by Faith Martin
Probably that old chestnut about her being a lesbian was doing the rounds, Gemma conceded. It was almost inevitable, given her martial arts, tall lean figure, gravelly voice, and the fact that she only ever wore slacks and jackets. But it would soon fizzle out when it became common knowledge that she was shacked up with a man.
‘Frank, Gemma Fordham,’ Hillary’s voice brought her back to the manner in hand, and she felt herself tense up as she turned to look at Frank Ross.
Her only real worry was that Ross might recognize her. Not that they’d ever met, she was pretty sure. But he might have caught a glimpse of her, maybe, when Ronnie was picking her up or dropping her off. It was even possible that Ronnie had shown him a photo of her. But she’d have been much younger then, with longer hair, and more baby fat. Chances are, he wouldn’t recognize her face. But he might know her name.
Could she bluff her way out of it if he did?
‘Judo girl, huh?’ Frank Ross said, not bothering to get up. He was a short man, with greying hair and blue eyes, chubby, with a surprisingly cute Winnie-the-Pooh type face. Appearances, she knew, were utterly deceptive as far as Frank Ross went. Ronnie had often talked about him, and described him in various ways – a vicious little git, back-stabbing bastard, good old-fashioned copper, or the kind you’d want in your corner during a football riot, depending on Ronnie’s mood at the time. Whatever – the fact was, Frank Ross had been Ronnie Greene’s acknowledged sidekick for many years, and she found herself curious to meet him, after all this time.
‘Judo, kendo, karate and kung-fu girl, actually,’ she corrected, and saw Ross snarl a grin.
‘Don’t cut no ice with me, luv,’ he drawled. ‘And where’d you get that voice? Cigs-’r-us?’
‘Childhood accident,’ Gemma said, relaxing. He didn’t have a clue who she was. ‘Damaged the voice box.’
So that explained it, Hillary mused. She hadn’t really believed that the whippet-like Gemma Fordham and nicotine could ever be best buddies. The woman moved with the economical grace of a true athlete, making Hillary feel like a contented cow in comparison. Is that why she was feeling so anti? Did Gemma Fordham make her feel, subconsciously at least, somehow inferior? If so, she needed to get over it, pretty damned sharpish, Hillary told herself firmly. She needed to find some sort of common ground with this woman if they were going to work comfortably together. And the sooner she did it, the better.
‘Barrington not in?’ Hillary asked, surprised. It was gone ten. It wasn’t like him to be so late.
‘Nope,’ Frank said, with a sly grin. He was so used to being the last one in, it was nice to see someone else in the shit for a change.
Hillary saw Gemma pick up on the spite and give Ross a long, measuring look.
No two ways about it, Hillary mused, Fordham was sharp. And ambitious. Perhaps she saw a stint on Hillary’s team as nothing more than a useful leg-up on the career ladder? It was widely known that the Chief Super, Marcus Donleavy, rated her highly. She’d probably work here a year, maybe a little more, then sit her boards and get transferred somewhere with a bigger profile. Which was fine with Hillary. As far as she was concerned, the force didn’t have enough good, strong, ambitious women officers in CID. As long as she did her job, did what she was told, and gave her no hassles, everything would work out fine.
Gemma caught Hillary looking at her, and thought, without any surprise, ‘She doesn’t like me’.
‘Right, well, this is your desk,’ Hillary said brightly. ‘Get settled in, set up your computer, and then check in with DI Danvers, our immediate boss.’
Ross snorted. ‘The Adonis of Thames Valley.’
‘Frank,’ Hillary said wearily.
‘He ain’t breathing,’ Tris Winters whispered, his eyes round and wide with awe. He was stood about six feet away from the supine man, leaning forward gingerly and prepared to spring back and leg it, should the man so much as twitch a nostril.
‘Go on! How can you tell?’ Jaime Gould asked, feeling a little braver now, and sidled up to join his friend.
‘You just stare at his chest, twit,’ Tris said scornfully. ‘It ain’t going up and down is it?’
Jaime Gould blinked. ‘Crikey. It isn’t, is it? Do you think he’s dead?’
