Narrow is the Way Read online

  ‘No, no point going back in now,’ Hillary said eventually, in answer to Tommy’s question. ‘If his father isn’t going to press charges, I can’t see any point wasting more time and man-hours on them. Keep the son in overnight, then turn him loose. It’ll do him good to sweat for a while.’

  Tommy nodded, relieved. He’d felt rather sorry for the young bloke. To find out your own dad had been boffing your fiancée was enough to make anyone see red.

  ‘Can I drop you off, Tommy?’ she asked, getting behind the wheel, but the thought of turning up at his mum’s house with Hillary in tow, made him blanch.

  ‘No thanks, guv. There’ll be a bus along in a minute.’

  Hillary frowned. ‘OK.’ She wondered briefly what was eating him, then shrugged. It was none of her business.

  At the roundabout at the bottom of Headington Hill, she waited in a small queue, her mind moving restlessly over the past few days.

  Well, they had the killer, the case was done and dusted, and ready to be presented to Jerome Raleigh all wrapped up with a bow. It was good work, neat, tidy, and nothing for the CPS to whine about. As a good way to impress the new boss, Hillary knew she couldn’t have done better.

  She knew Janine was in a happy mood, and had been hinting about a romantic weekend away. Personally, Hillary wasn’t sure just how keen Mel would be to go. Unless she was misreading her old friend, the signs didn’t look good on that front.

  Frank was in misery, everyone at the station teasing him unmercifully, and that alone made it feel as if all was right with her world.

  Then there was Regis.

  A potential laid-back, nondescript lover.

  She smiled gently and nosed forward as the car in front shot off. She might even have got ESAA off her back. That left only one thing in her life that still needed sorting.

  On impulse, she went straight across the roundabout and took the Marston Ferry Road into town. She parked outside her favourite internet café and walked in. She’d long since memorized the numbers underlined in Ronnie’s book, and quickly logged on to the bank in the Cayman islands that she thought Ronnie might have used. The White Horse bank went with the Dick Francis novel and the password of Stud. Or maybe Stallion.

  Looking around very carefully, sure that the teenagers and serious-looking academics that made up the majority of the café’s customers had about as much interest in her as a donkey would have in a motorcycle side car, she logged on.

  Holding her breath, she went through the usual rigmarole and the bank’s safety measures, and finally found herself staring at a menu of options. So she’d been right: it was this bank.

  She used the mouse to log onto the ‘Check Status of Account’ option and pressed.

  The computer asked for numbers. Once more Hillary looked around. Nobody was looking her way. One woman, not a teen, but an attractive thirty-something, looked familiar, but she was typing ferociously and making notes, obviously working hard.

  Quickly, before her nerve failed, Hillary typed in the numbers. The screen blinked, then asked for a password.

  She typed in Stud and pressed the enter key. Then felt a moment of panic. What if it was the wrong password? What if the computer started blaring like a car alarm, alerted by the interface on the other end that someone was trying to hack into a bank account? But there was no warning screech. And a second later, the screen went blank, then came up with a single line, confirming number, password, and at the end, a row of figures.

  For a second, Hillary thought it said one hundred and thirty thousand pounds.

  Her brain registered the one, the three, the zeros. And she sucked in her breath. Not a vast fortune by today’s standards, but nothing to be sniffed at either.

  Then, with one of those little leaps, her brain suddenly jolted, as if receiving a mental kick in the bum.

  It was not one hundred and thirty thousand pounds: There were too many zeros.

  Too many zeros.

  Hillary swallowed hard, and it actually hurt, her mouth had gone so dry. She coughed a little, and that hurt too – her chest felt so tight.

  Too many zeros.

  She was looking at, had access to, an account in the Cayman Islands that held one million, three hundred thousand pounds Sterling.

  Hillary felt a cold frisson run down her back and looked up quickly. And saw Paul Danvers staring at her.

  For a second, Hillary was sure that her heart had actually stopped beating. A sound roared in her ears, and a tight sharp pain lanced straight down the middle of her chest.

  A heart attack.

  Paul Danvers smiled. ‘Hey, Hillary. Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  Hillary scrambled for the mouse and clicked on the exit option, then pressed the key to go back to main menu.

  She forced herself to stand on legs that felt like nothing. No bone, no sinew, no cartilage. She felt as if she was floating on cotton wool.

  The pain in her chest slowly eased. Her hearing returned to normal. Paul Danvers wasn’t here to arrest her – he was just a guy who’d happened to run into someone he knew. And he couldn’t possibly know what had been on the screen. It had had its back to him all the time.

  She glanced down at the computer, which was now innocently showing the screen saver bearing the café’s logo. She glanced quickly left to right. Nobody had seen. Nobody cared.

  ‘You’ve met Louise right?’ Paul said, nodding over to the attractive hardworker, who, hearing her name looked up and smiled vaguely.

  Louise?

  Right, Hillary suddenly nodded. She’d seen her with Paul at the court. A barrister. The girlfriend.

  ‘Right, yes. Hello.’ Her voice sounded scratchy with relief. So that was why he was here. To meet up with the girlfriend!

  She cleared her throat. Get a grip, girl. Get a grip.

  Louise smiled and tapped the face of her watch and held up five fingers to Danvers, who nodded back his understanding.

  ‘She’s got a big case on at the moment,’ Paul said. ‘Patent violation.’ His voice was rich with pride.

  Hillary nodded. She was going to be sick. If she didn’t get out of here right now, she was going to be sick.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to get back to the station,’ she heard herself say, and reached forward to turn off the computer. Even as she did it, she wondered what the hell she was doing. The café owner looked over in surprise. She knew the moment she was out the door that the computer would be turned back on. She should have left it as it was. She knew, in her head, that nobody could trace what she’d been doing. It was only guilt that had made her want to switch it off, forcing a reboot.

  ‘You might have heard, we closed our case,’ Hillary said quickly, seeing Paul’s eyes go to the computer and a puzzled look draw his brows together in a frown.

  As hoped, the news instantly distracted him. There was nothing more interesting to a copper than hearing about a successful solving of a case. With a bit of luck, he’d put her down as one of those dinosaurs who knew as much about computer etiquette as the Queen knew about digging ditches.

  ‘Yeah, I did. Congratulations.’

  Hillary pulled on her coat, and grabbed her bag. ‘Well, loose ends to tie up, and all that.’

  She mentally groaned. Had she really said something so inane? No wonder he was looking at her as if she’d suddenly lost her marbles. Just smile and get the hell out!

  She smiled and got the hell out. She walked to her car, fumbled with the key in the lock, then collapsed behind the wheel. She opened the door once more and leaned out, but didn’t actually lose her lunch. After a few extra deep breaths of good old Oxford air, she straightened up and sat back in her seat.

  She made no attempt to start the engine.

  Instead, she stared blankly at the cars parked all around her. A bus went by. The lights were on in all the shops, displaying far-too-early Christmas wares. People came and went. The world was doing its usual thing of carrying on regardless.

  Whilst Hillary Greene sat
and wondered what the hell she was going to do with a million quid.

  By the Same Author

  A NARROW ESCAPE

  ON THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW

  Copyright

  © Faith Martin 2006

  First published in Great Britain 2006

  This ebook edition 2012

  ISBN 9780709098652 (epub)

  ISBN 9780709098669 (mobi)

  ISBN 9780709098676 (pdf)

  ISBN 9780709079675 (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