Blood in Grandpont Page 17

  Only she didn’t. She never had done. This was the point at which she always woke. She sat bolt upright and shouted. It wasn’t a loud shout, though it would have probably been sufficient to wake Karen if Karen had been there, but she wasn’t. That had been Susan’s own choice. She had spent the evening round at Karen’s flat, but she’d insisted on coming back to Chilswell Road and sleeping on her own. She needed some time to herself, she had said, and Karen had said fine, as if she understood, but Karen had been hurt. Susan knew that, and she could have changed her mind, but instead she’d driven home to Grandpont and gone to bed alone. And now, at five o’clock in the morning, she wished she hadn’t been such a self-centred cow. Because then Karen would be lying next to her and she could tell her about this stupid nightmare and then she could lie down again and Karen would wrap her arms around her and she would feel OK.

  For a moment she considered ringing Karen, but shook her head at her own foolishness. Instead, she sent her a text ‘Ring when u r awake’ (as if one possible option for Karen was to ring when she was asleep!) and went downstairs to the kitchen. She placed her mobile in the middle of the table, checked the kettle for water, and switched it on. Next stop was the mug tree: there were six mugs hanging on it, each a different bright colour. She studied them for several seconds, and then chose the yellow one. It was a long time since she had drunk out of it. Next came the choice of tea. In the tin from France were the herbal teas – she ought to have one of them to help her sleep – but she wasn’t sure she wanted to sleep and besides she kept them largely for guests. You couldn’t live here in this left-leaning, Guardian-reading, healthy-eating, allotment-obsessed area of South Oxford and not have herbal tea for your guests. But she opted to open the white tin with the unequivocal hand-written label ‘Builder’s Tea’ on it and pulled a bag out of that one.

  She poured the boiling water in and let it stew for at least a minute before removing the bag and adding a dollop of milk. Then she sat at the table with her mug cradled in her hand, and tried to think. But nothing happened. Not a single constructive, analytical thought entered her consciousness. Not one. There was only feeling, deep and bewildering, a feeling of immense and intolerable panic, as if the very roof of the world was pressing down on her, squeezing and squeezing her until there was no space left for her and no breath left in her lungs. She gave a snort, releasing the air she had been refusing to let out, and then sucked the stale house air deep into her lungs. She slammed her fist down on the table and shouted at herself to ward off the panic. Get a grip, you silly girl, get a grip! They weren’t her words, of course. They were her father’s, rocketing back from the past, and as they had always done back then, they now acted only to make her more determined – or stubborn, depending on whose point of view you took. She stood up suddenly and went over to the small semi-circular table which stood between the door leading through from the front of the house and the half-glass door leading sideways out into the garden. The table was dark brown and Georgian, with elegant curved legs, and was totally out of place in the kitchen, but it had been her grandmother’s and it fitted the space perfectly. The table was covered with a white lace cloth embroidered with delicate yellow flowers, and on this sat a silver-grey phone, a notepad, and biro. She picked up the notepad and returned to the kitchen table. She drank a slug of tea, revelling in its strong, ugly taste. Right, she told herself, it’s time to get organized.

  ‘Start at the very beginning, it’s a very good place to start.’ That was what Maria von Trapp would have said, prancing across her stupid Austrian mountains, but she couldn’t do that. She could only start with Geraldine Payne, who seemed to be everyone’s bloody dentist and had once slept in the same bed as Karen. Because the fact was that Geraldine Payne had invaded her head.

  ‘Geraldine Payne.’ She wrote the name down at the top of the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She paused, took another slurp from her mug, and continued to write. ‘Dentist. Relationship with Sarah Russell. Sexual? Possibly! She denies it.’ She paused, a prolonged pause which took in another slurp of tea and a desultory scratching of her armpit. She tore off the sheet of paper, placed it in front of her to the left, and started writing on a fresh sheet.

  ‘Maria Tull.’ She looked hard at the two words. The idea was that writing things down would help to lessen the confusion in her brain and allay the feeling of panic in her gut. But it didn’t seem to be working. She picked up her mug again, and drained its contents. Concentrate, Susan! Concentrate!