‘Duh!’ Tris hit his bony head with the palm of his hand. ‘You think?’ But in truth, and in spite of his brave show of sophistication, Tristram Winters was feeling just a little bit sick. ‘Perhaps he is just sleeping it off. Drunks do that. Sometimes people don’t breath very deep if they’re really fast asleep.’ He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he wanted it to be.
‘Hey mister!’ he called again, loudly.
The man lying on the grass didn’t stir.
‘What’s that on his tummy?’ Jaime asked.
‘I dunno. I was wondering that too,’ Tris agreed. The stranger was wearing faded denims and a pale mint-green shirt, but on his chest was what looked like a big red paper heart. It was held down by a flat, pale stone.
‘I think we should go,’ Jaime Gould said, his voice a little tremulous now.
‘Yeah, he might need an ambulance,’ Tris agreed, backing away. The two boys walked a little away, then turned back to look again.
‘Has he moved?’ Tris asked.
‘Don’t think so,’ Jaime gulped.
‘One of us should stay with the body,’ Tris said, because he’d once heard someone say that on an episode of ‘Morse’.
‘Well, I ain’t,’ Jaime averred quickly.
‘You’ll have to go and get somebody then,’ Tris said reluctantly. ‘Someone in the cottages is bound to be home and have a phone.’
‘I ain’t asking someone on my own,’ Jaime squeaked. ‘What if one of them’s a perv or a kiddie killer?’
‘Well, take your bike and go home then,’ Tris said, exasperated. ‘No, wait, there’s a phone box at the end of the road. Use that.’
‘I ain’t got no change,’ Jaime wailed. ‘If only Mum would let me have a mobile, we could have used that.’
‘You don’t need money to dial 999 you twit,’ Tris said. ‘Don’t you know nothing? Just dial, and tell them we need the police.’
‘OK,’ Jaime said, and walked a few steps away, whilst Tris stayed where he was.
‘Go on,’ Tris hissed encouragement, seeing that his friend had stopped and was looking uncertainly back at him.
Suddenly, Jaime Gould turned and ran.
He ran across the meadow, disturbing all the butterflies and trampling the buttercups, and vaulted the gate in a scrambling heap. His hands shook a little as he unlocked his bike, and he wobbled a bit as he first raced off. When he got to the phone box, he felt both unaccountably shy, and in equal measures, undeniably proud, as he dialled the famous number.
A bored woman’s voice asked him which service he required.
‘Police,’ Jaime Gould said importantly. Just wait till they heard about this at school!
When he told the operator on the other end that he and his friend had found a dead body in a field, he hoped they believed him. Sometimes, he knew, adults didn’t believe you when you were telling the truth, but did believe you when you were telling lies. If they were the kind of lies they wanted to believe.
But the man who’d now been put on at the other end of the line seemed a reasonable sort. He asked him his name, and his age and where he was, and when he told him that his friend, Tristram William Winters was still in the field watching over the body just in case, the man told him, rather sharply, not to go back, but to stay by the telephone and wait for a police car.
This, Jaime did.
He didn’t have to wait long.
chapter two
DCI Paul Danvers put down the telephone and walked quickly to the door to his cubicle. Glancing across the large open plan office, his eyes quickly narrowed on his DI, Hillary Greene. As always when contemplating her, his first knee-jerk reaction was physical, and his eyes automatically took in the soft caramel-coloured jacket and skirt
she was wearing, today complemented by a pure silk cream blouse. The sunlight streaming through the large glass windows gave her bell-shaped dark brown hair a reddish, almost gothic halo, and as he walked across the room towards her, he felt the expression on his face become bland.
A few months ago she’d agreed to go out to dinner with him, but since then, nothing. Worse yet, she was still seeing that pillock from vice, Mike Regis. And until that fizzled out, and he was sure it would, at some point, he was playing a waiting game.
‘Hillary,’ he greeted her the moment he was in range, his eyes only then going across to the desks surrounding her. It surprised him that Frank Ross was in, whilst Detective Constable Barrington was absent. It was usually the other way round. But it was the tall blonde-haired woman rising at the sound of his voice that his eyes lingered on the longest.
The new girl. Mel’s choice, but he hadn’t found anything in his interview with DS Gemma Fordham that worried him. She smiled at him now briefly.
‘Sir.’
