By a Narrow Majority Read online

  But all this show of shock and grief meant nothing, of course. She’d had a case once, while still in uniform, when a man had murdered his wife. On being informed of her death, he’d looked and reacted very much as Valerie Dale was doing now, and she’d been convinced because of it that he must be innocent. But her governor at the time, far more experienced and wily, had instantly liked him for it. And the evidence and an eventual confession had proved him right. See, he’d explained to her a little while later, some people could kill in a moment of rage or ‘temporary insanity’ then go off and manage to forget about it so completely that, when informed of their loved one’s death, they were genuinely shocked. Other killers felt genuine remorse, too, and when it was brought home to them the reality of their deeds, were genuinely distraught. Just because someone was physically shocked or genuinely upset didn’t make them automatically innocent. It just meant they weren’t cold-blooded.

  Or were bloody good actors.

  Hillary had come across some of those, too, in her time. Men and women who could make Olivier look like a ham.

  Hillary sighed, and slowly walked over to an empty seat and sat down. It was going to take some time, and a lot of gentle persuasion, to ease Valerie Dale away from her friends.

  In the meantime, now was as good a time as any to see how strong Valerie Dale’s alibi might be. She turned to the man now sitting opposite her – the man who’d brought the brandy – and lifted out her notebook.

  ‘If I could just have your name, sir, and the time you arrived here?’ she asked quietly. After a startled pause, the man complied. Hillary wrote it down then asked as casually as she could, ‘And what time would you say it was when Mrs Dale arrived here tonight?’

  chapter three

  * * *

  Nearly half an hour later, Hillary was driving back to Lower Heyford, a silent and shocked Valerie Dale sitting in the passenger seat beside her, Celia Dee having promised to drive Valerie’s own car back to her door tomorrow morning.

  Hillary didn’t question the new widow on the drive back, only asking her if she was warm enough, and then turning up the heater (with little hope of coaxing more heat out of the ancient car) when Valerie had said that she wasn’t.

  Back at Tangent Hall she could feel the tension emanating from her passenger ratchet up a notch at the sight of all the squad cars flashing blue lights, and the rather eerie sight of men and women walking around encased from head to toe in ghostly white. It almost looked like a scene from a low-budget alien abduction movie.

  ‘If you’ll wait here a minute, I’ll see if it’s all right for us to go inside,’ Hillary murmured. She got out and nodded to a constable, who instantly trotted over. ‘This is the wife,’ Hillary said, all but whispering. ‘Stay with her – tell her she can call her mother’s, if she wants, to break the news and see if her daughter’s all right, but make a note of what she says.’

  According to the bridge players, Valerie had arrived a little late, citing a flat tyre and the need to change it as an excuse. She’d have to set Tommy the task of trying to prove or disprove her story. Until he did, she wasn’t going to give Valerie Dale any breaks.

  ‘Guv,’ the constable said in acknowledgement, then slipped in behind the steering wheel. She could hear his low voice rumbling a greeting as she walked away. The mortuary van was parked near the wooden plank bridge spanning the river, and two men stood quietly beside it, one of them smoking, awaiting the all-clear to remove the body. Just then, Janine came through the garden gate and beckoned them over. Obviously SOCO had finished. Her DS spotted her and began to meet her halfway up the track. As they walked back into the garden, Hillary gave her a quick update.

  Even though it was now approaching midnight, in the bright moonlight Hillary could make out light patches of daffodils, and larger bushes of what would probably turn out to be forsythia in the morning light. It was a simple, low-maintenance garden, with plenty of paving and large tubs filled with the usual spring assortments. The landscaping alone must have cost a good bit. Hillary wondered how much the Dales were worth. Surely enough to make money a viable motive? Did the house and trappings belong to Malcolm Dale? And if so, had a divorce been in the offing? She would have to talk to the Dale solicitor soon and find out about the Will. Plus any life insurance policies the dead man might have taken out.