  She tried to recall the interview with Geraldine. In detail. It was easy to recall Fox’s blundering aggression. She hated the way he had gone about it, and she hated the attitudes that had fuelled his questioning, but the fact was he had forced her to talk about her relationship with Sarah Russell. Holden had taken over from him at that point. She didn’t feel she could walk out, job done, with the whiff of sexism and homophobia hanging acrid in the air. So she had changed the subject, moving it away from Sarah and towards the Tulls.

  ‘I like Alan,’ Geraldine had said firmly. ‘He’s a kind man, a gentleman. Just the sort of GP that anyone in their right mind would want. Of course, we both work in Beaumont Street, so we meet up occasionally for lunch. He always offers to pay, but I insist on taking turns. I think he likes being seen with me, a woman, but a totally safe woman. No chance of gossip or scandal, or anything getting out of hand.’

  ‘What about Maria?’ she had asked then.

  ‘She was all right.’ Holden had been struck by that expression. It was the sort of thing a child said about a teacher they liked or about an aunt who managed not to say embarrassing things in front of their friends. But in Geraldine’s mouth it seemed incongruous. Especially in view of how she’d described her that time she’d stormed into the station.

  ‘The first time we met,’ Holden said unemotionally, ‘you described her as an Italian bitch.’

  Geraldine laughed. ‘Yes, I dare say I might have. I was cross then, really furious in fact, so I probably said things I didn’t really mean.’

  ‘Do you make a habit of that?’

  ‘Only when I want to.’ She had laughed again, as if the very idea of behaving in any other way was too ridiculous for words. ‘Look, we got on. We weren’t best friends – far from it – but I think she found me interesting, what with me preferring women to men. She couldn’t get her head round that.’ Again, Geraldine had laughed. ‘I liked to talk art with her. She was really interesting on it. Occasionally, we’d meet at the Ashmolean and have a coffee, and she’d take me to look at just one painting that had taken her fancy, and she’d talk about it. Endlessly!’ She had laughed again. ‘She liked to show off her knowledge.’

  ‘Was she having an affair with anyone, do you think?’

  Geraldine hadn’t shown any surprise at her change of tactic. Perhaps, when you’re being quizzed by the police, no question can be a real surprise. ‘I wasn’t her best buddy, Inspector,’ she had said. ‘I doubt she’d have confided in me. But actually, if you want my honest guess, I’d guess no. I’ll tell you for why. She was a looker, was Maria. Not my type, you understand, but the men liked her. She always got looks. Hell, she encouraged them! She loved a bit of flirting, even if it was only with the pensioner standing guard in the pre-Raphaelite gallery. It was amazing the favours she could get if she put her mind to it. But it was always a game with her. The bottom line was she liked her life. She liked the financial comfort that her marriage to a GP gave her. She liked Oxford. She liked being able to dabble in the art market, and she liked her trips back to Venice. She once asked me about lesbian sex and what we got up to, and when I had finished, she made a face and said that personally she thought sex was overrated. So that’s why I say I doubt she would risk it all for something she didn’t much like.’

  ‘Not even Dominic Russell?’ Susan had asked, switching her line of attack.

  But Geraldine had merely broken into peals of laughter. ‘Are you kidding, Inspector. Especially not him. Rumour has it
that he tried it on with her soon after she married Alan, and she turned him down flat. Dominic thought he was God’s gift to women, but only the young and the naïve fell for his dubious charms. And the bottom line is, when Sarah cracked the whip he used to come running.’

  ‘So when did you last see Maria alive?’ She had intended it as her last question; she hadn’t expected it to reveal anything interesting, but it had seemed like an easy way to wind the interview to a suitable conclusion.

  Geraldine had frowned, and sucked in her lips. ‘It must be two or three weeks ago. I bumped into her outside the Playhouse.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  She had shrugged. ‘This and that. I admired her handbag. It was very stylish, just like her. And she asked if I’d been away on holiday. And she told me she was giving a series of lectures on Venetian art.’ Geraldine had stopped at that point. Holden remembered noticing that something changed in her. ‘I rang her about it,’ she had said with intensity. ‘On the night she was murdered, I rang her on her mobile to find out when she was starting her lectures.’

