MURDER ON THE OXFORD CANAL Read online

  MURDER ON THE

  OXFORD CANAL

  A gripping crime mystery full of twists

  (DI Hillary Greene Book 1)

  FAITH MARTIN

  Revised edition 2017

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2004 AS “A NARROW ESCAPE.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. 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.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Faith Martin

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  DI HILLARY GREENE SERIES

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS

  CHARACTER LIST

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  To my lovely readers

  CHAPTER 1

  Hillary Greene rolled over, and her eyes snapped open to a dim and curtailed light. It seemed to seep grudgingly into the tiny room.

  She groaned. Only two seconds awake and already she was missing her old bedroom, with its flood of daylight pouring generously in through double-glazed, normal-sized windows.

  The noise that had awakened her cheeped once again, and she quickly groped one arm out from under the thin bed linen, banging her knuckles against the wall only a few inches, or so it seemed, from the bed.

  Yelping in pain, she managed to scuffle around on the floor for the mobile phone beside her bed and, eyes still half shut, pressed the right button.

  ‘Yes. DI Greene,’ she mumbled, knowing full well it couldn’t be a social call so early in the morning. Dammit, what was the time? She peered downward, but the face of her wristwatch, also on the floor, was too small for her to make out more than an impression.

  Shit, what she wouldn’t give for a decent bedside table. Not that she had room for one, of course.

  ‘Hillary, morning. Hope I didn’t wake you.’

  Hillary’s eyes opened more fully. She didn’t exactly sit up straighter, but her brain synapses began to make connections rather more quickly. ‘Sir,’ she said noncommittally. In her mind’s eye she could see Superintendent Marcus Donleavy smiling in that heavy-lidded way of his. His silver hair would be combed into place as neatly as a duck’s backside, and no doubt his trousers had been creased to perfection by his wife’s daily. Residing inside that impeccable exterior would be a glassful of freshly squeezed orange juice and two slices of toasted organic brown bread. Spread with that fancy margarine that was supposed to reduce cholesterol, to be sure.

  Hell, what was the time? Surely she couldn’t have slept in.

  ‘Just thought I’d ring to save you a journey in to the Big House,’ he said heartily, making Hillary wince. Why the hell he insisted on misusing this expression (which was actually American slang for a prison) always confounded her. The phrase had caught on, and now everyone was calling the Thames Valley HQ at Kidlington the Big House. She even said it herself. It didn’t sit right with his nearly-Oxford-educated voice, or his much-joked-about ambitions for higher rank.

  She sat up awkwardly, stifling a yawn, and trying to pretend that his words hadn’t filled her with a seeping coldness.

  ‘Oh?’ she said, in what she hoped was a suitably unimpressed voice. Swallowing hard, she got one elbow under her and glared balefully at the wall.

  So this was it, then.

  ‘Yes. Get yourself off to Dashwood Lock instead. That’s right on your doorstep, isn’t it?’

  His words came as such a relief that for a moment she didn’t really register their meaning.

  So she hadn’t been suspended. They hadn’t found out anything.

  This was just another case.

  ‘There’s a suspicious death been reported.’ Marcus Donleavy’s voice, now with a certain growing crispness about it which indicated that she’d better get on the ball soon, continued to flow into her ear. ‘Since you’re our expert in such matters, I thought I’d bat it your way. Report soonest, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, with an equal crispness, and the monotonous blur of the dial tone answered back. Squinting, she managed to find the phone’s off button, and lay back for a moment against the pillows, gloomily considering the idea of getting a pair of reading glasses.

  When was the last time she’d had her eyes tested? Had she ever had her eyes tested? Must have done — when she was at school, if nothing else. So long ago, who’s to remember?

  She half-sighed, and then half-laughed at herself, and threw back the covers. She swung her legs around and nearly banged her knee against the wall. She reached up, drew a pocket-handkerchief-sized curtain away from the round window, and yawned widely.

  She slipped her watch on. Eight fifteen. She could see it perfectly now she had some light. The optician could go pedal his bike elsewhere for the time being.

  Who said bits began to fall off when you reached the big Four Oh?

  She reached for her tights and wriggled into them, then pulled off the Def Leppard T-shirt, that one sure sign of her misspent youth, now doubling as a nightie. She reached for her bra and glanced down, wondering if it was her imagination or were her breasts really sagging. Maybe it was just pre-coffee gloom.

  Or, worse, excess fat.

  Hastily, and rather inelegantly, she struggled into her cross- your-heart and stood up. It was exactly one step to her wardrobe. The sliding doors always stuck when she pulled them open.

  That was another thing she missed — doors that opened outwards, normal ones.

  And like most mornings, she cursed her husband. Or ex-husband. Or late husband. She never could get it straight in her mind which it was. But current, ex or late unlamented, one thing about Ronnie remained the same. He was, without doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

  Selecting a pale blue blouse to go with a dark blue skirt, she dressed fast, moving exactly one more step to her right to stand in front of a small mirror.

