A Narrow Return

I
t was a beautiful Sunday evening in mid-March when Hillary Greene turned the corner onto a very familiar part of the Oxford canal. Up ahead, she could just make out the first glimpse of the few rooftops and chimneys that marked the small hamlet of Thrupp, which was less than a mile from Kidlington, in the heart of Oxfordshire’s Thames Valley.

She throttled down the engine of the Mollern, her narrowboat and home for more years now than she cared to remember. Even though she was doing the speed limit – all of a giddy 4mph – she was in no hurry to arrive, and preferred to savour the moment.

Although spring didn’t officially arrive until the twenty-first, the weather was doing one of those funny little twists and turns that England did so well, and not even a cold breeze came across the open, khaki-coloured water. Some of the willows were just beginning to bud, giving the towpath that slightly frothy, lacy edge of green that lifted the heart, and confirmed that winter was indeed well and truly over. And as she approached the first of the houses, the yellow drifts of the first opening daffodils seemed to echo a cheerfully sunny yellow agreement.

A newly arrived and early chiffchaff called away to her right, but she doubted any of its potential female mates would have arrived from the continent just yet.

She spied a mooring opening up not far ahead and about fifty yards down from the canal-side pub, The Boat. She checked to make sure that it didn’t have any private-mooring warnings, then expertly brought her boat to the side, turned off the engine, and stepped casually onto the side. It didn’t do to poach someone’s spot, as she’d very quickly learned during her year and a half of touring.

The boat behind her had lights on inside and she could sense movement, but the boat in front was dark and silent, and had that just-starting-to-look-neglected air about it. But then, a lot of canal-dwellers spent the winters in a more conventional home, preferring the benefits of snug central heating and double glazing.

Anyone watching her go about tying up the Mollern would have seen an attractive woman in old snug-fitting jeans and a cornflower-blue jersey, who moved with an economy of movement that would have told them she was no novice to narrowboat living. She was curvaceous but lithe, with a just-past-the-shoulder cut of bell-shaped auburn hair.

Her home secure, Hillary turned and eyed the pub thoughtfully, then gave a mental headshake. There was plenty of time yet to be acknowledged and welcomed back into what had once been her local.

Instead, she went inside and set about fixing up a scratched meal of tinned ham, boiled eggs and salad, which she ate in solitary splendour in the tiny room at the prow of the boat that passed for her living area.

It felt odd to be back in Thrupp. For the past year and half she’d been touring Britain’s waterways in her boat, writing a novel which was now finished but was hardly ever likely to see a publisher’s desk, and generally getting the ‘hang’ of retirement.

Or not.

With the big 5-0 breathing down her neck within the next few weeks, ex-Detective Inspector Hillary Greene had finally had to admit defeat. She was bored and restless, and badly needed to do something more meaningful to occupy her time than being a tourist in her own country. And tomorrow she would no doubt have to weather the I-told-you-so blandishments of her old boss, Commander Marcus Donleavy.

She sighed and washed away her plate, before settling down in front of the small TV. She turned over from an old Morse re-run, and found an adaptation of a Jane Austen novel on BBC2. Settling down with another sigh, she sipped her glass of bog-standard supermarket white plonk and wondered, not for the first time, if she wasn’t making a big mistake in coming back.

Who was it who’d said that you could never go back? She poured herself a defiant second glass of wine and muttered that whoever it was deserved a good kick up the backside.

Monday morning bright and early, Hillary dressed in a dark blue skirt and jacket, feeling oddly uneasy in her old work clothes. Since retiring, jeans and t-shirt, baggy cardigans and comfortable jerseys had been her uniform. Life on the canal, especially in winter, with all the mud and damp that went with it, was hardly conducive to sartorial elegance. She then had to hunt around for a pair of ‘proper’ shoes, since she’d worn nothing but trainers for what felt like forever. Her toes instantly objected to being confined in the black leather flatties, and she mumbled something dire into her morning cup of coffee.

And that reminded her. She was going to have to stop this retirement-acquired habit of muttering to herself. Anyone catching her at it could justifiably wonder if she was going doolally.