  ‘You mean you spoke to her?’ Holden had been suddenly alert. ‘When was this?’

  ‘No,’ Geraldine had replied. ‘She never answered my call.’ She scratched her head, trying to recall the details. ‘It must have been a bit after six o’clock. I had a feeling she had told me that her lectures were starting that night, but I had nothing written down, so I wanted to check. Her mobile rang several times, but she didn’t answer. So I left a message, asking her to call me, and then I hung up. I never did speak to her.’

  She had fallen silent then. They both had, as each wondered what might have been. If Geraldine had got hold of her and gone along that evening, would it have changed what happened?

  Susan Holden yawned, and felt an almost physical jolt of tiredness sweep over her. She looked down at her piece of paper. Still only two words: ‘Maria Tull.’ She picked up the biro and started writing underneath. ‘Missed phone call from Geraldine? [Check with Wilson, esp. time.] Why did Maria not answer? Does it matter?’

  Then she put down the biro, picked up her mobile, and made her way upstairs.

  It was the sound of her mobile that woke her. She scrabbled around on her bedside table for it, conscious that if she didn’t pick up by five rings, it would go into the answering service. ‘Yes,’ she said, just in time.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It was Karen’s voice. God, was it nice to hear her voice!

  ‘I think I might be cracking up.’ Susan hadn’t meant to say anything as dramatic as that. But the words popped out as large as life and twice as unsettling.

  There was an intake of breath at the other end of the call. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I had a nightmare. A pig of a nightmare.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Have you time to listen?’

  ‘For you, babe, all the time in the world.’ It could have been a line from a cut-price B movie, and it was delivered by Karen as if it was, but cliché or not, it had a startling effect: Susan Holden burst uncontrollably into tears.

  For twenty minutes they talked. Or rather for twenty minutes Susan Holden talked and Karen Pointer listened. And at the end of it Susan no longer felt like she was about to explode. ‘Thanks,’ she said simply at the end. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘It’s all part of the deal,’ Karen said, trying hard to distance herself from her emotions. For a minute or two in their conversation she had feared she was in danger of losing the best person who had ever happened to her.

  ‘I love you,’ Susan said.

  ‘I love you too.’ And tears had begun to well up in Karen’s eyes too.

  ‘Can I come round and stay tonight?’

  ‘Of course. Any night, or every night’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. The only problem is I’ve lost a filling.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’ve lost a filling,’ Karen said, more slowly and more loudly, as if talking to a call centre in Mumbai. ‘From my back tooth.’ She was louder now, fully into the part. ‘I ate a toffee. Do you understand?’ she said with exaggerated gaps between each word.

  Susan laughed, and Karen laughed back, glad that Susan was reacting normally.

  ‘So,’ Karen continued, but this time in her sensible, organized voice, ‘I’m going to ask Geraldine to squeeze me in at the end of her day. I might be late home. So I’ll give you a ring when I’m finished and we can decide then what to do with our evening. OK?’

  ‘OK. Love you.’

  ‘Love you more!’ Karen had replied, slipping into a cherished teenage game.

  ‘Love you much more!’

  ‘Love you the mostest!’ Karen replied, terminating the conversation.

  It was 8.31 a.m. when Lawson and Fox walked into Holden’s office, Fox carrying two steaming polystyrene cups, and Lawson some cardboard folders. Holden looked at her watch. ‘We’ll wait for Wilson. He’s just checking something out for me. In fact, since we’re not quite ready, how about getting a coffee for him, and for me too. And tell him to get a move on, while you’re about it.’

  At 8.36 a.m., or near as damn it, the two of them returned with two more white cups and Wilson in tow.

  ‘Sorry if I held you up!’ Wilson said. Apologizing wasn’t so much second nature to Detective Constable Wilson as hard-wired into his reflex system. Holden raised her head and looked at him. His skin was red and scarred by a ceaseless adolescent battle against acne, and his ears protruded too much. He would look a lot better if he grew his hair a bit, she thought, or if he used gel on it to provide a distraction. But she looked on him in the way that she imagined mothers looked on their gawky sons – the ones who were never going to make the football team or get the straight As – with a fierce and protective pride.

