by Faith Martin
‘No one called Ann, Anne, Annie, or any other derivative has so far come up in our enquiries, guv,’ Keith Barrington’s excited voice interrupted her musings. ‘Denise Collier’s second name is Angelique, though.’
‘That’s stretching it,’ Hillary said. ‘OK. Well, make sure everyone on the enquiry is on the alert for that name. If they come across anyone at all of that name, even remotely connected to Wayne Sutton, I want to know about it. And remind everyone that Annie might well be a nickname, and not a given Christian name at all.’
‘Right, guv.’
Hillary nodded, and rose slowly to her feet. ‘Right. I’m going to snatch a quick bite. I’ll be in the canteen if I’m wanted.’ She grabbed her purse from her bag and headed for the exit.
Keith watched her go and glanced at his watch. She’d be back before one, easy. After that he could nip off. He looked up as he sensed a shadow moving over him, and smiled as Gemma Fordham took her place behind her desk.
Quickly, he filled her in on the message found on the victim’s body. Gemma quickly checked her own notes, but was sure that the name hadn’t been mentioned in any of her inquiries. She was right.
‘Why don’t you go downstairs and tell the desk sergeant that if anybody named Annie calls in, he’s to make sure the guv comes down straight away?’ she suggested, flicking her notebook shut. ‘We don’t want to miss her, if she does decide to come in, because of some communications balls-up.’
Barrington gave her a quick look, but shrugged and obligingly got up. A phone call would have done it, in his opinion, but perhaps she was just being extra careful. And he knew what it was like to be the new guy. You could get almost paranoid about messing up.
Gemma watched the constable go, and the moment he was through the door, pulled her own chair away from her desk and towards Hillary’s. She’d seen Hillary’s bag, beside her chair, the moment she’d sat down, and knew she’d never get another chance like this one.
Opening her own bag, she drew out a large, flat tin. After a quick glance around to make sure that no one was watching, she reached down, unzipped Hillary’s bag, and fished inside. Hillary’s large bunch of keys was easy to find, and she quickly sorted through them, dismissing the car keys, and taking a guess as to the one she wanted. She knew, for instance, that Hillary Greene lived on a canal boat, and that the key to a padlock was probably more likely to get her access to Hillary’s home than, say, the more conventional Yale key.
Heart pounding, she opened the tin and quickly pressed the key, front and back, into the wax inside, to make two clear impressions. Then, palms just a little damp, she snapped the tin box shut, returned the keys, and zipped her boss’s bag back up, careful to leave it in exactly the same position on the floor as it had been in before.
She knew that Hillary Green would notice if it had been moved.
When she straightened up and looked around, she could tell that nobody had noticed her manoeuvre. Her face a little flushed in triumph and relief, she pushed her chair back to her own desk, and logged on to her computer.
A small smile played around her lips.
chapter eight
Hillary opted for the mushroom risotto and the fruit salad, and found a quiet table by one of the windows. Since she was so early, the canteen was largely deserted, but she knew it would get busy soon, and ate quickly.
Outside, nesting blackbirds hunted for insect food for their chicks, flitting about the trees and the bushes among the hard landscaping. Petals from multi-blossoming trees drifted by in the breeze like fragrant pastel snowflakes, and already she could see a mirage-like shimmer of what looked like rippling water, rising off the white concrete pavements and black tarmac.
But her thoughts were far from appreciating the beauty of spring, and firmly settled around the mysterious Annie. Why hadn’t they come across her name before? It wasn’t as if Wayne Sutton had been particularly discreet about his lifestyle. There was something hole-in-the-corner about the whole set-up that sat uneasily with her image of the free-living, free-spirited, couldn’t-care-less artist. After a moment’s thought, she reached for her mobile and phoned his parents, Davey Sutton answering, his voice still hoarse from the summer flu.
‘Hello? If this is a reporter, I’ve told you lot before, no comment.’
‘Hello, Mr Sutton, it’s Hillary Greene,’ she said quickly, and heard a sharply indrawn breath.