She checked her appearance in the mirror, realized she’d forgotten her watch, and then had to have another hunt around for it. Timekeeping was another thing she was going to have to get used to again. On the boat, meandering from spot to spot, it hardly mattered what time you got up, or ate, or anything else. Now routine would once more become the norm.

She scowled at her reflection in the tiny mirror. Just why the hell was she putting herself through this, anyway? She had plenty of money to see her through to her cranky old age, and it wasn’t as if she needed the hassle of going back to work.

Still, fifteen minutes later saw her heaving her bicycle from the roof rack of the Mollern and pushing it along the towpath towards the lane. She cast another quick glance at the pub, and wondered if the landlord’s son still had Puff. She’d sold him her car, an ancient Volkswagen Golf that she’d christened Puff the Tragic Wagon – because it was – when she’d left the police service. Now, depending on how things went, she might need to buy another second-hand car, and she felt a distinct pang of something that might have been nostalgia for her old rust-bucket.

She sighed, and with a glance at a cloudy but mercifully rain-free sky, put the toe of her newly-polished, black leather shoe to the pedal and set off. Luckily, she didn’t have to go far. She was hardly a born cyclist or a die-hard keep fit fan, but Thrupp was barely a mile from the Thames Valley HQ and as such, was well within her limits. And she had to admit to feeling a certain amount of malevolent satisfaction as she was able to pedal righteously past all the stalled traffic at Kidlington’s many traffic lights.

She turned into the familiar car park of her old stomping ground barely ten minutes later and then had to stop and think where the bicycle racks would be. Before she’d always parked Puff in the first empty car parking space she found. But she eventually found the right place, and padlocked her bike into place. She had no illusions about it being safe enough outside a police station; more than twenty-five years on the job had taught her a lot about criminal cheek.

She ran a quick hand through her hair to check that it wasn’t too windblown, then began to unbutton her long raincoat as she walked towards the doors. When she stepped into the lobby, it felt like coming home. Which was hardly an auspicious start, considering she was not sure of whether or not she’d be staying or even what sort of reception she was going to get.

Not that she’d left under a cloud or anything. But the death of a former colleague during her last case still tended to leave a bad taste in her mouth.

‘Hey up, look what the cat’s just dragged in, fellahs. No, hold on, now I come to think of it, no self-respecting cat would even think of dragging you in.’

The booming, happy voice of the desk sergeant brought an instant smile to her lips. Over the years, the banter she’d shared with the men who manned the desk had more than once kept her sane when she felt like tearing her hair out.

‘Less of the cheek, you,’ she said, heading towards him, noticing a small gaggle of constables clustered off to one side, who’d fallen silent at this sally, and were now watching her with interest. ‘I’m a member of the public now, you’re supposed to show some respect.’

The desk sergeant roared with laughter. ‘Never showed you none when you were a DI, guv,’ he pointed out when he got his breath back. ‘Don’t know what makes you think I’m likely to start now.’ Hillary grinned and leaned against the counter, resigning herself to a long-winded catch-up session. Desk sergeants were not noted for their taciturnity. ‘Here, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ the sergeant rumbled on. ‘We had bets around here about how long it’d be before you came back. I had a tenner on you showing up last autumn. What the hell kept you?’

Hillary sighed. ‘Go on then, get it over with,’ she said, and let him rag her for a while about her taking early retirement, and now her reappearance. The gaggle of uniforms stirred and murmured as it began to filter through to them just who it was who had returned to HQ. Some of them knew Hillary on sight, of course, but most of the others were new, and all of them knew her name.

Her notoriously bent husband, her medal for bravery and her unbeaten arrest record made sure of that. And since walking away from the job, she’d become something of a legend.

But one of them watched her with far more interest than the others. His eyes were cat-green and observed her every movement and facial expression. How old was she? If she was retired she had to be getting on a bit but she looked gorgeous. He’d swear that hair was real and not out of a bottle, and her figure was perfect. Not stick-thin, like some girls, but with proper curves.

‘Well, I’d better get on,’ Hillary said, after she’d listened to all the station gossip the desk sergeant could muster – which was plenty. ‘The boss is expecting me.’

‘Ah Commander Donleavy,’ the desk sergeant said, in mock-hushed tones. ‘Never seen his hallowed portals myself.’

