Narrow is the Way Read online

  ‘Can you tell me what he did consult you about?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Hillary allowed her voice to drop a notch. ‘Doctor, let’s be clear about this. You have just said this man wasn’t a patient, so confidentiality isn’t an issue.’

  Dr Crowder held up a hand, stopping her. ‘But I’m afraid it is. Mr Innes himself isn’t a patient, but what we discussed did affect a patient, and it’s that patient I can’t possibly discuss.’

  ‘Julia Reynolds?’ she asked sharply. ‘Did this Mr Innes want to discuss Julia Reynolds?’

  Doctor Crowder looked her squarely in the eye. ‘The patient we discussed was not Julia Reynolds,’ he said firmly and clearly.

  Hillary sat back in her chair, a little stumped. Something about the precise wording of the doctor’s response set off alarm bells. She’d met his kind before. They always answered questions perfectly truthfully, but not necessarily honestly. The patient they discussed was not Julia Reynolds. But she wasn’t willing to bet that Julia Reynolds name hadn’t been mentioned.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ she began slowly. ‘If you can’t discuss patient details with me, how is it that you could apparently discuss patient details with Mr Innes?’

  Dr Crowder began to look unhappy. ‘That was different. Mr Innes had permission, written permission, which I verified by telephone, from the patient concerned.’

  So it definitely wasn’t Julia Reynolds then. Neither of her parents had mentioned anything about Julia being in contact with her doctor recently.

  ‘He was acting on behalf of a patient?’ Hillary asked, desperately searching for some clarification. She was sure she was on to something here, but trying to winkle out just what it was was more frustrating then trying to scratch an unreachable itch. ‘He was a doctor himself?’

  ‘No.’

  He said this so abruptly that Hillary knew she’d just touched a nerve.

  ‘Do you know exactly what his profession was, Doctor?’

  Lincoln Crowder ran a finger along the top of his lip. He was sweating, Hillary realized, and doubted that this was a man who sweated much. It made Hillary wonder, rather uneasily, what a medical doctor could have to feel so uneasy about.

  ‘He was a licensed private investigator,’ Doctor Crowder said finally. And Hillary bit back a groan.

  Oh great. That was just what she needed.

  ‘And I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Inspector,’ Dr Crowder said. ‘I simply can’t discuss what our business was.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’ Hillary asked, reluctantly getting to her feet, but loath to let it go at that.

  ‘No. He showed me his card, but I was more interested in verifying the letter he brought with him from the patient concerned, than in noting down his office details.’

  Tommy, silent and watchful by the door, got a sudden jolt of déjà vu. As with Max Finchley just an hour or so ago, he had the sudden but undeniable feeling that something else was going on. Something he wasn’t seeing. He could tell that Hillary felt it too.

  ‘I seem to recall he was from Birmingham. Maybe Walsall. Somewhere like that. The Midlands. But I really don’t know for sure.’ Doctor Crowder firmly opened the door and stood to one side, and Hillary nodded, biting back the childish urge to tell him that she’d been chucked out of better places than this.

  Back in the car, Tommy turned in the driver’s seat, ignoring the way the wheel dug into his chest, and looked across at her. ‘He was hiding something, guv,’ he said.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Without a doubt. But what?’ And did it really affect the Julia Reynolds murder case, or was she just being side-tracked?

  ‘Tommy, first thing tomorrow, I want you and Janine to find out all you can about Gregory Innes. If he’s got a licence he’ll be in the system. And put out feelers. PIs come in all sorts, from the fairly bog-standard and basically decent, to the downright dirty. I want to know what his rep is.’

  ‘Could be he was hired by a jealous wife, guv. Our vic had a way with men, didn’t she?’

  Hillary nodded. It had been one of the first things she’d thought of. ‘But if so, what’s Doc Crowder got to do with it? Why not just follow Julia, get his snaps of her doing the naughty, and pick up the pay check? Besides, he was talking to the doc over a month ago, and not, according to our learned medical friend, about Julia Reynolds at all. And what was he doing hanging around Three Oaks Farm?’ Hillary muttered, more to herself than to Tommy. ‘That’s what really gets me.’

