Blood on the Marsh Page 8

  Somewhere deep inside, Wilson’s slow-to-flare temper ignited. ‘Where did you learn to patronize, Constable? At your father’s knee?’

  Lawson felt a sudden nip of shame, a sense of having done wrong. That was certainly something she’d learnt from her father. ‘Sorry,’ she said abruptly. She considered saying more, but she could hear footsteps approaching along the corridor, and that was all the excuse she needed. ‘See you later,’ she said, as she opened the door wide.

  Two corridors away, in the staff room, Paul Greenleaf had just sat down opposite DI Holden. She had wanted to interview him again first thing that morning, but there had been a crisis with one of the patients, and Greenleaf had insisted he needed to attend to that first. Holden wasn’t sure why, when Fran Sinclair was there and Dr Featherstone had been summoned, but she knew it would have been churlish of her to insist he put police inquiries before the welfare of his patients, and so she had agreed to wait.

  ‘How is Mr Osbourne?’ Holden tried to sound concerned. At least she had remembered his name.

  ‘We think he’ll be OK, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to ask me about?’ Greenleaf leant back in his chair, as if suddenly he had all the time in the world.

  ‘How long has Jim Wright been working here?’

  ‘Jim?’ He paused, running his two hands expansively through his long hair. ‘He just does odd jobs for me from time to time.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Again there was a delay. Greenleaf sucked in a breath of air and then expelled it. ‘He did one or two small jobs for me in the summer, and then I got him in to help with some redecorating and general maintenance a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s a hundred and one odd-job men out there, Mr Greenleaf. How come you hired the son of one of your patients?’

  Greenleaf lifted his hands theatrically. ‘For that very reason. I met him when he came to look at Sunnymede for his mother. He told me he was a builder. I suppose I must have filed him away in the back of my head. We have our own odd-job man on staff – Roy Hillerby – but he has so many different things to do that when we had a couple of rooms that needed some serious work, I realized he’d need help. So I approached Jim.’

  Holden nodded. It all added up, just about, but she wasn’t completely convinced. ‘Who did you use before Jim Wright came along?’

  ‘A man called Alan Moore. But he’s got asbestosis.’

  ‘Why did you trust Jim Wright? If you’d done any checking around, you’d have discovered his business hit the rocks not so long ago.’

  ‘Christ, what sort of woman are you, Inspector?’ There was a sudden surge of anger. ‘Do you write people off just because they get into financial trouble? Anyway, there was never going to be a risk to Sunnymede. We pay him, not the other way round, and we only pay him when the work is complete. In addition, given his situation, his rates are very competitive. And when you’re on a tight budget, as we are, that’s important.’

  Holden was pleased at the response she had provoked. She didn’t care what Greenleaf thought of her. What mattered was to try and get information out of him, and to probe his account for inconsistencies. And if getting him riled helped, then so be it. ‘So he’s been in a lot recently, has he? And visiting his mother too, no doubt, like the dutiful son.’

  ‘No visiting of his mother during his working time. I made that clear from the word go. If he wanted to see her, then it had to be in his own time, after he had gone home and cleaned himself up.’

  ‘Do you have a list of the days he has worked?’ Holden couldn’t help the feeling that Greenleaf’s blustering manner was deliberate ploy, designed to distract.

  ‘Of course I have. If you want, I’ll get the timesheets he’s submitted from my office. But basically he’s been working here most days for the last month.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Holden said. ‘Sergeant Fox will come and get it all now.’

  Greenleaf rose to his feet, as did the silent Fox. Holden waited for them to reach the door. ‘One more thing,’ she said, forcing Greenleaf to turn. ‘Tell me about Roy Hillerby.’

  ‘What do you want to know? He’s our odd-job man, as I have already mentioned.’ There was an edge of irritation in his voice. ‘He’s been working for us for about two and a half years. He’s a very useful chap to have around.’

  ‘I gather he and Bella Sinclair have a relationship?’

  ‘You gather they have a relationship!’ Greenleaf laughed dismissively. ‘Where do you get your gossip, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, my constable is very good at extracting information from gossip, and usually it turns out to be remarkably accurate.’ Holden knew that wasn’t entirely true, but right now her only focus was to get Greenleaf rattled. ‘Given that you’ve slept with Bella, I thought you might be a good man to double check the gossip with.’

  ‘Yeah!’ he sneered. ‘Well what I can tell you is that Hillerby has been buzzing round her honeypot ever since she started here. But I doubt very much if he’s had even the slightest taste.’

  Holden recognized the detective superintendent’s voice instantly, and just as instantly she felt anxiety grip her stomach. ‘How are things going, Inspector?’