  It was Hillary’s belief that the would-be Tory politicians of this world knew how to handle money. Had he had his wife sign some sort of pre-nup that would leave her too poorly off to consider divorce a viable option? Had murder seemed the only way out? All of these questions and more would have to be answered in the next twenty-four hours. She knew a detailed background report on both the victim and his spouse would be ready for her sometime tomorrow. While others might despise it, Hillary had always thought that there was a lot to be said for basic routines.

  ‘Don’t forget to keep Tommy updated. It’s his first time holding the Murder Book.’

  ‘Boss,’ Janine said, unimpressed. Hillary sighed. When would Janine learn that, if she wanted to get on and earn her promotion, people management was as necessary a skill as knowing any of the technical questions that she might be asked at her Boards.

  ‘Janine, I want you to escort Mrs Dale to her bedroom, then bag and tag her clothes.’ It was almost beyond the realms of probability that the killer wouldn’t have some splashes of the victim’s blood on his or her clothing, as well as other forensic evidence. Besides, if Valerie Dale really had changed a car tyre that night, there’d be proof of that on her clothes and hands too. ‘And give her hands a swab while you’re at it. Ask the lab to check for traces of grease, motor oil, that sort of thing. And when we take Marcia Brock back, the same for her.’ Hillary sighed. ‘But with her finding the body, any forensics we get on her might not indicate much one way or another. Unless she’s got a splatter pattern on her that gets the lab team excited.’

  Whenever a victim was coshed, shot or stabbed, blood patterns on walls, floors and on the clothes of the killer could often testify to the what, where, how and when of it.

  Janine nodded, wishing Hillary Greene wouldn’t keep trying to teach her granny how to suck eggs. She could do this sort of routine work in her sleep. ‘SOCO are almost done. Do you really like the wife for it?’

  Hillary waved her hand in the air in a rocking motion. ‘So so. Anything earth-shattering come up here?’

  ‘No. Forensics took away a lot of possible murder weapons, but nothing that looks very likely. The fireplace poker, the wooden broom handle, stuff like that. They’re dusting for fingerprints now, then they’ll be finished.’

  Hillary grimaced. That explained why Janine had come outside. The grey powder SOCO used to highlight dabs got everywhere – in the folds of your clothes, your hair, on your lips, you name it. ‘You’ve taken a preliminary statement from Marcia Brock?’

  ‘Yes, boss, just the basics. She got here about 8.50 found the door shut but unlocked, and when nobody answered the bell, pushed her way in. Found him, palpitated a bit, swears she didn’t touch him or anything else, and came out into the hall and used her mobile to phone us. Says she didn’t go back in, but waited outside. Oh, and by the way, she’s his campaign secretary, not his work secretary. She said she’d come tonight in order to go over an interview he was due to give on Radio Oxford tomorrow. You know, do some last-minute coaching. It all sounded legit enough to me.’

  Janine didn’t like to go into her own take on the witness too much, knowing that Hillary preferred to form her own opinions of people during interview. And Janine was well aware that her superior could often bring things out during an interview that she herself would never even have thought of. This ability her superior officer had to see things she’d missed, or think of things that had passed her by, both annoyed her and aroused envy and respect in equal measure.

  ‘OK, they’re coming out,’ Hillary said abruptly, ‘Mrs Dale’s in my car.’

  Janine nodded and moved away, and Hillary stepped to o
ne side as the two mortuary assistants came out with the body bag on a stretcher. She hoped Valerie Dale wasn’t watching, but couldn’t see how the poor woman could possibly avoid it. Hillary always had it in mind that, if the spouse wasn’t the killer, then he or she was a grieving victim as well, and deserved any consideration that could be given. The trouble was, an investigating officer very often didn’t know which scenario was true until all the evidence was in.

  She found Tommy in the kitchen, watching the last of the SOCO team leave. ‘Tommy. Mrs Dale was late arriving at her bridge meeting. She says she had a flat tyre and had to change it. First thing tomorrow, see if you can get an exact location from her where this took place, and see if you can get any corroboration. If it happened on the open road, we’ll have to do a newspaper and radio appeal for witnesses to come forward. If she was near some houses, we might get lucky straight away.’

