as well, guv?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yeah, but his dad said he and his mum saved all year for it and it was his only Christmas present from them that year. How long has this bike been in circulation?’

  Tommy went back inside to check the serial number on the crossbar, then consulted his paperwork again. ‘Only came out three months ago, guv,’ he confirmed. ‘So it couldn’t have been the year before last’s Christmas present.’

  So, once more she had to disturb the Davies family. But when she knocked on the door there was no answer. She walked around and looked in windows, but nobody was home.

  *

  Tommy pulled into the petrol station/garage and craned his head to look into the small shop window. ‘I reckon that’s Mrs Davies serving. Seems a bit soon to be back at work. Reckon the bosses are slave drivers?’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘Possible I suppose. But according to Frank’s report, the Wilberforces seemed to be on friendly terms with them. It’s more likely Celia wanted to go back to school, and George and Marilyn decided that going in to work was better than sitting in an empty house.’

  When they got out of the car, a man appeared in the open square of the garage entrance, took one look at them and then went quickly back inside again. A moment later, George Davies appeared and walked reluctantly towards them, wiping his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag.

  ‘Hello
,’ he said dully. ‘Now what?’

  He didn’t seem angry, or upset, but merely bone tired, and Hillary wondered if he’d managed to get any sleep since she’d last seen him. ‘I’m sorry to keep bothering you Mr Davies. I was wondering what you could tell me about Billy’s bike.’

  George Davies stared at her for a moment, as if she’d started speaking in a foreign language, then a slow, dull, red flush crept up his neck and on to his face.

  ‘What about it?’ he asked hopelessly.

  ‘Did you buy it for him?’

  ‘No. He got it for himself. Second-hand, off a boy at school, he said.’

  ‘The model’s brand new, Mr Davies,’ Hillary said quietly.

  ‘Aye, I thought it looked like it. But our Billy said this boy’s mum didn’t like him having it, said it was too dangerous, and made him sell it cheap, like.’

  Even as he spoke, Hillary could tell that Davies hadn’t believed it. She didn’t either. ‘Did he mention this boy’s name?’ she asked gently.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ Davies didn’t even bother trying to meet her eyes. It was as if, bit by bit, he was beginning to accept the futility of trying to guard his son’s reputation.

  ‘Do you know how he paid for it, Mr Davies? It would have been £650 new. This boy couldn’t have parted with it for less than £500.’ She was willing, for now, to go along with this fictitious boy. Of course, she’d have to check it out, just to make sure. That could be a job for Frank. He’d love questioning schoolboys, trying to find one who’d sold a second-hand bike.

  ‘Billy did odd jobs like. Worked on Saturdays with that best pal of his Lester. I dunno what it was. Paper-round maybe.’

  Davies said it forlornly, but with a lingering sense of defiance, as if daring her to contradict him.

  Hillary nodded. ‘I see. Well, thank you Mr Davies. I’ll let you get back to work.’

  In the car Tommy said flatly, ‘He doesn’t have any idea where his boy got the money, does he?’

  Hillary sighed. ‘No. And I don’t think he wants to know now, either.’

  Back at HQ, Hillary noticed a yellow post-it sticker on her phone and quickly peeled it off. It smelt of fish-and-chips and had a grease stain on it, and Hillary didn’t even have to check the name at the bottom to know that the untidy scrawl belonged to Frank Ross.

  ‘Marty Warrender knows something he’s not spitting out. Thought you might like to have a crack at the nut. F.R.’

  Hillary sighed and crumpled it up and chucked it in the bin. ‘Tommy, remind me to talk to the Warrenders some time soon, when there’s a half hour to spare. Janine, do a rundown on them for me, will you? See if there’s anything iffy there.’

  ‘Boss,’ Janine said flatly.

  Tommy quickly pencilled the reminder in his diary as Hillary scribbled something on her own yellow post-it and slapped it on Frank’s desk. It explained about the bike, and asked Frank to find the mysterious vendor. She smiled happily as she returned back to her desk. That should make his day.

  Janine began to report back on her findings, but had nothing of any use to add. Some more forensics reports had trickled in, but again, nothing that took them a step further. So far, all the fingerprints found in the shed belonged to members of the Davies family, so no surprises there.

  ‘If we don’t get a clear lead soon, we’re going to struggle,’ Hillary said gloomily. ‘Any luck with the Cleavers?’

  ‘I only spoke to him, boss, the wife was still at work. He’s a bit of a looker. Seemed a bit tense, but that’s probably just because he wasn’t used to having the plod in his living room.’

  Hillary sighed and rubbed a tired hand over her forehead. She was getting a headache. Already they were into their second day, and they didn’t have even so much as a sniff of a possible suspect. Still, at this point, she supposed there was some comfort in the thought that things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  Just then, the door to Danvers’s cubbyhole opened and his handsome blonde head appeared. ‘Ah, Hillary. I was hoping to catch you. Any chance of a progress report on the Davies case?’

  Hillary briefly closed her eyes, then stood up, gathering the files. ‘Of course, sir,’ she said, with a nice bright smile.

  chapter eight

  Janine checked her notebook and glanced at the tiny terraced cottage in front of her. She was parked in a narrow side street at the back end of Bicester and, according to her notes, Marty and June Warrender had bought this place nearly two months ago. It was hard to see why.

