by Faith Martin
She gave a wan smile. ‘I’m on my way.’ She turned, then said over her shoulder, ‘You’d better warn Gemma I’m coming.’
Danvers smiled and nodded. ‘Right.’
He returned to his desk, but didn’t reach for the phone. Instead he stared blankly at his desk. He wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, letting her know about the murder. But instinct had told him that she needed to get back into the thick of things fast. And solving crime was something she was very good at. Perhaps it was just his imagination that she seemed so out of it. There was no doubt that the old sparkle was gone from her eyes, but then, she was still mourning the death of her friend.
He couldn’t expect her to just breeze back in like her old self as if nothing had happened. As everyone was always saying: it would take time. He hoped that that was all it was. And that time was all it would take.
* * *
The desk sergeant looked up, surprised to see her back again so soon.
‘That was quick! The powers that be have finally cut down on the amount of paperwork we need to do, have they? The sods didn’t tell me.’
‘You wish,’ Hillary shot back. ‘No, I got a call-out.’
The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘Glutton for punishment, you are. Met the new super yet?’
Hillary’s face instantly closed down. In the old days, when she’d been on her top form, she’d never have let it show. Now though, she felt her lips snap shut and she forced herself to nod.
‘Yes.’
The desk sergeant’s beady eyes sharpened.
‘If anybody wants me, I’ll be out at Steeple Knott,’ she added, firmly and obviously changing the subject.
‘Right, Hill,’ the desk sergeant acknowledged. After the door closed behind her, he let out a long, low whistle.
So DI Greene didn’t rate the new super. The desk sergeant racked his brains for what he knew about Brian Vane, but the man had only been working at HQ for a month, and so far the scuttlebutt about him was fairly neutral. He’d come up the ranks, and hadn’t obviously stepped on anybody’s toes. Consequently, nearly everybody had been prepared to give him the benefit of any doubt. After all, stepping into Mel Mallow’s shoes wasn’t an enviable job for anyone.
But everyone knew that Hillary Greene could spot a wrong ’un at fifty paces. He’d have to have a word with Fred when he took over at five, and see what he thought about it. Course, there were bound to be those who said that nobody would suit her, not after Mel. But anybody who knew DI Greene knew that she wasn’t like that.
No. He reckoned if Hillary Greene didn’t rate her new super, there’d be something solid behind it.
Gleefully, he wondered what it was.
* * *
Hillary Greene returned to Puff the Tragic Wagon, her ancient Volkswagen Golf, and headed north. She drove carefully but automatically, and didn’t even notice that the clouds had cleared off, and that a beautiful autumn sun was shining.
CHAPTER TWO
The small hamlet of Steeple Knott was virtually deserted when Hillary pulled up on to the grassy verge just before the fake white gates set on either side of the road. She noted their appeal to “drive slowly through our village” and walked towards the set of patrol cars she could see lined up beside an attractive Cotswold stone cottage.
‘Ma’am.’ The constable on the gate knew her and she signed his log with a nod of acknowledgement. After she stepped through the white-painted gate, set in a white-painted picket fence, she took a moment or two to look around silently.
A large stand of amethyst-coloured Michaelmas daisies just to her right gave way to a bed of glorious multicoloured dahlias and chrysanthemums. Lining the walls of the house were late-flowering honeysuckle, rose and clematis. The lawn was small but immaculately clipped, and a showcase dwarf magnolia tree stood in the centre. The paving was weed-free and pristine. Given the season, the garden was breathtaking, and it was obvious to Hillary that the owner must be a green-fingered enthusiast.
‘It’s all happening around the back, ma’am,’ the constable on the gate offered tentatively. Hillary thanked him and followed the path to the side of the house. The cottage had originally been two small buildings which had later been made into one and with today’s real estate prices, its original wood-framed windows and old original grey-tiled roof must have made it worth a small fortune. Set in such a rural and picturesque spot, with easy motorway access to both London in the south and Birmingham in the north, the owner was sitting pretty.