  Were those grey hairs appearing in the bob of sensibly cut brown hair, or was it the poor light again? Whatever, a few strokes of the brush, making sure of the parting and pushing back the two wings either side of her face, took care of it. A quick pat of powder, a dab of darkish lipstick, and she was ready.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  Well, almost ready.

  She moved through the permanently open door into the tiny passageway and then to the open-plan lounge and kitchen area. No time for toast — which was probably just as well. Her constant battle with the
flab was beginning to weary her, but not to the point of giving in.

  She reached for the kettle warily, wondering if the gas bottles needed changing yet. But no, within moments it began to hum, as if reproving of her ongoing pessimism. A spoonful of instant, an artificial sweetener, and things began to look up. Not least because she had some decent windows in here.

  Outside, things looked encouragingly blue and green. And yellow. A sunny day, perhaps? England in May, you never could be sure what you’d be getting once you were daft enough to stick your head outside your front door.

  ‘Dashwood Lock,’ she muttered, reaching for her phone.

  Oxford, down to Kidlington. Her finger paused above her own place of residence, the strangely named village of Thrupp, right on Kidlington’s back doorstep. No Dashwood — must be north. Scroll along. Lower Heyford, follow the line down, Cleeves Bridge, High Bush Bridge — yep, Dashwood Lock. Her finger tapped on it thoughtfully.

  She noticed the clear nail polish on her index finger was chipped. Damn.

  A blank area of green. Dashwood Lock, it seemed, was right slap bang in the middle of precisely nowhere. Great. That meant no witnesses, no door-stepping to do, nothing to hope for in the way of possible leads unless the local farmer had some cows or sheep that were in a talkative mood.

  ‘Damn,’ she muttered, squinting at the mileage from her current position. Four. Easy going up the towpath on the bike. Good for those thigh muscles. Think of the war against fat, and what a nice little victory that would be.

  But the SIO turning up at a crime scene — on a bike? Not likely. She had enough image problems to live down as it was, thanks to bloody Ronnie, without looking like some new-age greenie.

  No, the car it would have to be. Which meant finding the nearest village, which, by the looks of it, was Northbrook. Her lips twisted wryly as she contemplated the map — no doubt a regular hive of activity, full of eager citizens all anxious to assist the police with their enquiries.

  She gulped her coffee, keeping a wary eye on the clock. Barely five minutes since the phone call from Donleavy.

  But why had she had a call from Donleavy in the first place? Her brain, with its first shot of caffeine, began to wake up. Mellow Mallow, as DCI, was surely far more likely to be the one doling out the jobs?

  Unless he’d been told to lie low until the enquiry into Ronnie was over. In which case, Donleavy would probably be playing the kid-glove angle with her for some time to come.

  That sick feeling was stealing back into her insides again, and she swallowed the last of the coffee hastily, hating the taste of the artificial sweetener and longing for sugar and comfort.

  But she knew she’d be getting neither today.

  She reached for her bag and jacket, and side-stepped into the narrow corridor. She glanced into the bedroom at the unmade bed, then shrugged, ducking comically low as she walked up the iron stairs. Several extremely painful bangs on her head during her early days here had taught her to keep on with the Hunchback of Notre Dame look whenever she went out.

  Unbolting the dual metal doors at the top, she emerged into a sunny May morning. A family of long-tailed tits were twittering their usual high-pitched calls in the willow opposite and a woman walking her dog smiled at her.

  Yeah, yeah, Hillary thought, to both the birds and the woman, but she felt instantly better for being outside, with room to breathe and manoeuvre.

  She stepped off the platform and onto solid ground, shutting and locking the doors behind her.

  Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she turned and walked the length of the Mollern — all fifty feet of her — and glanced idly at her paintwork in passing.

  Like most canal boats moored in their posh private moorings at Thrupp, the boat was black-bottomed and well maintained. But whereas her neighbours’ boats were painted the cheerful bright blues, greens, reds and yellows that were so popular in native canal art, her uncle’s boat was a combination of pearly grey, white and black with a touch of pale gold.

  She vaguely remembered him telling her once that “mollern” was the country word for “heron.” Like Brock was a badger, and Reynard a fox, she supposed. And that the colours of the boat were supposed to represent the plumage of the elegant river bird.

  Yeah, whatever, she’d thought at the time — little realising that one day the boat would feature so prominently in her own life.

  But when she’d first moved in, as a supposedly temporary thing last November, it had just looked as grey and dismal as the weather. A perfect echo to her own grim mood.

  A robin began to sing heartily from a clump of sedge nearby. She caught a brief glimpse of his bright orange breast as he — she? — hopped about, and the corners of her lips turned upwards.

