by Faith Martin
Mel laughed. ‘Well, here’s to another successful case.’ He’d already opened the wine, and now poured the last of it into their glasses.
Frank Ross drank his quickly, and left. He preferred beer or whisky. Barrington too, seemed fidgety, and Hillary watched him with a jaundiced eye. He wanted to be somewhere else, badly. Perhaps she’d give him the rest of the weekend off to try and get it sorted – whatever the crisis was. There were still a lot of loose ends to be tied up, but she could tell he’d probably be useless to her in this state.
Gemma Fordham was the only one drinking orange juice. She looked very satisfied to be associated with a successful and high-profile murder case, for already the media, scenting something glamorous and a touch out of the ordinary, was sniffing around.
Yes, she’d let Gemma handle the bulk of the cleaning up, Hillary mused. It would keep her busy, and that patrician nose of hers out of Hillary’s business for a little while.
‘Well, if nobody objects, I think I’ll call it a day,’ Hillary said, getting up. ‘Gemma, I’d like you and Ross to stay for a while. The art squad will probably have questions and the media need to be seen to.’ She glanced at Mel, who nodded that he’d see to it from here on in.
Outside, Hillary walked across the car park, and once level with Puff the Tragic Wagon, stretched luxuriously. It felt good to be out in the fresh air, after the tense afternoon inside. She was just opening her car door, when she heard someone cough apologetically behind her. She turned around, and found herself facing a chubby man in uniform.
‘George Davies, ma’am.’ His smile looked distinctly uneasy. Hillary, puzzled and eager to get home to relax, wondered what was up.
‘Something I can help you with, Constable?’ she asked, firmly but pleasantly.
George Davies nodded miserably and glanced around, but they had the parking lot to themselves.
‘Thing is, ma’am, I was wondering if you knew about your new DS,’ he began, and flushed uneasily.
‘DS Fordham, you mean?’ Hillary asked sharply, turning away from the open door of her car to face him more squarely head on.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Davies confirmed, staring down at his boots. ‘Thing is, ma’am, I recognize her from a brief stint I did down in Reading. Oh, she weren’t in the force then, not when I saw her. She was a youngster, like, still at Uni.’
Hillary blinked. ‘Yes?’ she asked, wondering why the constable was looking so furtive. Surely the fastidious Gemma hadn’t been up to something naughty? Like paying for her student fees by doing a bit of prostitution on the side?
‘Yes. Thing is ma’am … she, er … that is …’ When it came to it, George faltered. This was a DI, after all, a woman who’d earned a medal for valour.
‘Just spit it out, constable,’ Hillary advised quietly. ‘I won’t shoot the messenger, and it’s obviously something important, or you wouldn’t have come to me. If it’s nothing official, I shan’t repeat what you say, or mention your name.’
‘Oh no, ma’am, it’s nothing to do with the job, like. It’s just … I thought you should know. You’re held in high regard round here, ma’am, and I think you should know … well …’
He met her calm, dark-brown eyes, and blurted out, ‘That sergeant of yours was with your husband, ma’am.’ And then he promptly stared at his feet again.
Hillary felt herself go cold then hot. Damn! Did the humiliations never end? Even five years dead, that bastard of a husband of hers was still making her life a misery.
She drew in a long, hard breath. ‘I see,’ she said calmly. ‘Thank you for telling me, Constable Davies. I take it nobody else knows about this?’
‘Oh no, ma’am,’ George looked appalled. ‘I ain’t told no one and never will. I just thought that you should know, ma’am. Seeing as how it might be awkward like.’
Hillary nodded and forced a smile. ‘Thank you, George, I appreciate it,’ she said, sincerely. ‘If I see you in the canteen sometime, I’ll stand you to dinner.’
George Davies nodded, relieved she was taking it so well. ‘Right-oh, ma’am. I’ll be off then,’ he said, and with that, turned and scarpered.
Hillary didn’t blame him.
She felt like scarpering herself.
Instead, she got in her car and drove numbly home. On her boat, she opened another bottle of wine and poured a glass. She drank it slowly, with her mind whirling.
So Gemma had been one of Ronnie’s old girlfriends. Blonde and young, she’d been just his type. But Ronnie must have dumped her long before he died in the car crash, and Gemma herself had gone on to join the force and rise to the rank of sergeant. She couldn’t still be holding a candle for Ronnie, or, by association, a grudge against herself.
So why had she transferred to Hillary’s team? What was she after? What had prompted her to search the boat?
The answer came in a flash, and Hillary abruptly sat up in her chair, sloshing wine over her slacks.
Of course!
Gemma Fordham was searching for the money. She was trying to track down Ronnie’s dirty millions.
Hillary Greene leaned back in her chair and began to laugh.
By the Same Author
A NARROW ESCAPE
ON THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW
NARROW IS THE WAY
BY A NARROW MAJORITY
THROUGH A NARROW DOOR
WITH A NARROW BLADE
Copyright
© Faith Martin 2008
First published in Great Britain 2008
This ebook edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7090 9990 1 (epub)
ISBN978 0 7090 9991 8 (mobi)
ISBN978 0 7090 9992 5 (pdf)
ISBN978 0 7090 8507 2 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