Or not, as the case might be. The owner of the cottage, she soon realised after stepping out into the back garden, was not sitting anywhere at all, pretty or otherwise, but was in fact sprawled out face down in an onion patch. And from the state of the back of his head, was most definitely dead.
Hillary, unnoticed as yet by the others at the crime scene, surveyed the area carefully. SOCO were already in situ, and white-overalled figures went about their business calmly and methodically. A photographer had evidently just finished photographing the body, and was packing up his equipment. Ross was chatting to a female SOCO, and Barrington was busy scribbling in his notebook. Gemma Fordham was staring down at the body as if it was going to talk to her at any minute.
The victim looked to Hillary to be an old man, for his hair, where it was visible amongst the blood and brain matter, was white. He was wearing old-looking dark brown trousers, scuffed and well-worn boots, and a loose-fitting red, blue and white tartan work shirt. Obviously old gardening clothes that he’d felt comfortable in. Beside the body, now being dusted for fingerprints by a boffin, was an old but well-kept garden spade. From the discoloration on the metal, it was almost certainly the murder weapon.
Which suggested that the murder hadn’t been particularly premeditated, but rather smacked of someone, perhaps enraged or frustrated beyond endurance, simply reaching for the nearest object available and letting swing with it. Unless, of course, the killer knew his victim well, and had guessed that he or she was likely to find a murder weapon amongst the garden implements available.
The back garden, Hillary saw at once, was devoted to the growing of vegetables and fruit, and she could make out several wigwams of runner beans, still producing the odd specimen, and rows of freshly planted leeks. A stand of rhubarb, now old and too leggy to be of any use, grew amidst a fair forest of gooseberry bushes. The beds were all laid out neatly, and pleasing to the eye. On the far walls she could see pear trees that had been pegged and pruned severely, heavy with delicious fruit. Through a wooden gate set in the wall she guessed there would be a small but well-stocked fruit orchard on the other side. A small greenhouse and a garden shed hogged the two corners and several compost heaps lined the hedgerows.
A veritable gardener’s paradise, Hillary mused sadly. And wondered who’d let the serpent in this time.
Just then Gemma Fordham, sensing eyes on her, turned and spotted her. Hillary could see her shoulders stiffen and then sag a little in resignation. She’d probably known as soon as she saw Hillary walk into the office that she wouldn’t be able to resist getting in on the opening act.
‘Guv,’ she said flatly, warning the others to her arrival.
Hillary nodded and moved forward to join her, following the boards that had been laid down by the SOCO team.
‘No footprints worth mentioning, guv,’ Gemma said, filling her in without asking. ‘The victim is Mr Edward Philpott, aged sixty-five. He lives here with his daughter, Mrs Rachel Warner, and her two children, Mark, ten, and Julie, twelve. Mrs Warner returned from taking her children to school at around eight fifty a.m. and found her father, as you see him, at roughly ten fifteen a.m. this morning.’
Hillary nodded. ‘He was alive and well at breakfast, I take it?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘So we’ve got a limited time span for the murder. That helps.’ She looked around the garden morosely. High hedges matched the high wall at the end of the garden, making it secluded and private. No other house overlooked it, an
d the back garden couldn’t be seen from the country lane outside either. She turned around and looked at the house. The downstairs window was obviously the kitchen window; above was a bedroom window and a clouded glass window that usually indicated the bathroom.
‘No obvious witnesses, I take it,’ she noted drily. Gemma smiled a grimace in reply. ‘Right, well you and Ross had better get started on house-to-house.’
‘It’s a tiny place, guv, and nearly everybody’s bound to be at work at this time of day,’ Gemma pointed out.
Hillary nodded glumly. ‘I know. So you’ll just have to track most of them down to their workplaces. But there’s bound to be the odd little old lady or two in residence. There nearly always is.’
Gemma nodded and glanced across at Frank Ross. Although they both held the rank of sergeant, it was obvious whom everybody believed to be senior, for she jerked her head to call him away from his chat, and he gave her a brief two-fingered salute in reply.
