Beside a Narrow Stream

by Faith Martin

  Gemma, back in her days in uniform, knew a drug dealer who used to keep his stash in bars of soap. He’d cut them in half with a razor, hollow it out, stash the gear, then join the two halves together by wetting them and rubbing his hands over them. No doubt he’d thought that soap was the last place a strung out, filthy junkie would ever think of looking.

  Hillary Greene’s soap was pristine.

  She walked on down the corridor, hearing the sound of the approaching narrowboat getting louder. But just then, the throttle was eased back. Presumably, it was going to moor up nearby. But that didn’t worry her much. Why should it? The narrowboat community was, by its very nature, transitory. Even if someone saw her on this boat, how was the newcomer to know that it was not her property?

  Gemma found herself approaching the biggest room on the vessel – if anything on this tiny pencil-box of a boat could be called big. The open-plan galley cum living area.

  She sighed, and began with the only chair – a padded arm chair. Nothing.

  With a sigh, she got down on her knees and started on the first cupboard, opening and checking packets of coffee, looking in cornflake boxes, digging a spoon around the sugar bowl.

  A detailed and thorough search took time and patience, and Gemma, suddenly, was glad that the boat was so tiny. After all, there could only be a certain number of places where anybody could hide something in a dwelling like this.

  Hillary Greene walked into the lobby of Headquarters, and nodded at Barrington. ‘Take Mr Freeman into Interview Room Four, would you, Constable?’ She could tell, by the absence of a light lit up over the door, that it was available. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  Keith nodded and ushered through the bemused, and growingly worried, Victor Freeman. He hadn’t wanted to come to the station, but Hillary had been insistent. If he was going to lie to her, he could at least give her the courtesy of doing so on her home patch.

  She went up to her desk to check on her messages, and have a cup of coffee. Let the man sweat for half an hour. It would do him good.

  Nancy Walker hopped off her boat, Willowsands, and on to the towpath. She was wearing an old fashioned pair of turquoise hot pants that she’d bought in the seventies, and had worn practically every summer since. Her blouse was white lace – and she was braless underneath. For an old bird nudging fifty-five, she looked, at a distance, like a teenager.

  Next, she retrieved a whopping great mallet from the prow of her boat, and proceeded to hammer iron pegs into the towpath, fore and aft, like the seasoned professional she was. She then tied off the ropes either end and stood up, looking around, a wide smile on her sun-kissed face.

  She was glad to be back. Stratford-upon-Avon had been good to her, but there was only so much Shakespeare a gal could stand. A long-time divorcee, she liked her men young, and preferably to form a neat and orderly queue. In her time in Warwickshire, she’d been compared to practically every Shakespearean heroine there ever was.

  Which was very gratifying. But, after a while, a bit wearing. Time, she’d decided, to return to Oxford, where the student body was far more diverse.

  She glanced across at her old friend’s boat, glad to see the Mollern in such good shape. Hillary must have had her repainted that spring. She was looking forward to catching up with her friend and hearing all her latest exploits.

  She hopped back on board Willowsands and went to the fridge. She had plenty of ice, still. She’d make up a jug of margaritas, ready for when Hillary finally clocked off work. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a narrowboat door closing, very close by, and moved curiously to her open door.

  Outside, she saw a tall blonde woman hop off Hillary’s boat, and she raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t thought the dedicated copper would be home at this time of day. It must be one of her rare days off.

  Smiling, she quickly made up the jug of booze and, carrying it carefully next door, banged vociferously on the hatch.

  ‘Come on, copper, open up,’ she yelled, grinning. The grin slowly faded, a few minutes later, as she realized that nobody was home. And the padlock was neatly re-locked.

  She went slowly back to her own boat, casting a curious, just slightly anxious glance over her shoulder as she did so.

  She hadn’t recognized Hillary’s visitor, though she obviously had the run of the place. Nancy felt a sudden pang as she wondered if Hillary had sold the boat, and the striking blonde woman was now her new neighbour.

