With a Narrow Blade Read online

  Barrington, however, relaxed a little as she reduced speed, and inside, he felt a lessening of the tension that had been building up ever since his hostile reception at his new nick. At least his new boss wasn’t going to wrap them around a telegraph pole.

  ‘Know anything about the vic, guv?’ he asked a few minutes later, but Hillary shook her head.

  ‘Not much. Female, the only resident of the house where she was found. It might turn out to be a domestic accident or suicide.’

  Barrington nodded, looking out of the streaming windows nervously. More green fields. Bare twigged hedges. Cows. Actual cows, grazing. Now sheep. Apart from the road ahead, with its steady stream of oncoming pale headlights, there wasn’t a manmade thing in sight. He sighed heavily, caught his new boss looking at him, and clamped his lips hard together.

  Hillary gave a mental shrug and concentrated on driving. In front of her a Peugeot started to aquaplane, and she touched her brakes gently.

  This was going to be a long morning.

  The house was a small two-up, two-down, in a row of terraced council houses in the King’s End area of Bicester. She found it by asking a postman, who’d parked up and was staring gloomily out of his window at the sky.

  The rain was easing just a little as they parked behind a patrol car. The uniform posted at the door watched her approach, nodded as she showed her ID, and entered her name into the log. Behind her, she heard Janine and then Barrington go through the same procedure. Inside, the tiny passageway was dark, and plastic sheeting already covered the carpet, put down by SOCO to preserve any signs of footprints on the carpet. She moved towards the first open door and glanced inside. Here, also, protective polythene had been laid, and the flash of a police photographer briefly lit the dim grey light filtering into the room.

  A man dressed in white overalls was dusting a mantelpiece for prints. She was slightly surprised to see SOCO already in place. Contrary to popular public belief, almost any death was labelled ‘suspicious’ until a senior investigating officer had declared it otherwise. He or she usually relied on a mixture of experience, common sense, and the initial report of a police doctor, before deciding on how to proceed. The fact that SOCO was here meant that there could be very little doubt that this was a murder. The uniforms who’d first arrived at the scene must have reported it in as such.

  Rather than go inside and interrupt them, she turned and made her way to the second door, which lead into a tiny kitchen. SOCO had already been here, for two constables stood around the kitchen table, drinking tea from their thermos flasks. One looked about eighteen and a bit green around the gills, the other was older, and far more sanguine. Both straightened up when they spotted her.

  ‘DI Greene, SIO,’ Hillary introduced herself. ‘You first up?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ The taller, older of the two, reached unasked for his notebook and commenced to give a short but detailed account. Behind her, Janine got her own notebook out, ready to start transcribing. ‘We received a 999 call at 8.27 this morning from a female person, who gave her name as Mrs Caroline Weekes. She reported finding the body of her friend, in her house, and said she’d been stabbed to death. We were dispatched, and found a woman waiting at the gate. She appeared pale and had been crying, but was able to confirm her identity and the telephone call and told us where to find the victim.’ He cleared his throat, and turned the page. ‘I told Constable Myers here to stay with Mrs Weekes, and proceeded inside. I could see only one set of footprints, still wet and approximately size five, leading down the hall to the lounge. I took these to belong to Mrs Weekes. Inside, I saw the body of an elderly woman, sitting in her chair. Life was extinct. She had what appeared to be the hilt of some sort of ornamental knife or dagger protruding out of her chest. I immediately reported back in, and asked for SOCO and detective division. When back-up came, I had a WPC escort Mrs Weekes back to her home. I have her address. The victim, according to Mrs Weekes, is Mrs Florence Jenkins, 76, widow and sole resident.’ He closed the notebook and glanced at Hillary.

  ‘You said life was extinct. You checked this with a finger to the side of the neck?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘You didn’t touch the body or anything else?’

  ‘No ma’am, I was careful. Hands firmly in pockets,’ he repeated the policeman’s mantra with a smile, and Hillary grinned back. She recognized him vaguely from around, and no doubt he knew her as well.