‘Sergeant.’ He turned once more to Hillary, and saw her cast a speculative glance at the younger woman. He hid a wince, knowing exactly what she was thinking. But she was going to be disappointed. There was nothing about Gemma Fordham that appealed to him. She wasn’t going to shake him loose that easily. ‘We have a suspicious death in Deddington,’ he said crisply, his voice all business. ‘Fancy it?’
‘Of course,’ Hillary said at once.
‘Somebody dead in Deddington. Stop the presses,’ Frank Ross chortled, which, for him, passed as wit. Everybody else ignored him.
‘Got the call from a schoolboy,’ Danvers carried on. ‘He and his chum were playing in one of the meadows on the outskirts, and came across a man lying in the grass. According to dispatch, the boy was adamant that he wasn’t breathing. Still, it might turn out to be just a drunk after all, or maybe a heart attack victim, or death by other natural causes. Assess the situation and take it from there.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Right sir.’ She glanced across at Gemma. ‘DS Fordham, with me. Frank, you’d better take your own car,’ she added reluctantly. She’d rather leave him behind, but he’d only whinge.
‘No Barrington yet?’ Danvers asked, staring at the constable’s empty desk.
‘I gave him permission to come late,’ Hillary said at once, making Ross snort in disbelief. Gemma Fordham shot her new boss a thoughtful look, but said nothing. Keith Barrington, although relatively new, had proved himself to be a hard worker, bright, and willing not only to take orders but to learn. And Hillary was not about to drop him in the shit without hearing his explanation first.
‘Fine,’ Danvers said, not believing her, but not prepared to make an issue of it yet. Barrington had been at the nick for six months now, and as far as he knew, this was the first time he’d been late. No doubt Hillary would handle it.
‘Report in first chance you get,’ he added, already turning around and heading back to his desk.
‘Our glorious leader,’ Frank Ross whispered in an aside to Gemma, as he grabbed his jacket. ‘Your predecessor, Mel Mallow’s missus, would have it that he has a thing for our Hillary.’ He slipped into his jacket, which had a fried egg stain on the lapel. ‘Can’t see it myself,’ he added snippily. ‘She’s a bit long in the tooth for him, don’t you think?’
‘Really?’ Gemma asked, her curiosity instantly aroused, and glanced back to the retreating DCI. Danvers, fair, good-looking and dressed in what looked like a hand-tailored suit, had instantly caught her eye, for she liked good-looking men, but she usually preferred them with a serious flaw – something their boss obviously lacked. No doubt a shrink would have made something of that, but she wasn’t into self-analysis. So whilst Danvers hadn’t rung any of her bells, it was interesting to know that he had the hots for Hillary Greene. Once upon a time, long, long ago, she would have been obsessed with anything to do with Hillary Greene’s love life, and it irked her that she still felt such spurious curiosity, even now. Although in her mid-forties, Hillary Greene could certainly still attract them, it seemed, and the knowledge made a sharp little pain lance through her.
‘Ready?’ Hillary asked crisply, making Gemma turn her head sharply and focus on business.
‘Yes guv,’ she said smartly. All she had to do was pick up her bag, which she did, and follow Hillary towards the exit.
Hillary, taking the lead down the wide, concrete staircase, could feel the younger woman’s eyes on her back, and made a conscious effort to ignore the itch between her shoulderblades. She gave the desk sergeant a sketchy salute as he acknowledged her, and called over briskly, ‘When my DC gets in, point him to Deddington would you Jack?’
‘You bet.’
Once outside, however, the first thing Gemma saw was a tall, red-haired man jogging towards them across the car park, and from behind, heard Frank Ross’s jeering greeting.
‘Thought you’d come in then?’
So this was the errant Detective Constable Keith Barrington. Gemma hoped he would give her no problems. A sharp-eyed and curious DC might just put a spoke in her wheels, and that wasn’t something she was prepared to tolerate.
Hillary glanced pointedly at her watch, but only said mildly, ‘Keith, ride with Frank. I’ll talk to you later.’
The pale-faced man flushed slightly, and said unhappily, ‘Guv.’
Gemma walked silently beside her new boss until they drew level with an old Volkswagen Golf, her boss going around to the driver’s side. Gemma stared at the car for a flat few seconds and smiled inwardly. Hillary Greene certainly didn’t believe in flash motors, which boded well. If she couldn’t afford a new car it must mean that her late husband’s ill-gotten gains were still stashed somewhere, untouched and safely hidden.