Hillary’s eyes narrowed at this latest piece of insolence. Yes, she had plans for Frank Ross. She’d had enough of his idleness and sloppy work, and was no longer in the mood to put up with it. But she’d have to speak to Danvers first.
As Gemma headed towards the house, she stepped aside to let a small, dapper man pass her. He was carrying his bag and had already slipped into white overalls. His dyed black hair gleamed in the autumn sunshine, and he beamed as he spotted Hillary.
‘Hill, you’re back. You’ve been missed.’
Dr Steven Partridge placed his feet carefully as he approached the corpse, and stood beside Hillary, looking down at him.
‘Well, at first glance it all looks pretty obvious, doesn’t it?’ he murmured quietly. He hadn’t mentioned Mel, and had no intentions of offering her yet more commiseration, rightly guessing that she’d have had enough of that to last her a lifetime.
‘Time of death was probably between eight thirty and ten fifteen a.m., so that’ll save you some effort,’ Hillary supplied briefly.
The doctor nodded, sighed, and got down to work. Hillary turned and left him to it. She spotted Barrington, patiently waiting for her by the house, and walked over.
‘Guv, glad to have you back.’
Hillary smiled briefly in thanks and leaned somewhat wearily against the wall. ‘So, what are your impressions so far?’ she surprised him by asking.
He blinked, not sure of what she wanted. Sensing it, she smiled briefly again. ‘It’s not a trick question, Constable. You were one of the first people on the scene. Just tell me what struck you first and foremost.’
Barrington looked towards the body, then at his boss, opened his mouth, then shut it again.
‘Whatever it was,’ Hillary prompted wearily.
‘Well, to tell the truth, guv, it wasn’t the old man that interested me the most, but his daughter.’
‘Oh?’
‘Only because she looked so ill, guv,’ Barrington hastened to add.
‘Shock can do that,’ Hillary said, but already the young redhead was shaking his head.
‘Don’t think it was just that, guv,’ he insisted. ‘Well, you’ll see what I mean when you talk to her.’
Hillary nodded, not willing to push it. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, guv. Well, apart from the fact that it all seems so unlikely. I mean, who’d want to hit a retired postie over the head and kill him in his garden?’
So he’d been a postman, Hillary thought. Interesting. And possibly significant, if he’d been inclined towards dishonesty. Postmen were in such a unique position to be naughty. With handling cheques, money or other valuable items sent through the mail the opportunities to steal or read other people’s post and pick up blackmail tips had to be numerous.
She pointed this out to Barrington, who bit his lips and looked chagrined not to have thought of it himself.
‘Had he been in the job long?’ she asked.
‘All his life, guv, from a lad of eighteen, apparently,’ Barrington told her.
‘Of course, Mr Philpott might have been as honest as the day is long, and his one-time occupation has nothing whatsoever to do with this,’ Hillary pointed out, waving a hand over the crime scene. ‘But keeping an open mind won’t hurt.’
Barrington made a mental note of the saying, hiding a smile as he did so. It was good to have DI Greene back. DS Fordham was very competent and able, but she was not much good at teaching a bloke the ropes.
He followed Hillary in as she opened the door to the kitchen and walked inside.
The interior was an odd mixture of old and new. The big stone sink was probably centuries old, but new chrome taps had been added at some point. An old Aga had been supplemented with a modern microwave. The terracotta floor tiles looked original, as did a battered oak table and chairs, but the cupboards fixed to the walls were new-looking, as was a large fridge-freezer standing pressed up behind the door. The walls were whitewashed and bulged in places. It had a kind of schizophrenic charm, if you were in the mood for that sort of thing.
The trouble was, Hillary had no idea what kind of a mood she was in.
‘She have company with her?’ Hillary asked, and Barrington shook his head.
‘No. We offered to get someone — a friend or relative, or her doctor, but she flat-out declined. Said she’d be all right. She’s in the living room, guv.’
‘Right.’ She let Barrington lead the way, and a moment later, stepped into a small parlour.
