Beside a Narrow Stream

by Faith Martin

  Gemma left a note on Hillary’s desk telling her where she’d gone and her estimated time back at the office. The drive back to Deddington was a fairly easy one at first, since most of the traffic was coming into Oxford, not out. Once nearer Deddington itself, the rush hour traffic for those going into Banbury began to clog the roads around her, and she turned on the radio to listen to the local news.

  The more sensational aspects of Wayne Sutton’s murder – namely the red paper heart found with the body, and his career as a gigolo – had all been kept under wraps, so the story no longer even rated a mention. But that might all change when an arrest was made. And that an arrest would be made, she never for a moment doubted. Failure wasn’t part of her make-up, and this was her first murder case as second fiddle, so to speak. Even if Hillary Greene for some reason, fumbled this murder case (and that would be the first time she ever had) she, Gemma, would pick up the reins. After all, she knew everything Hillary knew. Her DI made it a point, with the murder book, to ensure that every member of her team knew all that she knew. A generous act, some would have said. Just asking for trouble, others might have said. But Gemma got the clear impression that Hillary Greene wasn’t a glory seeker. She took her training up of younger officers seriously, for a start. Gemma knew that both Janine Tyler and Tommy Lynch, the DS and DC on Hillary’s team before her own arrival, had both risen a rank and moved on, and that Greene seemed genuinely pleased about it. And she’d seen for herself how she was handling Barrington, showing him the ropes, giving him gradually more and more responsibility and firmly guiding him in the right direction.

  What’s more, she knew from her own efforts at getting transferred to Hillary’s team, that both Mel Mallow, DS Donleavy, and her own DI back at Reading, were all happy to hand her over to DI Greene for the next level of her education. Without false modesty, Gemma knew that her superiors considered her a high flier. And they wouldn’t have transferred her unless they’d all agreed that Hillary Greene would be good for her.

  The thought made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. Already Hillary was trusting her with high priority stuff. And she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder and checking up on her either.

  If Gemma Fordham had been anyone other than Gemma Fordham, it might have occurred to her that her uneasy feeling could be put down to a guilty conscience. Instead, she turned off the radio and wondered when she could safely get on to Hillary’s boat and search it.

  Keith Barrington drove into work early too, but even so, saw from the note on Hillary’s desk, that Gemma Fordham had been even quicker off the mark.

  He sat down at his computer and stared morosely at his desk top. Gavin had returned to London yesterday, but hadn’t called him last night, or this morning either, so he had no way of knowing how things had gone at Sir Reginald’s questioning.

  He suspected that Hillary Greene, who was popular with everyone, and had had twenty years to work up her own network, would be able to find out with a single phone call. If he asked her. But how could he ask her without explaining why?

  No. He wasn’t ready to trust her with all that yet. Besides, it might all blow over. You never knew your luck.

  Gemma rang the bell at the cottage opposite the victim’s residence, and smiled briefly at the woman who opened the door. She already had her ID card out, and let the other woman scrutinize it.

  Sylvia Mulberry was a short brunette with slightly myopic eyes. She looked to be struggling manfully against entering her sixties, but was failing. The fine crepe lines around her eyes and lips told their own story, as did the raised veins on her ageing hands.

  ‘Oh yes, you rang earlier. Please, come on in. I’ve only just got back from a business trip to Scotland, so I didn’t know about Wayne until last night. I suppose it’s about him, right?’

  Gemma confirmed that it was, and followed the older woman into a small, neat living-room. The art, she noticed, was strictly of the old-fashioned school. So she was probably not one of Wayne’s clients.

  Sylvia Mulberry sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. She was wearing a long plaid skirt and white blouse, and had a ring on almost every finger. She yawned now, and instantly apologized. ‘Sorry. Like I said, I only got back from Scotland late yesterday afternoon. What with unpacking, writing up my report, and then gossiping about Wayne, I didn’t get to bed till late. So, what can I tell you?’

  ‘When did you leave for Scotland, Mrs Mulberry?’

  ‘First of May. Travelled up by train, first thing.’ She gave a slight laugh. ‘I try not to fly if I don’t have to.’