  After all, she’d been gone almost a year. When she’d left, Hillary hadn’t had any plans to move off and go land-lubber, but things changed.

  With a sigh, Nancy went down below on her own boat and decided to make a solo start on the margaritas.

  ‘He just offered me a lift, that’s all,’ Victor Freeman said, sounding in equal measures exasperated and scared. ‘He saw me rush out of the house after Pauline, but miss her, and asked if he could help. I told him I needed to get to the shop, and that Pauline had taken the van. Since my car was in the garage, I said yes, thanks, and that’s it. He drove me to the nursery and then went off somewhere. And before you ask, no I don’t know where he went, he didn’t say and I didn’t ask.’

  Hillary looked at him thoughtfully. According to the witness, his wife had left their home in Deddington to deliver some plants to a regular customer, just as the phone had rung. Another customer, who could only get into the Banbury nursery that morning, wanted to buy some expensive magnolia trees. Maybe as many as five or six. Although the garden centre was usually closed on a Monday morning, it would have been a good sale for them, so Vic had shot out of the house, hoping to catch his wife. But she’d already pulled away from the end of the road.

  ‘If that’s all there was to it, Mr Freeman, why did you say earlier that you’d never been in his car?’ Hillary asked, not unreasonably.

  Victor Freeman flushed. ‘I just panicked, didn’t I? It’s not every day your daughter’s boyfriend gets murdered.’ He swallowed hard. ‘You threw me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting the question.’

  ‘Why did you never mention this lift Wayne gave you when I interviewed you before?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. I mean, that was Monday morning, hours and hours before … well, before he was killed. You only seemed interested in what I did and where I was during the late afternoon and evening. I didn’t think it mattered,’ he trailed off defensively, shoulders hunched.

  Hillary was about to take him through it yet again, when Frank Ross came into the room, leaned over her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Hillary, ignoring the waft of BO that usually accompanied Frank, nodded, stood up, and told Barrington to stay with the witness.

  Outside, Frank nodded his head. ‘She’s out there. Turned up five minutes ago in a right state demanding to know why you’d arrested her Dad.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘OK, show her into the next room,’ she said, and returned to Victor Freeman. Once again, she took him through his story. Once again he told it the same way. Then she went next door, sat down in front of his daughter, and smiled.

  ‘Now, Miss Freeman. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mrs Bevis said you arrested Dad. I want to know what for!’ the young girl demanded belligerently. She looked badly scared.

  ‘Mrs Bevis?’

  ‘The woman who owns the hairdresser’s next door to Dad’s shop,’ Monica explained impatiently. ‘I went to see Mum and Dad to ask them if they wanted to spend the lunch hour with me. Mrs Bevis told me then.’

  Hillary glanced at her watch and saw that it was indeed nearly one o’clock. ‘I see. But your father hasn’t been arrested, Miss Freeman,’ she said gently.

  Monica Freeman let out a great whoosh of air. ‘He hasn’t?’

  ‘No. We simply wanted to ask him some questions.’ But Hillary found it very interesting to see that Monica had leapt to that conclusion. Why had she? Was she, deep down, convinced that her father had killed her boyfriend? Had she just been waiting, as it were, for the other shoe to dro
p?

  And why should she think that?

  chapter thirteen

  Hillary Greene decided to eat a sandwich at her desk rather than go up to the canteen, and sent Barrington out for chicken salad bagels from the local bakery. Having her junior officers run such errands wasn’t something she’d normally have done, and Barrington knew it, so he was feeling miserable and still very much in the doghouse as he sat back down at his desk, and started to watch the screen of his computer.

  He was still compiling data on Heyford Sudbury, and decided to set up a database and run all the reports on the case so far through it. He was rather surprised when two hits came up.

  ‘Guv, two witnesses in the Sutton case mentioned Heyford Sudbury when questioned, both in connection with these high-class friends Colin Blake knew. The ones the vic was so jealous and scathing about.’

  Hillary, chewing thoughtfully, raised an eyebrow, indicating that she wanted more information.