Like most country cottages, the windows weren’t huge, and the light was inclined to be a little dim, but the woman who rose from a chair had been sitting by the window itself, and Hillary could see at once what Barrington had meant.
She looked ill. Very ill indeed.
She must have been about five feet ten, just about Hillary’s own height, but she seemed much taller. It took Hillary a few seconds to realise why that was, then saw that it was because she was so thin: she gave the impression of being a beanpole. The ridges and nobbles of her collarbone were visible above her white cardigan, and the sleeves hung baggily over what were obviously stick-thin arms. She was wearing a dark blue skirt that came to just above her bony knees, revealing shins so sharp they looked as if they could slice bread.
She couldn’t have carried a spare ounce of fat anywhere on her frame. She had dark hair, cropped uncompromisingly short, and large blue eyes which stared out of a gaunt face that reminded Hillary uncomfortably of those photographs of holocaust victims. Dark exhausted bags sat under her eyes.
‘Mrs Warner? I’m Detective Inspector Hillary Greene. I’m going to be in charge of your father’s case.’ She introduced herself and held out her hand.
The other woman nodded, shook hands, and indicated the settee behind them. The bones of her hand felt frail, like bird’s bones, and Hillary was scared to squeeze them, even a little. She sat down on the settee, but Barrington opted for the plain wooden chair set against the wall on the other side of the window.
‘Mrs Warner. I understand you live here with your father?’ Hillary began with the easy stuff first, and the younger woman nodded and collapsed back into her chair.
‘That’s right. For nearly three years now, it must be, ever since my husband died.’
Hillary nodded. ‘He must have been young?’
Rachel nodded blankly. ‘He was. Farming accident. He cut his hand on some rusty equipment. Silly bugger was always scared of needles, and it turned out he hadn’t had a tetanus shot. I bullied him into getting one and it turns out he was allergic to the bloody stuff. Killed him right off.’ She managed to give a grim smile, but Hillary could tell the guilt still gnawed at her. ‘Of course, now I wish I’d just let him take his chance with the tetanus. At least he’d have been with us a bit longer.’
She turned her head to look out of the window, giving Hillary a clear view of her profile, which looked even more skull-like than ever. ‘He was the cowman of a farm just the other side of Steeple Aston, and the farmer needed a new man in, so of course, we had to
get out of the cottage that came with the job.’ Widowed and homeless at a stroke, Hillary thought grimly. And her kids fatherless to boot. Wonderful.
‘Lucky you had your father then,’ Hillary said softly, and the other woman nodded, tears welling up in her eyes and her mouth twisting in pain. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and came out with a piece of torn-off kitchen roll. She rubbed her nose, but let the tears slide down her face unchecked.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Warner,’ Hillary said softly and simply.
Rachel Warner nodded, but said nothing.
‘I know you’ve been over all of this before, but can you tell me what happened this morning? From the time you got up?’ Hillary asked gently.
‘Sure,’ the other woman responded gruffly. ‘That would have been half past seven. The alarm clock always goes off then. I got the kids up, washed, and made sure they cleaned their teeth, just like always, then we went downstairs.
‘Dad was already up, and had got the tea brewed, and was making porridge. It was what he always did — both Mark and Julie love porridge. Dad and I had toast and marmalade, that’s what we both prefer, and listened to the radio. Radio 4, Dad’s favourite. Then I got the kids in the car to take them to school — I was worried we were going to be late, but we weren’t, as it turned out.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders and took a long, shaken breath. ‘I took Mark to the primary school in Duns Tew, and then took Julie on to the secondary in Banbury.’
She paused for a moment, then wiped her cheeks with the tissue. ‘When I got back, the sun had come out, and I thought I’d take a little walk. I don’t often, but today I was feeling better than I usually do, and I decided to take advantage of the feeling. If only I’d come in the house there and then.’ She trailed off with another helpless shrug of her shoulders.
‘You don’t know that that would have made any difference, Mrs Warner,’ Hillary said gently. If there was one thing this woman didn’t need it was yet more guilt.