  ‘Perhaps he fancied solving the Julia Reynolds murder himself, guv?’ Tommy speculated. ‘It would be a feather in his cap, that’s for sure, and good publicity. This thing with the doc could be related to another case, and it’s nothing more than a coincidence that Crowder was the vic’s GP.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hillary said. Maybe not. One thing was for certain. She was looking forward to meeting Mr Gregory Innes.

  If only to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing dodging trains and playing silly buggers with detective inspectors.

  chapter eleven

  DI Mike Regis watched Thomas Palmer park his navy-blue Alfa Romeo and climb out. The ESAA man looked carefully up and down either side of the road, then glanced up nervously as a woman across the way opened her front door to deposit two empty milk bottles on the doorstep. Palmer ducked his head down and headed quickly for the gate of number 39. Definitely a man with something to hide.

  People who were obviously up to no good always intrigued DI Regis. Not for the first time, though, he wondered what the hell he was playing at with this particular specimen. It wasn’t as if Hillary Greene had asked for any favours. Nor could she have made it any clearer just what variety of pond life she considered him to be. So what exactly did he hope to gain from all of this?

  His dark-green eyes narrowed as a rather attractive brunette dressed in a powder blue lacy nightie and matching floating peignoir, ushered Palmer quickly inside. It was like watching something out of a naughty French film, circa 1950. He called a pal in dispatch, who quickly ran down the name of the residents – a Mr Malcolm Newcombe and spouse, Rebecca Margaret. Malcolm Newcombe. The name rang a vague bell, and he wasted a few minutes going through his mental list of known villains and punters, before finally giving a muffled grunt of victory. Malcolm Newcombe wasn’t a crook, but he was the master of a local hunt. If it was still in operation, that is. Mike, back in his uniform days, had been present during an anti-hunt demonstration, when Malcolm Newcombe had been dragged from his horse and had later vehemently pressed charges of assault against his attacker, a normally mild-mannered mother of three, who ran her own herbalist shop in Cowley.

  Mike began to grin. He couldn’t help it.

  Now what would those nice animal lovers at ESAA say if they knew their esteemed chairman was having it away with the wife of a local fox hunter? He’d have to come back with a camera. A few candid snapshots and Hillary would have some nice ammunition in her arsenal when it came time to go to court. Palmer, frantic to keep the knowledge of his affair from the others in his little coterie, might even find some way of scuppering the court case in order to keep them in the dark. You never knew your luck.

  Mike sighed and switched on the engine. He was being daft, no two ways about it. He pulled out into the traffic and headed downtown. Hillary had made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t interested. If he was honest, he was only going to follow up on the Thomas Palmer thing so that he could pop the little gem into her lap and then give her the finger, just as she’d given him.

  Very grown-up.

  An impatient honk behind him made him realize that the traffic light he’d stopped for had turned green and he pulled away guiltily, wondering who the hell he was supposed to be kidding.

  Roger Greenwood looked up as one of the guys from across his hall of residence banged on his door.

  ‘Rog, phone for you.’

  He thrust aside the textbook he was reading on certain tax relief systems in pla
ce for the benefit of landlords, and trooped out into the hallway. He was in his final year at college, a BA in business studies within his grasp. He saw the student who’d called him, glance at him curiously as he closed the door to his own room, no doubt still mentally cursing the fact that he’d been given the room nearest the hall phone.

  Roger wasn’t stupid. He knew that news of his girlfriend’s murder had quickly done the rounds, making him the target of the latest juicy gossip, but it had been his own decision to return to college so soon. He’d thought it might help take his mind off things, about Julia and his dad, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake after all. Nearly half the people around him wondered if he was a killer but were far too polite to say so, whilst the other half wanted to ask him what it felt like to have a loved-one butchered, but daren’t.

  Oh yeah, and the bleeding hearts kept trying to get him to go into therapy. It was driving him up the wall.