  Barrington, who’d been listening and looking over Janine’s shoulder, noted the uniform’s easy manner around Hillary Greene, and felt yet more of the tension leave him.

  ‘Right. Well, you can’t stay here in the warm and dry all morning. Might as well start on house-to-house, and make yourself useful,’ Hillary said. ‘It’s almost stopped raining.’

  The younger one hastily emptied his plastic mug and screwed the lid back on his thermos.

  ‘Since we don’t have an approximate time of death yet, keep it vague,’ Hillary advised. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything unusual? Did she have any visitors in the last forty-eight hours. General gossip. Was she well liked, or was she the neighbour from hell? You know the drill,’ she added. ‘Keith, you can help them out. I want a list of those who seem to know her the best. I might need to do some follow-ups. As soon as DS Ross deigns to show up, I’ll get him to help you out too.’

  ‘Guv,’ Barrington said.

  ‘Janine, I want you to do a thorough search of the house, see if you can find any signs of a break-in or illegal entry. And I want a full inventory of the contents of the house. We’ll have to get somebody, a relative or close friend, to go through it and see if anything’s been stolen.’ It didn’t quite have the feel of a burglary gone wrong to her, but it had to be checked out, nonetheless.

  ‘Boss,’ Janine said heavily. More scut work.

  ‘Then get on to doing a background check on her.’

  Janine nodded, and Hillary watched them all troop out, then walked to the door to the lounge again.

  So, it was an old lady. She couldn’t see much from her position in the doorway, for a white-overalled figure was knelt down in front of the chair, concealing the body from her view as he dusted the chair arm for prints and traces, but there was always something particularly sad about the old meeting a violent end. They always seemed so ill-equipped to deal with it. Especially the women. She’d probably been someone’s mother and grandmother. Had she been looking forward to spending Christmas with her family? Had she been busy knitting sweaters that embarrassed family members would only ever wear when they knew she was going to be around?

  Hillary shook her head. This was pointless, and only making her feel depressed. She turned instead and left them to it, walking to the front door and then stepping out into a light drizzle. Even the wind seemed to be dying down. She glanced around the tiny rectangle of bare winter garden, and across a ragged privet hedge, and saw an old man in the house immediately abutting on the right, staring out at her from his window. She saw Keith Barrington start up the pathway, and on impulse called him back. ‘It’s OK, I’ll take this one. Try the next.’

  ‘Guv.’

  The old man had the door open by the time Hillary got there, and instantly stood aside to let her in. ‘Something’s happened to Flo then?’ he asked flatly, as she passed.

  Hillary nodded, watched him close the door, and glanced around. The tiny corridor was an exact replica of next door, and when the old man indicated she was to go in through the first door, she wasn’t surprised. Inside, a single comfortable armchair was pulled up close to a gas fire. Sleeping on the mat in front of it was a large black cat. Hillary took a hard-backed wooden chair and moved it forward, careful not to disturb the slumbering feline, and looked around. Pale apricot-coloured walls and a somewhat dirty beige carpet blended together and was soft on the eye. An original but not very good seascape was the only painting on the wall, and a large-faced clock ticked ponderously from over the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were two pictures – one of a
couple on their wedding day, their style of dress straight out of the forties. The other was a group picture of men in uniform. Commandos, by the look of them. One of them, no doubt, was now the current home owner.

  ‘She dead then?’ The old man slowly lowered himself into his chair. He had sparse white hair and was wearing a heavy grey knitted cardigan, a clean white shirt, and a pair of dark grey trousers. He looked neat and smelt clean. Obviously a man fully in charge of both his faculties and his living conditions. Good. Such people usually made excellent witnesses.

  Hillary got out her notebook. ‘Can I have your full name, sir?’

  ‘Sure. Walter Mitchell Keane.’

  ‘You’ve lived here long?’

  ‘Since the council built ’em back in 1948.’

  ‘So you knew Mrs Jenkins well?’

  ‘Course I do. Her and Clive moved in same time as we did. Clive was her old man, dead now twenty years. My own gal, Phyllis,’ he nodded at the wedding picture, ‘went a few years after. Why are you lot here, then?’ he asked sharply. ‘She didn’t die in her sleep, did she? Not with you lot out in force.’