  Gemma smiled. ‘And you knew Wayne Sutton well?’

  ‘No, not well. He moved in over the road some time ago. An artist, I understand. Always seemed very pleasant. I was worried he might be loud – you know, being an artist, that he might throw all sorts of parties and invite around undesirable types, but luckily, that never happened. The only people I saw visiting him were mostly middle-aged women. Very respectable.’

  Gemma wondered if she really was ignorant of what Wayne Sutton had done with those respectable middle-aged women, or if she’d guessed and was pretending not to know. Either way, she decided not to push it.

  ‘Did you see anything on the day before you left, Mrs Mulberry? That would be the afternoon and evening of the last day in April. Monday night, in fact?’

  Sylvia opened her mouth as if to give an automatic ‘no’, in response, then promptly closed it again. A near-smile crossed her face, and then she frowned, as if at the inappropriateness of it.

  ‘Well, now that you ask, I did notice a bit of fracas over there. About five-thirty, six o’clock time. Mind you, I only noticed because I was upstairs packing for the trip. And it was so hot, I had all the bedroom windows open – as did Wayne I suppose, because I could hear the raised voices quite distinctly.’

  Gemma felt her breath quicken, and forced herself to write calmly into her notebook. ‘Raised voices? Did you recognize them?’

  ‘Well, his, yes,’ Sylvia said. ‘But hers – no. Well, why would I?’

  Gemma nodded. She had the feeling that Sylvia Mulberry was probably one of those rare women who really didn’t care much what their neighbours got up to. Nice for Wayne, probably, but a bit of a blow for the police.

  ‘Could you make out what the argument was about?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Sylvia said, instantly confirming her judgement. ‘I don’t much care for other people’s arguments. Besides, I was going back and forth from the drawers and to my wardrobe and back to the suitcase, and then into the bathroom for toiletries, and so on. So I only heard snatches.’

  ‘But those snatches?’ Gemma prompted, reluctant to give up.

  ‘Oh, well, I gather the woman was berating him for something or other. Another woman, I thought.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw the woman enter Wayne’s cottage?’

  ‘No,’ Sylvia said, and sighed. ‘But I did see her leave.’

  Gemma smiled. ‘And can you describe her please?’

  Sylvia screwed up her eyes in effort, then opened them again and gave a shrug. ‘Well she was about my size. Not overly tall, you know. And she had short red hair. She had on a rather bright kaftan thing – it looked expensive. That’s about all I can tell you.’

  Gemma smiled radiantly.

  It was enough.

  ‘And the description was a dead ringer for Denise Collier?’ Hillary Green said, half an hour later, as she listened to her sergeant’s report.

  ‘Right, guv,’ Gemma said, having read Barrington’s account of the interview with her, which had included a fairly comprehensive physical description of the witness. ‘Given what other people have already said about Denise Collier being more possessive and jealous than the rest, it all fits.’

  Hillary nodded. Indeed it did. ‘And Ms Collier was very careful not to tell us about it when we interviewed her, wasn’t she?’ she glanced across at Barrington, and smiled. ‘OK, you and Keith go and bring her in.’


  She glanced across at Frank Ross’s empty desk, and sighed. ‘Call in at Frank’s place on the way. If he’s there, roust him out of bed and take him as well. I want you to go in mob handed and rattle her a bit.’ Besides, it was the only way of being sure of getting some work out of the lazy sod.

  ‘Right, guv,’ Gemma said with a smile. She was rather looking forward to this.

  At the window of a downstairs kitchenette, George Davies was making himself a mug of tea. The window overlooked the car park, and as he raised his mug to his lips, he saw the striking blonde woman again.

  He blew on his piping hot tea thoughtfully.

  It wasn’t here that he saw her. Not in Kidlington. Of that he was suddenly certain. And it wasn’t on a case either. He had a pretty good memory for suspects and witnesses alike – a facility he’d used to good effect on the beat.

  So he must have seen her in some sort of a social setting. Or at least, in some kind of situation where he hadn’t felt the particular need to memorize her face. But where?