Good.
‘It doesn’t look much, but it won’t bite, Sergeant,’ Hillary Greene’s dry voice snapped her back to attention and she cursed herself inwardly. She’d have to stop letting her mind wander like this. Greene was too good, too clever, not to pick up on it. And start wondering about it.
‘I used to have one just like it, guv,’ she lied, smiling brightly and opening the passenger door before sliding in. ‘Brought back memories, that’s all.’
Hillary took her own seat behind the wheel and said nothing. But as she pulled out on to the main Oxford-Banbury road, and headed north, she wondered why her DS felt the need to lie to her.
‘I think it must be the other side of the village, nearer Adderbury,’ Hillary murmured, nearly twenty minutes later. They’d approached the village of Deddington from the south side, but there were no signs of patrol cars. Driving at the 30 mph limit on the main road, she glanced curiously at either side of the main street. Ironstone buildings, the colour of rust, lined the wide avenue, many playing host to rambling roses and other climbers. Outside a hotel, large colourful hanging baskets added to the rainbow hues, making the village look like a tourist board official’s dream come true. Hillary seemed to remember there was some vague rumour of a castle too, and a splendid church with a four-tower turreted spire. Or was she thinking of Bloxham?
‘Up ahead, guv, turn right at the lights,’ Gemma Fordham said, having contacted the switchboard for further directions.
Hillary nodded, and indicated. Once on the narrow road, the village proper was quickly left behind them, and sure enough, up ahead, parked on the side of the road, was a ‘jam sandwich’. The driver, looking in the mirror and seeing a car pull up behind him, got out. He straightened up, just a bit, as he recognized the woman getting out of the car.
‘DI Greene,’ Hillary said, introducing herself to the uniform, who instantly added her name to the running roster. Apparently, they weren’t the first to arrive by a long chalk. It must be looking a bit more interesting than a mere drunk then, Hillary mused, feeling her heartbeat quicken.
‘Ma’am,’ the uniform nodded. A large, comfortable-looking man, he was sweating a little now that the sun had burned away the last of the morning mist. ‘Over the five-bar
red gate at the end of the track, and straight across the meadow towards the stream. The ME’s already here.’
Hillary, who hadn’t spotted Steven Partridge’s nifty little sports car, looked surprised. ‘That was quick off the mark.’ It was usually left to the Senior Investigating Officer, in this case herself, to call out the cavalry.
‘DC Tylforth, first on the scene, called him in, ma’am,’ the constable said, his voice so deadpan it made Hillary’s lips twitch. Reading between the lines, no doubt DC Tylforth was a young eager beaver who’d probably jumped the gun before. No doubt his ears were already burning.
‘I see,’ Hillary said non-committally. ‘I don’t see the doc’s car.’
‘Out of commission ma’am. He got a ride in a jam san— In a patrol vehicle.’
Hillary nodded, and walked off towards a row of pretty cottages, shaded by a towering, and majestically flowering, horse chestnut tree as Gemma and the others signed in behind her. It was nearly eleven now, and in the green hawthorn hedges that lined the narrow farm track, she could hear chaffinches, blackbirds, hedge sparrows, a yellowhammer and a corn bunting, all vying for territory. A large lime-green-yellow, brimstone butterfly flew past, heading for a patch of cow parsley growing nearby. Already she could feel the top of her head beginning to tingle, and knew the hot sunshine was probably going to give her a raging headache before the day was through. She should have brought a cap. She reached the gate quickly, but since she was wearing her usual comfortable flatties, didn’t bother to open it, but merely clambered over it. It amused her to find Gemma Fordham doing the same, with perhaps a little more ease and grace. Frank, being Frank, had to open it, cursing and grunting as it stuck in the dried mud ruts either side, forcing Keith Barrington to give him a hand lifting it up and over.
Walking across the meadow, Hillary could see a small knot of men several hundred yards away, crouched down and looking busy. One was already taking photographs, but there was no other sign of the white-suited boffins that comprised a scene-of-crime officers’ unit. Presumably DC Tylforth hadn’t called them out yet, Hillary thought with a wry smile.