  He was dreading Julia’s funeral, and could only hope that, once it was all over and done with, his life would get back to normal. The trouble was, he didn’t believe it would happen. Nothing in his life felt normal now, and he couldn’t envisage a time when it might.

  He lifted the receiver, which was dangling heavily from its twisted cord and put it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Roger Greenwood?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  It was a woman’s voice, hesitant and breathy. He wondered if it was a crank call. He’d already had a few items of hate mail, the usual kind of sick stuff, which he’d quickly binned. He was on the point of hanging up, when the woman spoke again.

  ‘Look, how much would it be worth to you to know who wanted your girlfriend dead?’

  Roger blinked. He’d been tensed for the usual ‘you’re going to hang, you murdering male fascist bastard’ diatribe, and the simple question floored him.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ he heard himself ask stupidly.

  ‘I know who wanted her dead, see. And he was there, at the party, so he had the opportunity. If you want to know, give me a call. Got a pen?’

  Roger hadn’t. ‘Hold on,’ he said desperately, still feeling totally off balance, and jogged back to his room for a notebook and pen. When he got back he half expected to hear the dial tone, but she was still there.

  He jotted down the number she gave him. He recognized the first two digits as being local. Someone in Steeple Barton, or Kirtlington? He was sure he didn’t recognize the voice, so it was not a near neighbour, at least.

  ‘Look, is this a hoax?’ he demanded, not sure what he wanted the answer to be.

  ‘No. But I want money.’

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ Roger snapped, and slammed the phone down with hands that shook. Just another vulture. Just someone else who wanted to feed off Julia. People had always been doing that when she was alive. Now, even when she was dead, they still couldn’t leave her alone.

  Oh yes, he knew what they were saying about her.

  He walked back to his room, sat down in front of his textbooks and stared out of the window grimly. But after a while, he carefully folded the slip of paper with the telephone number into the pages of his book.

  Hillary looked up from her seat in interview room four as Janine and Tommy ushered in Gregory Innes. When she’d got in and found both of them had arrived well before her, and had collated a fairly impressive dossier on the PI already, she’d been impressed, and had said so. So when the man himself walked in, trying to look comfortable and at ease, she already knew the basics.

  Gregory Innes had been born to average working-class parents in Birmingham. He’d gone to one of the local schools, then a nearby college of further education to do a business studies course. He’d worked at various jobs, was currently renting a distinctly average house in a distinctly average suburb in Solihull, was divorced with no kids, and had been working as a self-employed PI for the last eight years. According to his local nick, he’d never been in any serious trouble with the law per se, but one old-timer sergeant had said that he wouldn’t be surprised if the PI wasn’t above a bit of petty crime now and then. But nothing had stuck.

  As Gregory took a seat, Hillary noted the off-the-rack slacks, the parka he’d probably bought in a going-out-of-business sale five or six years ago, the tired and wary eyes, the bad hair cut. This was the kind of man who, if asked, would say he’d never had the breaks. Luck had always gone to the next guy standing in line at the bus queue. He was the kind who thought nobody loved him (and if his parents were deceased, he was probably right) and who would justify any behaviour on the premise that if he didn’t look after number one, who would?

  A loser, in other words. A disgruntled, nearing middle-aged, lonely, sad, little man.

  ‘Mr Innes, we meet again,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Please, sit down. I got you a tea, milk and one sugar, all right?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gregory Innes said, picking up the plastic cup offered and taking a sip. ‘But you’re mistaken, Chief Inspector …?’ He raised an eyebrow, and Hillary smiled again. So he wanted to play silly buggers, did he? She knew all about the old trick of using a title just above the one you knew someone actually held. It forced them into correcting you and admitting a lesser status and thus, supposedly, putting you at an immediate psychological advantage. Oh please! Just who did he think he was dealing with? Tweedledum?

  ‘My name’s Hillary Greene,’ Hillary said neatly. ‘And we met the night I chased you off the property of one Mr Owen Wallis.’

  Gregory Innes shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’ He took a nervous gulp of lukewarm tea and tried to look faintly puzzled.