  He sighed, and took his mug through to the duty room to check the roster. It’d come back to him sooner or later.

  Denise Collier was not happy. She wasn’t happy to be taken from her home at nine o’clock in the morning, before she’d got her face on. She wasn’t happy to be put into the back of a car by three near-strangers, in full view of all her curious, bitchy, gossiping neighbours. And she sure as hell wasn’t happy to be taken to a police station, and shown into some dreary little room.

  The moment Hillary Greene walked in, she said snappily, ‘I want to see a solicitor.’

  Hillary Greene smiled, and turned around again. ‘All right, Ms Collier. Do you have his phone number? Or would you like me to arrange the duty solicitor to see you?’

  ‘Certainly not! A man from Cummings, Lester and Bolt sees to all my legal needs. Please call them and ask for Mr Milton Lester.’

  Hillary smiled again and left, indicating Frank to stay with her. So it was going to be one of those days, was it? Well, she was probably due one. Beside her, Barrington and Fordham glanced at each other uneasily. It was always a complication when a witness asked for a brief.

  ‘OK, Keith, get on it,’ Hillary said. ‘Gemma, while we’re waiting, I want you to take a look at the progress the men have made so far on Heyford Sudbury. See what you can add to it.’

  Gemma nodded. ‘And, guv, there’s no history of stalking or mental illness in Collier’s past that I’ve been able to find.’

  Hillary sighed in acceptance.

  Outside, the first cloud in days, or so it seemed, passed across the sun and threw the day into welcome shade. The weather forecasters, however, hadn’t predicted any break in the heatwave.

  Milton Lester was a tall, thin, seventy-something, who looked very uneasy to be in a police interview room. No doubt Denise Collier had used him for her divorce and the buying of her house, but he looked the sort who’d run a mile at the mention of the word ‘criminal’. Hillary also doubted that he’d seen the inside of a courtroom for years, but she was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  She introduced herself to the tape, added that DS Ross, Mr Milton Lester, solicitor, and a PC Davies, were also present. She gave the interview tape number, and then Denise Collier’s name.

  Then she looked across at Denise and said softly, ‘Lying to the police in the course of a murder investigation is most unwise, Ms Collier. If nothing else, it can lead to charges such as wilful obstruction of police officers in the course of their duties, and attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  She saw Milton Lester tug on one cufflink uneasily.

  Denise Collier shrugged graphically. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You told us that on the evening Wayne Sutton was murdered, you stayed at home all the afternoon, evening and night, and never went out.’

  ‘That’s right. I did.’

  ‘That wasn’t true,’ Hillary said flatly.

  ‘Yes, it was!’

  Hillary sighed. ‘I’m giving you the opportunity to change your testimony, Ms Collier. I strongly advise that you take it.’

  ‘My client has already answered your question, Inspector Greene,’ Milton Lester piped up.

  Hillary sighed and stood up. ‘Very well.’ She terminated the interview for the tape, and a look of vast relief crossed Denise Collier’s face.

  ‘I can go?’ she asked, making to rise.

  ‘No, Ms Collier, you can’t,’ Hillary said flatly. ‘You will stay here whilst I organize an identity parade.’

  Denise stared at her, then looked uncertainly across at her solicitor. ‘Can they do that?’ she asked faintly.

  Milton Lester nodded miserably to indicate that, indeed, they could. For a moment, Hillary thought that Denise was going to give in. Then she got a hard, tight, mean look on her face and shrugged graphically, obviously deciding to take her chances.

  Hillary shrugged and left them to it. Frank Ross, arms folded across his chest, continued to stare at her insolently. Milton Lester fiddled with his cufflinks.

  Outside, Hillary nodded to Gemma, who was watching from the observation room. ‘Go and get Mrs Mulberry.’

  Gemma hurried out.

  Hillary reached for her mobile and called upstairs. ‘DC Barrington,’ the familiar male voice answered.

  ‘Keith, we’re doing an identity parade. Go out and round up five women for me – shortish, reddish hair. You’ll find a few WPC’s who fit the description, but make sure they change into civvies. And ask Super O’Gorman’s secretary – she fits, oh, and the dinner lady, Vera. It’ll give her a laugh. You should have enough with that lot.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  Syliva Mulberry didn’t look very happy when she walked into the observation room, but she seemed co-operative enough.