  While his words might have been belligerent, Hillary didn’t think they were meant to be. Walter Keane was just one of those men who spoke in a simple and forthright manner that was probably leftover from his army days. Someone who had little time for the pleasantries in life. ‘I can’t discuss an ongoing case, sir,’ she said, but showed her ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hillary Greene from Thames Valley Police, and I’m the Senior Investigating Officer here. I’d appreciate it if you could answer some questions for me.’

  She had an idea he’d respond automatically to authority, and wasn’t disappointed. He was a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man, the kind who’d be unexpectedly wiry and tough, and as expected, his back straightened a little at her crisp, no-nonsense tone.

  ‘Do all I can to help,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Did you hear anything odd from next door, within, say the last forty-eight hours?’

  ‘No. I heard Flo’s telly come on last night at the usual time, about six o’clock. She liked to listen to the news.’

  ‘Did you hear it go off again later that night?’ Hillary asked sharply, remembering that the television had still been on when she’d popped her head around the door for a look.

  ‘No, but then I wouldn’t. I always went to bed before she did, see. Told her she was the spring chicken, but us older bods needed their shut-eye. I’m eighty,’ he added.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Did she usually watch breakfast TV?’ she asked next, blessing the thinness of the walls.

  ‘Never,’ Walter Keane said firmly. ‘Neither of us could stand them blathering, all those smiley faces first thing.’ He shuddered.

  Hillary nodded thoughtfully. So, if the telly was still on, it probably meant it had been on all night. In which case, Flo Jenkins had been dead for some time. ‘Do you know when Mrs Jenkins usually went to bed?’

  ‘Eleven or thereabouts.’

  So, the killer probably came some time between six and eleven, Hillary mused. It would be interesting to see if Doc Partridge’s findings, when he came, confirmed her working theory.

  ‘And you never heard someone come to the door last night? She have a doorbell or a knocker, by the way?’

  ‘Both. And now you mention it, I did hear the doorbell go next door last night. About 6.30, 6.40. Something like that.’

  ‘Did you hear whoever it was talking to Mrs Jenkins? Did they argue?’

  ‘No. Not loud, at any rate. You can’t hear normal human voices so much. The telly, yeah, and the doorbell. And when she plays that bloody awful music of hers – Des O’Connor. I ask you! But no, I didn’t hear no voices.’

  Hillary underlined the last sentence in her book. Find out who called last night at 6.30. ‘Did Mrs Jenkins have any enemies that you know of? Did she ever mention any ill feeling between her and her family perhaps? Or a neighbour?’

  ‘Flo? Any enemies? Don’t be daft,’ Walter Keane snorted. ‘Salt of the earth, Flo. Always willing to help out – not that she could do much, mind. Not been well lately. But she would lend you the shirt off her back if you needed it more’n her. She didn’t gossip nasty about you neither, behind your back, unlike some around here.’

  ‘And her family?’

  ‘Her and Clive only had the one. Daughter, Elizabeth, though everyone called her Liza. Not that she was much good to her old mum. Hit the sauce, didn’t she, when her husband left her. Drank herself to death, I reckon, though they did say it was cancer of the liver. She only had the one boy – Dylan. And he’s worse than his mum, only with him it’s the drugs, see. A proper little druggie. Layabout, idle good-for-nothing bum. He was always cadging off Flo, and all she had to live on was her own pension, and a little money Clive left her.’

  ‘Dylan. Do you know his last name?’

  ‘Hodge.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where he’s living, do you?’

  ‘Squatting somewhere I ’spect,’ Walter Keane said flatly, then added, more plaintively, ‘She’s really gone then, Flo?’ His voice trembled slightly, and Hillary slowly reached out and touched the old man’s knobbly hands, where they rested on top of his knees.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly.