‘News?’ he whispered the word, as if afraid someone might overhear. She knew what he was asking, of course, and felt instantly guilty. She knew it was ridiculous to feel that way, but whenever she talked to the loved ones of a murder victim when the perpetrator had yet to be caught, she always felt personally responsible for the lack of a result.
‘Of sorts, Mr Sutton, but there’s been no arrest as yet. I wanted to know if the name Annie meant anything to you? Perhaps your son had a friend of that name?’ She wasn’t sure how much his parents knew about their son’s gigolo lifestyle, or what they were prepared to acknowledge if they did know, so she asked the question delicately.
Davey Sutton was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘No, I can’t say it means anything to me. Hold on a minute while I ask his mother. She’s more likely to know about stuff like that.’
She heard the phone going down, and absently forked the last few pieces of rice and mushrooms into her mouth. She was wiping her lips on a paper napkin when he came back on the line.
‘His mother says no. Is it important?’
‘It could be, Mr Sutton, yes.’
‘You have to understand, our Wayne was a good-looking lad. And he had a way with the ladies. He was young too, and not really settled down. His mother and me, well, we hoped that Monica Freeman might take him in hand. A girl about his own age. But, well, we know Wayne liked to romance women, Detective. His mother seemed to find out about all his ladies, one way or another, and she’s sure there wasn’t any Annie.’
Damn, Hillary thought. ‘All right, Mr Sutton, and thank you. Your family liaison officer has been keeping you updated on the inquiry, I hope?’
‘Oh, yeah, she’s been lovely.’ He coughed hoarsely into the phone, and cleared his throat. ‘You will let us know, won’t you, when you get our boy’s killer?’ The hope in his voice made her own throat close up, and Hillary coughed herself.
‘Yes, Mr Sutton, I will,’ she said softly, and hung up. She sighed and reached for her fruit salad, but her appetite was suddenly gone. She was still pushing tinned pineapple chunks around her dish, when she realized someone had come up to her table. She looked up to see a young, fresh-faced constable she vaguely recognized, hovering a few feet away, waiting to be noticed.
‘Yes?’
‘Ma’am. PC Thorndike. I was on house-to-house on the Sutton inquiry, ma’am. Thing is, I’ve only just finished talking to the last of the stop-outs, and thought I should report something direct to you, seeing as you’re here, like, ma’am.’
Hillary nodded. The ‘stop-outs’ were those who always seemed to be out whenever you called at the house to get a statement, and often you couldn’t nail them down for three or even four days. Obviously Thorndike had been snatching an early lunch like herself, and instead of going through Gemma or Barrington, had taken the opportunity to approach her direct. Which boded well.
‘Something interesting, Constable?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Might be, ma’am. My stop-out was a seventy-two-year-old lady who’d been visiting her daughter for a few days. She lives opposite the row of cottages that border the farm track, where we initially approached the crime scene, ma’am?’
Hillary nodded, knowing where he meant.
‘She told me that on the day of the murder, late afternoon “about teatime” is how she put it, she noticed a sports car parked up near the farmer’s gate. It was still there, she thought, an hour later, but was gone before the evening news finished.’
Hillary frowned. Too early, she thought instantly. For an old woman of her mother’s generation, t
eatime could be anytime between four and five-thirty. And the evening news finished around seven. If their victim was meeting Annie at eight, the car had been and gone by then. Of course, Doc Partridge’s official time of death was anywhere between six and midnight. Perhaps she was pinning too much emphasis on the Annie note. And she had no way of knowing for sure that Wayne Sutton had died around eight o’clock.
‘Could she describe the car?’ Hillary asked, and the young man’s face screwed up.
‘’Fraid not, ma’am. She wasn’t much interested in cars. I tried to talk her through it, but all she could say for sure was that it was …’ he checked his notes, ‘a “real go-er, one of them old sporty things, low to the ground, that make a lot of noise”. She thought it might be dark-green, or maybe blue or black in colour.’