  After introducing her to DI Greene, Gemma took her through it carefully. ‘It’s very simple, Mrs Mulberry. In a moment, six women, all carrying a numbered card, will walk in through the door and line up. They can’t see you, and will not be told your name. All you have to do is look at them carefully, and tell us if you see the woman you saw leaving Wayne Sutton’s cottage on the afternoon of the thirtieth April. If you want a closer look at one of them, just call the number of the one you want, and we’ll ask her to step closer to the window,’ she added, mindful of the witness’s myopia.

  ‘All right. But what if I don’t see her there?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘Just say so, Mrs Mulberry,’ Hillary said calmly, and the other women nodded, and straightened her shoulders slightly, as if prepared to do an onerous duty. Hillary, satisfied, nodded to Gemma, who pressed a buzzer. A moment later, six women, and a male PC, walked into the room.

  Hillary ran her eye over them and nodded. All six women were of a muchness. Nothing there for a defence barrister to cry foul over.

  Denise Collier, looking pale and defiant, was number two.

  As always, when giving an identity parade, Hillary felt the tension build in her shoulders. It was always the same. There was something intrinsically dramatic about proceedings like this.

  ‘It’s number two,’ Sylvia Mulberry said firmly.

  Gemma smiled triumphantly, and Hillary thanked her.

  ‘Will I have to go to court and say as much again?’ Sylvia asked, and Hillary spread her hands in a so-so gesture.

  ‘It’s hard to say at this point, Mrs Mulberry. Why? Would it be a problem for you?’

  ‘No,’ Sylvia said at last. ‘It’s her all right. But I don’t want to get tied up in any court case. I’m a busy woman. I’m not sure I can get time off work.’

  Hillary nodded, but was largely uninterested in her woes. ‘The WPC outside will drive you back, Mrs Mulberry.’

  Denise Collier glanced up when Hillary came in to the interview room for the second time. Once again, Hillary went through the routine for the tape.

  ‘Well, Ms Collier, you were picked out of the line-up,’ Hillary began briskly, faci
ng her across the table once more. ‘The witness who both saw and heard you arguing with Wayne Sutton just hours before he was murdered was quite firm and adamant in her identification. Now, given that, are you prepared to tell us the truth?’

  Milton Lester leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Denise Collier scowled. Milton whispered something else, and she sighed heavily.

  ‘Oh all right,’ she said petulantly. ‘I went to Wayne’s cottage that day. It was about four o’clock.’

  Hillary coughed gently. ‘Our witness puts it closer to half-five, six o’clock.’

  Denise scowled. ‘Nosy old bat! I suppose it was one of those gossiping old biddies who lived around there? Fine, perhaps it was later. But after we argued, I left, and that’s that. I never went back, and I never saw Wayne alive again.’

  Suddenly, she burst into tears.

  Milton Lester looked appalled.

  Hillary sighed and reached for the tissues.

  chapter twelve

  Denise Collier dried her eyes, and sniffed hard. She shot Hillary Greene an ‘it’s-all-your-fault’ look and dabbed her eyes again.

  ‘I keep telling you people. I was the only one Wayne truly loved. I’m the only one who’s got a right to mourn him.’

  Hillary nodded gravely, and asked flatly, ‘What did you do when you left his place?’

  ‘I went straight home, of course,’ Denise said, sounding surprised. ‘I needed a drink and a shower. And before you ask, I stayed home all the rest of the night.’

  Hillary nodded, and reached into her case to bring out the red paper heart found on the body. It was now encased in a see-through evidence bag. There had, of course, been no fingerprints found on it. ‘Do you recognize this, Ms Collier?’ she asked, watching the other woman closely. She didn’t think Denise Collier was the sort of woman to have a poker face, and Hillary was fairly confident that if the suspect did in fact recognize it, then it would be evident. But the only emotions she could see on the redhead’s face were a faint scowl of belligerence, followed by a touch of puzzlement.