  ‘No?’ Hillary sighed heavily. Perhaps he thought he was dealing with Tweedledumber?

  ‘Sergeant Tyler, would you please phone Mr Wallis and tell him we have the man he saw clearly the other night, the one who almost fell over him, and we’d like him to come in and identify him. While you’re at it, ask him if he’d like to press charges of trespass and criminal damage and—’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Gregory Innes said, holding out a hand with a gesture of defeat and a hopefully woebegone smile. ‘No need to get so official, is there?’

  Janine, who’d half-risen from her chair, sat back down again. She noticed the PI’s gaze kept skipping across to Tommy Lynch, then back again, and had him pegged as a closet racist. Either that, or he suspected the big black constable was there to beat him up. Janine could have reassured him that things like that never happened nowadays, and certainly not on Hillary Greene’s watch, but why bother? She hated giving a sucker an even break. It was something of a philosophy with her.

  ‘So, you admit you were there,’ Hillary said flatly.

  ‘Yeah, I was there,’ Gregory agreed. ‘But I was only watching the place. I’m not a burglar, and I wasn’t scouting out a house to rob, you know. Nothing like that.’

  He was as nervous as a kitten at Crufts, Hillary mused, and wondered exactly what he’d been up to to make him feel so antsy in the presence of a roomful of coppers.

  ‘And why exactly were you scouting out the cowsheds, Mr Innes?’ she asked politely.

  Gregory shifted in his seat and, to give himself time to think, drained the plastic cup of tea before pushing it to one side restlessly. He didn’t like this female cop. And not only because of their moonlight chase playing dodgems with the trains, either. Gregory had had plenty of dealings with the fuzz in his time, and usually they were willing to cut him some slack in return for the odd snippet of information. After all, he wasn’t exactly a criminal – not a really hard bastard or anything. He’d never slapped around a little old lady for her pension, or smashed a broken bottle in someone’s face. So it was only right he didn’t get hassled.

  ‘Look, I was hoping to pull in a bit of business, all right? I knew a girl had been killed, and I thought there might be a bit of something in it for me. You know, members of the victim’s families sometimes like to hire a PI. It makes ’em
feel as if they’re doing something positive themselves. Maybe even post a reward.’

  Janine felt her nose wrinkle in distaste. What a Prince Charming.

  ‘So if Sergeant Tyler were to contact the Reynolds, they’d have heard of you, would they?’ Hillary asked mildly, and knew from the way Gregory Innes smiled, his bony shoulders relaxing against the chair, that he’d already covered himself.

  ‘Sure they will have,’ he said. ‘They declined, at the time, but I thought it worth while checking out anyway.’

  Hillary nodded at Janine, who left to do the telephoning, but Hillary already knew what she’d find. Whatever else he was, Gregory Innes was too smart to be caught out in a lie that could be so easily disproved.

  Gregory was glad now that his usual policy of covering his own arse at all times was once again paying off.

  ‘So why, if you had legitimate reasons for nosing into an official police inquiry,’ Hillary said, neatly turning the screw in another direction, ‘did you leg it in such a spectacular fashion?’

  Gregory flushed. He knew the battle-axe wouldn’t like PIs nosing about on her territory, and wouldn’t put it past her to slap some sort of bogus charge on him if he wasn’t careful. Obstruction of justice maybe. ‘Well, you know how it is,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Tell me,’ Hillary said bluntly.

  ‘Well, like you said, I suppose, strictly speaking, I was trespassing,’ Gregory was forced to admit. ‘Although I wasn’t doing any harm to old Farmer Jones’s fields or cows or nothing. I didn’t trample no corn or leave any gates undone, and I do think it would be unfair to have me up for that. I was only trying to see if I could do anything to help after all.’

  Hillary sighed. Before long he’d be whining how nobody understood him, and life had always been unfair to poor little him and his pet dog Towser.

  Janine returned with a quick shake of her head. As she’d thought - Innes had checked with the Reynolds. She was only glad the grieving parents hadn’t been conned into hiring him.