Hillary nodded. ‘All right, thank you, Constable. Be sure to give one of my team your written report when it’s ready.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Hillary pushed her plate away and picked up her purse, walking downstairs thoughtfully. When she got halfway down the stairs, she noticed Keith Barrington coming out of the main office, and wondered what his lunch date was all about. So far, he hadn’t come in late again, so that was OK, but she’d be watching him. He’d put in a good, solid, six months, and she didn’t want him backsliding now.
As she walked across the office, she noticed Gemma Fordham, sitting with her back to her, typing into her computer. Then the sergeant glanced around, caught Hillary’s look, and something in the way her shoulder blades tightened, made the hairs on the back of Hillary’s neck rise.
She’s been up to something.
The thought so strong, it was almost like a voice in her head.
She walked slowly to her desk and sat down. It was no good to keep on telling herself that she was just being paranoid. And there was little use in putting it down to a personality clash, or even repressed jealousy either. Hillary, over the years, had come to trust her instincts.
She sighed heavily. There was always something.
She reached down for her bag and opened it up, slipping her purse inside. As she did so, she smelt Gemma’s perfume. Faint. But not coming from where Gemma was sitting, by her desk. But right under her nose.
From her bag.
Hillary slowly put her bag away, and pulled her chair up to her desk. Her eyes were bland as they met Gemma’s. ‘A possible lead. One of the constables doing house-to-house found a witness who saw some kind of sports car parked by the access gate to the meadow where our vic was found. She lives in one of those cottages overlooking the farm track. I want you to get some basic pictures of different sports car types and take them over to her, see if you can get at least some sort of a match. We need to trace that car. If necessary, get back on the radio to make an appeal for whoever owned it, and was parked there that day, to come forward.’
‘Right, guv.’ Gemma turned back to the computer, got on to the net, and before long, Hillary saw several photographs being disgorged from the printer.
Next, Hillary picked up her phone and chased up the path labs. The DNA from the strand of hair found on the vic, and the skin traces found on the stone anchoring the paper heart to Wayne Sutton’s chest would be available no earlier than in three days’ time. Hillary tried to get it bumped up the queue, but hers was not the only top-priority murder case on the list. She’d just have to wait her turn.
She hung up in an ever-worsening mood, wondering what the public would think if they realized that, contrary to what popular forensic science-based television programmes would have you believe, you couldn’t get instant answers at the touch of a computer button.
‘Guv, I thought I’d run a check on our list of suspects.’ Gemma said. ‘Only Tommy Eaverson owns and drives what I’d call a real sports car. A nineteen-seventies GB GT.’
‘What colour?’
‘Bottle-green.’
Hillary grunted. ‘Make sure the witness sees an example when you see her.’
‘I’ll go now, guv. Got the number of her house?’
‘Ask PC Thorndike.’
‘Guv.’
Hillary watched the tall, elegant blonde woman grab her stuff and go, and Hillary slowly leaned back in her chair. The woman had been rifling in her bag, she was sure of it. But why? What had she hoped to find? She doubted, somehow, that Gemma Fordham was some sort of kleptomaniac or sneak thief. Just what the hell was she going to do about her new DS? Until she could figure out what she was up to, it was no good going to Mel. Oh, as a pal, he’d probably transfer her, if Hillary really cut up rough about it, but it wouldn’t make her popular. Besides, after six months without a DS, she couldn’t really afford to have her team reduced to just herself and Barrington again. (Ross didn’t count.) And with a murder case in full swing, she needed all the competent help she could get. On the other hand, it felt as if she was sitting on a ticking bomb. What the hell was Gemma Fordham after?
Gemma found the little house without any difficulty. Nestled within a small set of 1930s-built, council house semis, it was standing the test of time far better than most of today’s modern builds probably would, she suspected.
Miss Phillipa S. Grant lived in the third house, with a clear view of the farm track leading to the meadow where Wayne Sutton’s body had been found. As she walked up to the door, the blonde sergeant noticed that the kitchen window did indeed overlook the road. So the old girl could well have noticed a car parked opposite, when she was making and eating her tea. So far, her statement rang true.