  Her Volkswagen looked good for its age. It was nearly twelve, but the pale green bodywork was immaculate. When you couldn’t afford to buy a new car, it was uplifting to realise how quickly the human spirit could embrace the concept of wax. Even her own previously wax-free spirit.

  Hillary opened the door, slid in and turned the key. Her optimism didn’t let her down. The engine started straight away, and ran as smooth as a nut. She was sure that mechanic at the garage fancied her.

  She reached for the seatbelt, and then frowned. No, the mechanic couldn’t fancy her. If he did, he’d service the car so badly she’d have to keep going back. Damn. Sometimes she hated thinking like a copper.

  Heading north along the main Oxford to Banbury road, she finally set her mind to work, and Dashwood Lock.

  A suspicious death. Contrary to popular public belief, almost any death was considered “suspicious” in police parlance, until proven otherwise. Usually by the pathologist.

  In the earlier stages of her career, like all lowly police constables Hillary had seen death in all its usual shapes and guises. Domestics, RTAs, gang knifings, industrial accidents, you name it, she’d seen it.

  But in this case she didn’t really have to stretch her imagination very far. A suspicious death at a lock probably meant a drowning. Some summer holidaymaker, unused to canal boats, perhaps boozed up, had fallen off the back of the boat and died.

  Probably.

  Hillary, with one eye on her phone, turned off at Hopcrofts Halt. She was sure there was a quicker way to Northbrook, but who the hell wanted to be fiddling around on one cup of artificially sweetened coffee? Following the google map towards Bletchington, she nearly missed the dirty wooden signpost for the turnoff to Northbrook. She steered carefully down the steep, single-track road, and looked around her.

  Wheat fields.

  And that was it.

  She’d lived in Oxfordshire all her life, and in Kidlington itself for the best part of twenty years, so she knew that the majority of villages were deserted during the day, as their commuting residents left every morning bright and early like released homing pigeons, and then returned, late and knackered, for their evening meal and telly.

  And a small village like Northbrook — no, make that a hamlet, for she couldn’t see a church spire or tower in front of her — was no exception. Unless there was a pensioner or two about.

  She followed the narrow road down past the few cottages and houses until it abruptly ended. And, there, parked off the road, was a bright red Mini.

  She sighed. She was in the right place then. What’s more, DS Janine Tyler had been assigned to the case with her.

  Hillary’s lips twisted wryly. She bet that had pleased Janine.

  * * *

  Janine Tyler walked wearily up and down and wished she could sit on the tempting black-and-white painted arm of the lock. She’d had something of a night of it the night before, and she’d been here nearly half an hour already, waiting for a senior investigating officer to show up. She’d called in the doc, who was now standing on the side of the lock looking down, and SOCO were on the way. No doubt they wouldn’t thank her for leaving her smudged bum-print on the arm of the lock.

  She was glancing longingly at the grass, wonderi
ng if it was dry enough to sit on, when she heard feet approaching, and turned to look along the towpath. Detective Inspector Hillary Greene was walking towards her with her usual fast gait, controlled face and unnervingly competent manner.

  Janine felt a flicker of disappointment.

  Of course, there was no way it could have been Mel — DCI Philip Mallow to give him his proper title — assigned to a mere suspicious death. Pity. She’d like to work with him. She was reasonably sure he was interested in her. And why not? He was divorced now. Twice, wasn’t it? The other day, in the car park, he’d waited while she’d reversed out. OK, it was hardly a meeting out of Brief Encounter, but most senior male officers would have just roared away in their flash cars, and sod her and her brand new Mini.

  But the DCI had smiled at her as she’d passed. In that way. The way that men did who were interested.

  Yes, it would have been nice to have an excuse to get a bit closer to the very mellow DCI Mallow. It was not that she had anything against Hillary personally. In fact, the scuttlebutt back at the Big House was generally in favour of Hillary, and always had been, even before this investigation into her late husband had started. It went without saying that any copper (or even fellow officer and wife of said copper) being investigated by an outside force automatically came in for near sainthood status and unstinting support from her own station. Except from those who liked to keep their distance.

  Janine wasn’t one of those who thought that guilt through association was particularly dangerous. It was just that she didn’t like having a woman boss. It was as simple as that. And it had nothing to do with jealousy, either. Hillary Greene, after all, was still only a DI, even though she had to be gone forty. So she was hardly a go-getter, right? OK, getting to DI was good for a woman, even nowadays, but Janine was a sergeant already at twenty-eight, and intended to be a DI in the next couple of years, and a DCI long before she was forty.

  She got on OK with Hillary. In fact, apart from that wanker, Frank Ross, she couldn’t think of a single cop back at the Big House who actively disliked her. That was something of an achievement in itself, now Janine came to think of it. It was just that once you got two women working on a case together, out came all the nudge-nudge, wink-wink jokes, and the all-you-girls-together mentality really pissed Janine off.