  ‘I remember now, Druther, one of them from the Ale and Arty Club telling me about it. Thought the pal lived in Heyford Sudbury, or one of the other Cotswoldy places.’ Barrington searched through his files, found the right page, and handed over his interview notes.

  Hillary read it through, beginning to frown. She’d had such high hopes for Heyford Sudbury, but now she was beginning to wonder. What if Wayne Sutton had only wanted to put a spoke in Colin Blake’s wheels? It sounded the sort of thing their murder victim would do. Knowing Wayne, he’d probably set out to seduce the wife or sister or daughter of the aristo in question, then make it clear that Colin Blake had introduced them. On the other hand maybe he’d found out something about the aristo he wouldn’t want bandied about. Had he tried a spot of blackmail? And had the aristocratic blackmailee not liked it and decided to murder his persecutor instead of paying up?

  Either way, it had to be a potential lead that was worth chasing up. ‘OK Barrington, find out the name of this friend of Blake’s – easiest way is to get it straight from the horse’s mouth.’ Then, when Barrington reached for the phone, presumably to call the butcher, something made her change her mind. ‘No. On second thoughts, see if you can find out without Blake’s help.’

  Sometimes, it paid to keep your witnesses and suspects in the dark.

  She leaned back in her chair and finished her sandwich, wondering what Monica Freeman and her father were talking about, right about now. She’d let them go after another hour’s questioning, deciding she was just wasting her time. So what if Wayne Sutton had given his girlfriend’s father a lift on the morning before he was killed? It was hardly proof of anything. True, they could have used the car journey into Banbury to arrange a meeting later, but why would Wayne agree to meet Victor Freeman in a meadow at eight o’clock at night? It hardly sounded credible.

  She sighed and rubbed her tired eyes. Once this case broke, she’d take a few days leave and take the Mollern somewhere. Maybe up to Stratford to see if she could meet up with Nancy, and take in a show. Or maybe head towards Gloucester way. All this talk about the Cotswolds was making her yearn for a taste of the real thing.

  Either way, it was no good inviting Mike Regis of course – he’d hate it.

  She reached for her last sandwich and bit into it with a small frown. She was going to have to do something about Mike. But what, exactly? What was it she wanted?

  As she considered that, she realized that all she wanted was for things to go on exactly like they were. She didn’t want to move in with him, or sell her boat, or worry about maybe, one day, getting married again. She liked things casual and easy. She liked being on her own six nights out of the week. Like most single people, she’d grown selfish, and had got out of the habit of sharing. She liked being able to do whatever she wanted, without consulting anyone else, or wondering if another person would be happy with her choices.

  The trouble was, she was becoming more and more convinced that Mike Regis wanted something far different.

  Her appetite gone, she put the half-eaten sandwich down, rewrapped it in its greaseproof paper and slipped it into her bag. She’d feed the moorhens with it later. There were a pair nesting more or less opposite her boat, and the fluffy black chicks would be hatching soon.

  Suddenly, the thought of ever leaving the canal made her feel abruptly depressed. She muttered something uncomplimentary about a certain vice detective under her breath, and reached for the latest report.

  Barrington began to phone members of the Ale and Arty Club. One of them must know the name of Colin Blake’s wealthy upper-crust pal.

  Gemma Fordham drove back to HQ, scowling. She had found nothing on Hillary Greene’s boat that remotely aroused her interest. No small slivers of paper with a set of numbers on them, no hidden bank receipts or books, no strange entries on her passport.

  The only thing that had been slightly out of place was a Dick Francis book amongst all the highbrow stuff the DI read. It had been enough to make her pull out the tatty paperback for a closer inspection, but then she’d realized that the inscription had been made out by Ronnie, so that was probably why DI Greene had kept it.

  If her taste ran to Austen, the Brontës, the metaphysical poets and all classics in between, she couldn’t see her boss actually reading the horsy thriller.

  Still, searching the boat had always been a long shot, she reminded herself stoutly, pulling into the parking lot and searching for a space. Someone as clever as DI Greene would hardly be likely to leave anything useful where it could be got at so easily. Tomorrow, she’d have to do a little bit of computer hacking, and see if she could find anything more interesting.