  ‘You haven’t held us up,’ she said, gesturing towards a chair. She waited until they had all settled. Even now, she wasn’t quite sure where to start. ‘I need your help.’ She paused. It was a ridiculously personal way to open the session. She should have gone straight to the detail of the case. ‘Point one!’ But she felt alone and exposed, and the anxieties of the night had begun to bubble up to the surface again. ‘We aren’t making fast enough progress on the case. Three dead bodies, and God knows how many more to follow if we don’t pull our fingers out. So I want us all to start with a blank sheet of paper. Discard all your assumptions and look afresh at everything. OK?’

  She stopped and looked around. Three heads nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So let’s start with Maria Tull’s phone.’ This startled Fox and Lawson. Simple observation told her that, and she felt glad. Whatever else, she had their full attention now. Wilson, of course, knew about her interest in Maria’s mobile. He looked pleased.

  ‘Fox, you were there yesterday when we interviewed Geraldine Payne. She told us she tried to phone Maria.’

  ‘Sure. She said she tried to ring Maria on the night of her death. A bit after six, I think she said. She wanted to know when her lectures on Venetian art were starting. But Maria didn’t answer, so she left a message asking her to ring back.’

  ‘Accurate, but only in so far as it goes.’ She spoke without malice, but the words were bound to hurt. Fox looked back at her, giving no sign. ‘Wilson has been taking another look at this for me,’ she continued, and turned towards her constable.

  ‘She did ring. At 6.21 that evening. And she left a message. As Sergeant Fox said, she asked about—’

  Holden cut in. There were no favours this morning, not even for Wilson. ‘Let’s have it verbatim, Wilson.’

  Wilson looked down at his notes. His face was even redder that normal. He began to read. ‘Hi, Maria. Geraldine here. How’s tricks? I’m sure your famous lectures are about to start any day. Do remind me of the details. I completed failed to make a note of it. Byeee!’

  ‘Thank you Wilson.’ Holden took a sip of coffee. She looked around the semi-circle of faces ag
ain. She had got their attention all right.

  ‘So why didn’t Maria ring her back?’

  ‘She never heard the message,’ Wilson said. ‘I was checking back in my notes. I went through the mobile in the normal way. Incoming calls, outgoing-calls, missed calls, text messages, and voice messages. This was the only unread voice message. I did write it in my notes, but—’

  ‘We should have followed it up,’ Holden said firmly. She believed in taking responsibility.

  ‘We were distracted by the photo of Jack Smith,’ Lawson said. The blame had to be shared. ‘All of us were.’

  ‘One missed phone call,’ Fox joined in. ‘It’s not like it was a big deal.’

  ‘Unless, of course, it turns out that it is a big deal.’ Holden knew that now with absolute certainty. It was the biggest deal. Maybe the key, even. ‘Maria didn’t get the message and she didn’t ring back. But she had the mobile on her. We know that because we found it in her coat pocket.’

  ‘Maybe she had just turned it off,’ Lawson suggested. ‘She was starting a series of lectures. Maybe she didn’t want to be bothered by anyone. I mean, she would definitely have turned it off before the lecture—’

  ‘But it wasn’t turned off when Geraldine rang her.’ Fox had caught up now, and knew exactly where the Guv was going with this. No wonder she’d been so bloody sharp with him. ‘Geraldine told us the phone rang several times before it went into the answering service.’

  ‘Six times,’ Holden said quietly.

  ‘So it must have been turned on then,’ Fox concluded. ‘Or it would have gone straight into the messaging service.’

  ‘If I can play devil’s advocate for a minute?’ This was Lawson’s insurance, in case she was shot down in flames. ‘Perhaps she was in the car, driving. That would explain why she didn’t pick up at the time. And then, when she got there, she was too rushed or preoccupied to listen to it and ring back.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Holden admitted, ‘but her car does have a hands-free kit. We checked.’ That is to say, Wilson had checked. ‘Which means, in the scenario you are sketching out, Lawson, she gets the call while driving to St Clement’s, doesn’t bother to answer it, and then doesn’t bother when she has got there to check who had rung her and why.’