  ‘Wouldn’t someone stop and offer to help?’ Tommy asked thoughtfully. ‘A pretty blonde woman all alone at night?’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Nowadays, it wasn’t always easy to tell. Many men who would have been gallant, say, ten years ago, might now think twice. And many women, too, would probably feel safer changing their own tyre rather than looking for help.

  ‘I’d better phone Mel with an update. When things are finished here you can get off. I want us all fresh first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Marcia Brock drove herself home, with a convoy of two following. She lived on the outskirts of Witney, in what had once been a council estate, but had long since been gentrified by first-time buyers and hopeful families.

  She parked her six-year-old Toyota half on the pavement and locked it; Hillary pulled up behind her, and Janine Tyler overshot and parked up in front. Without a word, she turned and walked up a crazy-paved path to a front door with an afterthought of a porch. There she waited for them to catch up, still without speaking, then stepped inside and flicked on the hall light.

  ‘Kitchen’s through there.’ She nodded towards a door that stood ajar. ‘Don’t mind the cat.’

  She slipped off her overcoat and reached for a small thermostat, turning it up a notch. Hillary thought the house needed it. It felt distinctly chilly. As if noticing, Marcia Brock smiled grimly. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I’m doing a masters at Reading – I’m in a gap year – and student habits die hard. I never waste electricity, or anything else, if I can help it,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘Really? What are you studying?’

  ‘Political science with a slant towards sociology. What else?’

  Hillary smiled an answer and walked on through to a small, functional kitchen. Sitting on one of the cheerfully yellow Formica worktops was a black and white tom, with battered ears and baleful green eyes. Janine, spotting it, sidled around it carefully, and pulled out one of the plain wooden chairs set against a small square table.

  ‘Tea?’ Marcia asked, picking up a kettle. ‘Or something stronger?’

  From Janine’s preliminary interview, Hillary knew that Marcia Brock was thirty-one and unmarried. Janine had wryly twisted her lips as she recounted the lecture she’d been given when she’d mistakenly referred to her as ‘Mrs’. ‘A closet lezzie if you ask me,’ Janine had added, making Hillary wince. Sometimes Frank Ross’s malevolent influence reared its ugly head in unexpected places.

  Now Hillary shook her head. ‘Tea will be fine. I just need to go over a few things with you, Ms Brock. As you can appreciate, I know next to nothing about the victim, which is where I need your help. What can you tell me about him?’

  Marcia Brock sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Where to start? OK, facts first. He’s a little old to be going into serious politics, but then again, he’s still just about young enough to make the real veterans sit up and take notice. I reckon somewhere down the line he had some pretty good advice, because he seemed to be relatively savvy. He’s been a lifelong member of the party, of course, and knew how to walk the walk and talk the talk long before he hired me, which was just as well. He married well; his wife – I expect you’ve met her – is the only daughter of a local property developer. Very upmarket real estate, that sort of thing. So he knows a lot of very useful people, and his father-in-law is behind him one hundred per cent. Fancies seeing his daughter as the wife of a cabinet minister, I expect,’ she added dryly.

  The kettle boiled and Marcia broke off to pour the tea into three thick mugs.

  She was small and rather chunky, with short black hair and rather startling, clear blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss much. As she handed over the steaming mugs, she dished out spoons. ‘You’ll have to fish out your own tea bags.’

  Hillary smiled and did so, wondering why this woman was working for a wannabe Tory politician. If she’d had to guess she would have thought Marcia Brock would be a strictly New Labour girl. At a push a Lib Dem. And if she’d had to bet money, she’d have put her down for a Green.

  ‘So you think he would have made it then? You know, got elected as MP?’ she asked, and Marcia Brock snorted.

  ‘Hardly! What do you know about local politics, Inspector?’

  Hillary gave an inward groan and admitted it was next to nothing, in the sure and certain knowledge that, in the next hour or so, she’d learn far more than she’d ever want to know. Beside her, she could sense Janine’s shoulders slumping, and knew that her sergeant was anticipating the worst too.

  And Marcia Brock didn’t disappoint. By the time she’d finished giving her the rundown on in-party fighting, the desperation that surrounded soliciting support, and the general back-biting and at times almost hysterical argy-bargy that went on when a MP’s constituency became unexpectedly available, Hillary was glad that she never bothered to vote.