  Hillary Greene had sold her marital home last winter, for instance, but before that, she must have had some sort of storage lock-up or rental to keep her things in, when Ronnie had still been alive and in residence. Perhaps she’d kept it up. Now a place like that was something that Gemma would be very keen to search.

  She knew that Hillary’s mother was still alive as well, so perhaps she kept something there. But breaking in there would have to be a last resort. And she still had Gary Greene, Ronnie’s son, to check out yet.

  Patience, Gemma thought grimly, as she locked up her car and walked towards the main building. Sooner or later, she’d find what she was looking for.

  She smiled at the desk sergeant as she walked past him and ran lightly up the stairs.

  Hillary knocked on Paul Danvers’s office and gave him an update on the case so far. He agreed that the Freemans seemed, on the face of it, unlikely suspects, and listened, poker-faced, as she ran through all that they had so far.

  It wasn’t a lot. Apart from the good forensics, which would be useless unless they could find a proper suspect to match them up with, there was nothing that stood out, though he could tell she was industriously following up every strand, as usual. In the end, he knew he could trust her dogged determination to win through, in the absence of luck or inspiration.

  ‘Well, so far, no other dead men have turned up with paper hearts on their chests,’ he said dryly, which was probably their only consolation about now. ‘What about this Denise Collier woman? She sounds the type we want – a bit unstable, and jealous as a cat. She was heard arguing with the victim. And it seems almost certain that Wayne Sutton was meeting a woman in that field.’

  Hillary sighed, and recounted her theory that Collier probably didn’t have the necessary height or upper body strength to commit this type of murder.

  Danvers nodded reluctant agreement. He was wearing a pale-grey suit, a white shirt with an ultra-thin cerise stripe, and a matching tie that gave a startling splash of colour that contrasted well with his pale-blond hair. He was, as always, impeccably shaved, his nails clean and probably manicured.

  Hillary, today dressed in a claret-coloured two-piece suit that was at least five years old, felt dowdy and sweat-stained by comparison. She wished the DCI would get himself another girlfriend, and soon. It made her nervous to have him so obviously available. Especially when he kept look
ing at her like he was doing now.

  ‘How’s Mike Regis?’ Danvers asked, right on cue, and as if reading her mind.

  Hillary smiled brightly. ‘Fine. I was thinking, when this case was over, I might take a few days of my summer holiday, and he and I could take the boat somewhere.’

  Danvers smile faded, his blue eyes darkening somewhat. ‘Splendid. Mind you, it doesn’t look as if the case is about to crack anytime soon. You seem to have plenty of theories and suspects, but no solid leads. This Annie character still being elusive?’

  ‘Very,’ Hillary agreed grimly. In fact, she was beginning to have severe doubts about Annie.

  Her boss sighed and put both hands down flat on the table in a ‘well-let’s-get-on-with-it’ gesture. ‘Keep me informed if anything interesting turns up,’ he said by way of dismissal, already reaching for a file from his tray. When he sensed her turn around to walk to the door, however, his eyes quickly rose to follow her progress. He watched her leave, and gave a mental shrug.

  Patience, he told himself grimly. Patience.

  Gemma Fordham glanced up as a stranger approached their desks and took the chair in front of Hillary Greene.

  Her DI looked up and grinned widely. ‘Sam! What’s up?’

  Sergeant Sam Waterstone, a big man with dark hair and instantly forgettable features smiled back. ‘Got something you might be interested in. A nasty little weasel by the name of Coles. Ever come across him? He’s been around for a while.’

  Hillary’s eyes narrowed. The name rang a bell. ‘Malkie Coles? A smash-and-grab merchant? Responsible for a whole outbreak of ram-raiding a few years back?’

  ‘That’s the little scrote,’ Sam agreed, nodding. ‘Done for aggravated burglary, GBH, and his last stretch was for a jewel heist up Birmingham way.’