Hillary grinned. ‘I’ll tell him shall I? Maybe he’ll invite you up for tea and biccies.’

The sergeant was still guffawing over the likelihood of that as she took the stairs two at a time and disappeared out of sight without even breathing hard.

The man with the cat-green eyes smiled briefly. For a wrinkly she certainly seemed fit enough.

Hillary Greene sat in the hallowed portal of Commander Donleavy’s office and sipped her coffee. Brewed by his ever-loyal secretary in his own pot and made with Brazilian beans no less. There were no biscuits, however.

‘I can’t tell you how pleased I was to get your letter,’ Donleavy was saying, pausing to sip from his own cup. He was wearing his trademark silver-grey suit, which went so well with his neat coiffure of silver-grey hair. And if his silver-grey eyes were sparkling rather more brightly than usual with hidden mirth, it was hard to call him out on it. For he had indeed said, all those many moons ago, that she would be back.

And here she was. Back.

He handed her a folder. ‘Here’s all the data you’ll need. Salary rates, forms to sign, official ID and what have you.’

Hillary blinked. ‘Hey, hang on a minute, sir,’ the respectful term for him slipped out without her noticing, but Donleavy’s eyes gleamed even brighter. ‘I haven’t even made up my mind I’m going to do this yet.’

Donleavy nodded. ‘I’ve placed you with Superintendent Crayle’s team,’ he carried on as if she hadn’t bothered speaking, making her choke on her superbly percolated coffee.

‘Bloody hell, sir, now you
are
being premature,’ she managed, once she’d stopped sounding like a strangled parrot. Her eyes were still watering from her coughing fit, so she put her cup down and reached for a tissue. ‘I only said I wanted to come in and see how the land lies. I hope you’ve told this Superintendent Crayle that nothing’s fixed yet.’

Donleavy smiled savagely. That wasn’t quite what he’d said to Steven Crayle.

‘I’ll show you your new office after we’ve finished our coffee, shall I?’ he gave her a salute with his mug and smiled benevolently as she scowled back at him. As if he’d give her even the remotest chance of wangling out of it now! In all his years as a copper, Hillary Greene had been by some way the best natural detective he’d ever met. She had the ability to sift facts and spot the ones that mattered, and in interview, she was second to none. She had a way of understanding people – perps, victims, suspects – that had them eating out of her hand and confessing all. He’d fought tooth and nail to keep her from early retirement and didn’t admit defeat gracefully. And now that she was back and cautiously sniffing around the mouse hole he was determined to secure her services before the other cats even knew she was back.

Let alone the mice.

‘Let me tell you about the Crime Review Team,’ Donleavy railroaded on. ‘Basically it’s set up to review cold cases with a new and bang-up-to-the-minute eye. Which means, of course, computer whizz-kids mostly riding a desk and crunching numbers and running programmes through databases. A crony of the chief constable is overseeing all of that. But within the CRT is a more investigative sub-branch, which takes on specific cases that need to be investigated using more tried-and-true methods.’

Hillary nodded, seeing the sense of what her old boss was saying. ‘And this Superintendent Crayle is in charge of this set up, yes?’

‘Right, and this is an area which should be right up your alley. You never were one to stay behind a desk and delegate, were you? Working for Crayle, you’ll be hands on from start to finish,’ Donleavy said smoothly.

Hillary smiled, knowing full well what he was doing. Namely laying tempting bait and hoping she’d fall for it. And it was good bait, damn him. The thought of getting out and about interviewing people, gathering facts and trying to solve the puzzle on hand was exactly what she’d lived and breathed for.

‘And I’d be given a set of cases, and left to work them as I see fit?’ she asked, determined to get a full picture of exactly what was on offer before committing herself to anything.

‘That’s it. He’s divided his staff into small teams, each with its own set of cold cases. In each of these teams, he’s tried to match up a retired or ex-copper with the young wannabes. Oh yes, and some part-time retired forensic officers hold a watching brief and overall view.’

‘Wannabes?’ she asked, puzzled and in spite of herself, curious. She had to watch Donleavy, she knew. He was a wily bugger and used to getting his own way. If she didn’t watch it, she’d be back at work tomorrow instead of in the two or three weeks that she had originally planned.