  The street was lined on both sides with two-up, two-down Victorian terraced houses, with a handkerchief-sized lawn, three steep steps leading up to a front door set flush to the neighbour’s wall, and tall, now surely obsolete, chimney stacks. The whole road looked cramped and mean-spirited.

  Janine shrugged and climbed out of the Mini. The front door of number 32 stood open, and she could hear the sound of hammering and sawing as she approached. She walked straight through the door and into the building’s main room, and coughed as the combined dust motes of sawdust, plaster, and old insulation tickled her nostrils.

  ‘Hello?’ She could hear the inane chatter of DJs coming from the back somewhere, where the wall dividing kitchen from tiny parlour was being demolished. The makings of a breakfast bar were going up in one corner. Crouching down by a newly-installed sink was the almost obligatory butt-crack belonging to a plumber. His jeans were riding so low, Janine wasn’t sure they’d stand up with him when he did. ‘Hello,’ she called again, and the man, still squatting, turned around. He had a red, sweating face, the very short cropped hair of somebody going bald and trying to hide the fact, and red-rimmed eyes. He stood up slowly, revealing an open shirt and beer belly. Luckily, he didn’t part company with his trousers.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m looking for the owner, Marty Warrender,’ Janine lied. She knew Marty was at his day job in Banbury, but she also knew, after a quick trawl through the trusty internet, that he and his wife were the proud owners of this place. Funny that neither one had mentioned it to Frank. Nor had they fallen over themselves to tell them they were leaving Aston Lea. When Hillary had given her the job of checking the Warrenders out, she’d thought it was scraping the bottom of the barrel time. Now though, she was beginning to wonder. If their vic had been into blackmail, the Warrenders were proving to have surprising financial resources.

  ‘Not here, luv. He’s a fly-by-night.’

  Janine blinked. ‘Translation?’

  The plumber grinned. ‘One of those geezers who buys cheap, knackered properties, gets a gang in for two weeks to blitz the place, buys some tubs of pansies to stick in the garden, gets going with a lick of paint at night, and sells on, quick as lightning. Then on to the next one. Been working for this particular bloke for the last three years or so. But I reckon the balloon’s about to burst though. First-time buyers are getting wise, and doing it for themselves – buy gaffs like this cheapish and then upgrade. Mind you, the price of houses nowadays, even these old clunkers are selling for a mint.’ He looked around the bare walls and flaking plaster and shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t believe it, would you?’

  Janine, who knew all to well the price of houses in Oxfordshire, would. ‘Good boss is he?’ she probed. ‘Pays on time, no worries?’

  ‘No. And what business is it of yours anyway, love?’ he asked, better late than never. Janine shrugged. She didn’t show her warrant card, because she didn’t want news of their interest getting back to Warrender. At least, not yet.

  ‘Just being nosy. I might be in the market to buy,’ she added. ‘Only the one bedroom upstairs I suppose?’ And when the plumber, still looking suspicious, nodded, she sighed. ‘Too small then. Thanks, love,’ she added, and turned and strolled out.

  Back in the Mini, she started up the car and turned the air conditioning on to full before writing up her notes. The heat-wave could continue all summer long as far as she was concerned, but she didn’t like baking.

  For a man who ra
n a dry-cleaner’s, and a wife who worked in a shop, the Warrenders were doing all right. And if they’d been in property developing for some years, as the plumber said, then they must have a bit put by. Had Billy-Boy Davies found a way to help himself to some of that loot? She was blowed if she could see how. She checked her watch and put the car into gear. Time to head back to HQ and trawl the databases. If she could follow the Warrenders trail through the Land and Property Registry, then with the help of a calculator and little imagination, she might just be able to come up with a good estimate as to their net worth. Something that she was sure Hillary Greene would want to know.

  Frank stared at the school, a sneer on his rounded face. It made him look like a Winnie-the-Pooh lookalike who’d just eaten a bad load of honey. Beside him Tommy Lynch also glanced at the mass of windows and straight, box-like structures, and was instantly transported back to his own school days. He’s gone to a comprehensive very much like this one, back in Cowley. Tommy had been only an average student, he supposed, but a fine athlete, and had reasonably fond memories of those days.

  ‘We’re wasting our time,’ Frank said. ‘And I’m blowed if I’m buggering about, questioning snotty-nosed little kids. I’m off to the office, see if I can persuade the headmaster’s secretary to put out an announcement on the loudspeaker asking the boy who sold Billy Davies his bike to report in.’

  Tommy said nothing.

  ‘And if that ever happens, I’m a bloody flying squirrel. It’s a waste of time. That boy was up to no good. Gotta be drugs.’

  Tommy sighed. ‘I imagine that’s why the guv’s asked me to poke around and see if I can’t nail down some proof.’

  Frank snorted. ‘Best of British, mate. If my job’s a no-hoper, yours is a dead duck. Get a schoolkid to admit to buying drugs off a dead classmate? You might as well save your breath and come down the boozer with me.’