  ‘So, basically, leaving out the by-rules and exemptions, it boils down to this. It’s the Tory Party members, not the members of the public, who get to put forward nominations for those who want to run as MPs?’ Janine said, clarifying her shorthand. ‘And the current MP for this area suddenly announced that he is retiring next year, and Malcolm Dale managed to win enough votes to put him in the running?’

  ‘Right, along with two others,’ Marcia said firmly. ‘But one’s a sop to the left, so the only real competition he had was George McNamara.’

  Hillary could feel her eyelids drooping. What was it about politics that put her right to sleep? She forced herself to sit up and pay more attention.

  ‘Was this Mr McNamara considered a real threat?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘In my opinion, yes,’ Marcia Brock said. ‘But Mr Dale was confident he’d win, if only by a narrow majority.’

  ‘Which would mean he would stand as this region’s Tory MP at the next general election?’

  ‘Next by-election,’ Marcia Brock corrected. Then launched into a truly bewildering narrative about the rules and regulations concerning the difference. When she’d finished, Janine looked ready to spit tin tacks.

  ‘OK. Let’s shift emphasis a minute,’ Hillary said hastily, knowing her sergeant would probably kill her if she didn’t. They could always trawl the internet later to build up a more solid idea of what happened in local Tory politics. ‘What kind of man was he? Did you like him?’

  Marcia shrugged. ‘He was all right,’ she said, then flushed, as if aware that she didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. ‘What I mean is, he ran his own business, so at least he knew more than most of them when he talked about economics and the plight of the small businessman.’

  ‘Really? What was his business?’

  ‘He owns, or owned, rather, I suppose I should say, Sporting Chance. You might know it – it’s in that new shopping centre they built by the canal in Banbury.’ Hillary didn’t know it, but had no doubt that she would, before long.

  ‘Basically, he sells high-end sporting equipment to the country set. Fishing rods that can tell you the weight of the fish before you’ve even caught it. Purdey shotguns, handmade and decorated with real silver, that ca
n set you back sixty grand. Bespoke jodhpurs, Argentinian polo mallets, tooled leather riding boots from Spain. You get the idea – if you’ve got more money than sense and want to spend it on an afternoon’s grouse shoot, Sporting Chance is where you go. He did very well at it. Course, round this area, he couldn’t really miss. If you’re not shooting it, chasing it, ripping it apart, hooking it out of water or sending terriers down holes after it, you’re trying to be seen as if you are.’

  Hillary watched the other woman slump back in her chair and take a deep, much needed breath. Then she smiled wryly. ‘I get the feeling you’re not a blood sports aficionado, Ms Brock?’

  Marcia had the grace to grin. ‘Sorry. Can’t say as I am. I’m a vegetarian, for a start,’ she added, then, as if aware of how absurd that sounded, gave a sharp bark of laughter and leaned forward in her chair. ‘Look, I didn’t particularly like the man, OK?’ she said earnestly. ‘But I needed the experience, and being a campaign secretary for a politician – any politician – is going to look good on my CV once I get my masters.’ She shrugged a little helplessly. ‘A while ago a friend of mine told me about Malcolm Dale, and when I checked him out, I thought that his chances of at least making a good showing was too good for me to pass up. My friend put in a good word, and Malcolm hired me. Now, I suppose … Oh shit, I don’t know what I’m going to do now,’ she said, as the reality of her situation began to sink in. ‘I’ll be out of a job for a start, and I really needed that pay cheque even if it was peanuts. He was a tight bastard, you know. But then, that’s the rich for you. They never give anything away, do they?’

  ‘Was he rich?’ Hillary asked casually.

  ‘Oh yeah. Well, by my lights he was,’ Marcia corrected with a brief grin. ‘The shop was a goldmine, and his wife, of course, had her own private income from Daddy. The kids are already down to go to Eton and Cheltenham Ladies College. Can you imagine it? Having your life all mapped out for you before you’re even out of nappies? Yeah, they’re rich all right.’