  ‘Pity,’ Walter said, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘She was looking forward to her birthday at the end of the week. “I’ll be all the sevens, Walt,” she said to me a while ago. “My lucky number, seven.” And then she laughed.’ Walter shook his head. ‘Christmas too. She loved Christmas – like a big kid she was. Always put up a tree, and lights, and those colourful twirling things hanging from the ceiling. She couldn’t get up a stepladder no more, so it was usually me she had round to help her put ’em up. She was really looking forward to it this year, especially.’

  Hillary swallowed hard, was about to say something, then heard a car pull up outside. She got up, and a quick look through the window revealed a low, classic sports car. She smiled wryly. Doctor Steven Partridge had just arrived.

  She turned back to look at Walter, and said softly, ‘Do you want me to call anyone for you? To come and sit with you perhaps?’

  At this, Walter Keane stiffened almost to attention in his chair, and shot her an upbraiding look. ‘Of course not,’ he said, with immense dignity.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Well, I have to go now, but I expect we’ll talk again, Mr Keane. Thank you for your help.’

  Walter got to his feet with surprising agility for one so old, and again, Hillary was left with the feeling that this old man was actually quite fit. Maybe he was even one of those octogenarians that ran half-marathons and what not.

  ‘You just find out who did for her,’ Walter said grimly. ‘It’s not right that she didn’t get to have her birthday party, or Christmas. You just find out.’

  Hillary met the watery blue eyes, and nodded grimly. ‘I intend to, Mr Keane,’ she said.

  chapter three

  * * *

  She doesn’t look very well, was Hillary’s first impression on seeing the corpse of Florence Jenkins. Which wasn’t as incongruous a thought as many people might have assumed. In her time, Hillary had seen many dead people – some whose image still haunted her today. But from all she’d heard about this latest victim, she’d died of a neat, single stab wound to the chest, and she’d been half-expecting the body to look as if it might get up and speak at any moment.

  In truth, there was an air of peaceful patience about Florence Jenkins. She was dressed in one of those pinafore flower dresses that Hillary’s grandmother had favoured, and had on over it a warm cardigan. Her wispy white hair was done up on the back of her head in a bun that had become skewed to one side of her head after a night of being pressed against the back of the chair. She wasn’t wearing make-up, but even now, the aroma of 4711 still emanated from her. She looked, in fact, as if she’d just fallen asleep.

  But she still didn’t look well.

  Her skin, wrinkled and pale,
hung on her face in a way that told Hillary she’d recently lost a lot of weight, much too fast. Her eyes had dark sunken circles around them. The shape of her skull was clearly, and eerily, pronounced.

  Hillary sighed, feeling uncomfortably warm in the small room, and watched Steven Partridge as he worked. He was both meticulous and careful and watching him was somehow strangely pleasant. He wasn’t a big man, and his hair was carefully coloured. Hillary wasn’t sure how old he was, but she’d put him nearer sixty than the forty he actually looked. His clothes, as ever, were impeccable and costly. He rose at last, and carefully dusted off his knees before turning to Hillary and shrugging.

  ‘Well, pretty much everything is as you see,’ he murmured. ‘I’d put her in her mid-seventies. I can’t find a single wound or mark of violence on her, save for that.’ He pointed with distaste to the intricate metal dagger head protruding from her chest.

  ‘Any idea what that is?’ Hillary asked curiously, bending down for a closer look. ‘It looks like a base metal of some kind.’

  Doc Partridge grunted. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t an ornament of some kind. It’s got the look of a fancy paperknife, or some sort of fancy dagger someone brings back from Spain with them. Toledo steel, wouldn’t be surprised. Whatever it is, I think it’s very sharp. I can see very little sign of snagging in the flesh – still, can’t say for sure till I get her on the table.’

  Hillary nodded. She was lucky it was Steven Partridge who’d taken the call. Some police surgeons wouldn’t speculate so much as a word at a crime scene. But she and Doc Partridge were friends of old, and he nearly always trusted her with his preliminary thoughts, knowing she was too wise to take them as gospel before they’d been confirmed. ‘Did it require medical knowledge, do you think?’ Hillary asked next. ‘The blow seems very well placed.’