When she answered the door, Gemma smiled at a woman nearly as tall as herself, but even thinner, with a long swathe of iron-grey hair held up and back in a somewhat messy bun. Her pale-blue eyes looked washed out, but alert, and when Gemma showed her her ID, she smiled but sighed.
‘Best come in then. But I warn you, I told that young lad all I know.’
Gemma murmured soothingly that she was sure that she had, and wasn’t surprised when she was led into a small, obviously little-used front room that overlooked a rugged and overgrown garden.
‘I just wanted to show you some pictures, Miss Grant.’ Gemma sat down on the wooden, hard-backed chair shown to her, and laid out the first photograph on the table set between them. The old lady put on a pair of glasses and looked at the glossy print in almost comical surprise.
‘It’s a car,’ she said, baffled. She might just as well have said ‘it’s a UFO’. Obviously, she’d been expecting mug-shots, or something along those lines.
‘Yes, Miss Grant,’ Gemma explained patiently. ‘You saw a car parked just across the road, on the thirtieth of April. The same night that a young man was killed over there. Does this car look anything like the one you remember seeing?’ The top picture was of a 1995 Maserati in dark-blue.
‘Oh no. No, like I said, it was a classic car. Low down on the ground. Must have been draughty to ride in it, I can tell you.’
‘Draughty? You mean it had an open top,’ Gemma said, craftily selecting a picture of a convertible. ‘Like this?’
Phillipa Grant looked at the picture of a Lotus and sighed testily. ‘No, no, dear. It’s like I told that young man, it was a really old sports car. You know, like something the Great Gatsby would drive.’
Gemma smiled tightly. ‘Something from the 1930s then,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘A classic. Like an old Morgan?’
Phillipa Grant blinked. Gemma sighed, thanked her, and took her leave.
Hillary was feeling restless. With Barrington still sorting out whatever was bugging him, and with Ross AWOLas usual, she didn’t even have anyone to bounce ideas around with. Until the DNA results came back, there was little forensic evidence that needed checking out, so that left talking to people.
Not that Hillary had any objections to that. She was quite good at listening. She grabbed the list of the Ale and Arty Club and picked a ‘stop-out’ at random, seeing that a certain Ms Felicity Wilson had been out both times that Barrington had called on her. She lived no
t far away, in the village of Yarnton, and worked at the big garden centre there. Figuring that Wilson was more likely to be at work than at home at this time of day, she drove straight to the sprawling centre, and had to hunt around for a parking space. What with the glorious weather, and with spring all around, the place was packed.
She tried the woman at the till first, who called a supervisor, who informed her that ‘Flick’ was working in the insect house that day. Like most garden centres, Yarnton had diversified, and sold not only begonias, but whole conservatories, daisies and the ceramic pots to go with them, daffs and hamsters, petunias and cat carriers. And, in the insect house, lizards, parrots, cockroaches, snakes and spiders. And rabbits. Who mostly eyed the snakes with worried, twitching noses.
Flick Wilson was a thirty-something, rounded woman, with a pink face courtesy of the heat, and surprised eyes.
‘Police? Good grief, what did I do?’
Hillary smiled. ‘Nothing, I hope Ms Wilson. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Wayne Sutton.’
‘Wayne? Why, what’s he done now?’ she laughed. She had thin, mousy-brown hair, which kept sticking to her damp cheeks, making her constantly push it away and tuck it behind her ears. She shot Hillary a slightly nervous look. ‘I know he’s a bit of a bad boy, but surely he hasn’t done anything that you would be interested in.’ She opened up a glass-fronted cage and threw some dead grasshoppers inside. Hillary tried not to watch as a corn snake slithered out of hiding and glided forward.
‘Don’t tell me one of his women finally made a complaint!’ Flick carried on, her voice becoming more and more tense. ‘He must be losing his touch if they have.’