  It was the same question as before, and yet here she was three days later and there was nothing significant to report.

  ‘I’m fine and the case is progressing, Sir,’ she said, knowing that it wouldn’t satisfy him.

  ‘Is it murder or not?’ Collins was in no mood to exchange politenesses.

  ‘I’m not sure yet, Sir.’

  ‘In that case, I need Wilson and Lawson back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are they there?’

  ‘Lawson is.’ In fact, she was standing opposite Holden. She had just finished reporting what she and Wilson had been up to, and now she was pretending – and failing miserably – not to be interested in the telephone conversation going on in front of her. ‘Wilson has just gone to check the records at Oxford Waste Ltd. We think morphine that should have been destroyed by them may never have got there.’

  ‘Well, you and Fox will have to follow that up yourselves. We’ve got a big operation coming up tomorrow, so I need both Lawson and Wilson back at the Cowley station within the hour.’

  ‘Is that absolutely necessary?’

  ‘It’s an order, Inspector, not a request. You can have them back on Monday. Maybe.’

  ‘Hi!’ A man had appeared in the doorway of the staff room. ‘I understand you want to see me.’

  Roy Hillerby was relatively short – about five foot eight, Holden reckoned – with dark curly hair, a lean face and an impressive scar on his right-hand cheek. He looked like a man who kept himself fit, and when he smiled it was with a slightly lop-sided grin. In fact, the first thing he did when he came into the staff room was to smile. Fox put it down to nerves – or maybe guilt. Guilt about what, it didn’t really matter. Everyone feels guilty when they’ve been summoned by the police.

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Holden didn’t bother introducing herself or Fox. The chances were that everyone in Sunnymede who wasn’t suffering from dementia knew exactly who they were now. She waved him to the chair opposite her.

  ‘How do you get on with Jim Wright?’

  The question seemed to take Hillerby by surprise. He opened his mouth slightly, but two or three seconds passed before he actually spoke. ‘We get … get on all r … right.’

  It was Holden who paused now, taken off guard by Hillerby’s stuttering. It wasn’t something you came across so often these days, though she remembered being fascinated by one of her grandfather’s friends, and her mother later telling her off for staring at him right the way through tea. ‘How long have you known him?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s been w … working here f … f … for a month or so, h … helping me.’

  ‘Had you met him before that?’

&
nbsp; There was another pause. ‘N … no!’

  ‘Did he go and visit his mother when he was working? I mean, in his lunch break, for example.’

  ‘No. You get d … dirty when you’re decorating, and Mr Greenleaf had asked him n … not to.’

  ‘It would be quite normal for a son to say hello to his mother, though. Didn’t he ever just pop in to see her?’

  ‘Not that I can rem … rem … remember.’

  Holden nodded as she considered this answer, and what to say next. The stuttering was putting her off. She would have liked a wide-ranging chat, but it felt somehow unfair to keep asking questions of a man who had difficulties giving answers. ‘Was it because he didn’t like his mother?’

  Hillerby shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Holden turned for support towards Fox. It was something he was used to. Holden would turn to him when she wanted him to apply pressure from another angle, but usually – almost always in fact – they discussed these tactics in advance. But not this time. Even so, Fox knew she wanted him to intervene. He cleared his throat. ‘Was it because his mother didn’t like him?’

  Hillerby’s eyes opened wide, and he sat up straighter. The question had clearly struck a nerve. ‘His m … m … mother was a horrible woman. She was v … very unkind. To everyone. E … e … everyone!’

  It was a moment of minor revelation for Holden. She had, of course, never met Nanette Wright, but she had assumed that she was essentially a nice old lady. That wasn’t to say that Holden hadn’t come across difficult and cantankerous old women, but her own mother was essentially nice – if a little overinterested in her daughter’s life – and she wanted everyone else’s ageing mother to be nice too. But it was an interesting thought – that Nanette Wright had actually been a right old cow who went around upsetting people and making enemies.

  But that was for later. Right now, having got Fox to bail her out, she took back control and changed tack. ‘I understand you and Bella are very good friends?’

  ‘W … we are friends.’

  ‘Are you lovers too?’ There was no point in beating about the bush even with someone who stammered.

  Hillerby’s Adam’s apple pulsated, bulging and contracting. ‘Wh … what’s that got to do with y … you?’

  ‘I’m investigating a suspicious death. Bella Sinclair looked after Mrs Wright.’

  ‘Lots of p … p … people looked after her.’

  It was a fair comment. Lots of people had had access to her, and had cared for her in different ways. But Bella was the one who had been suspended, Bella was the one who had been accused of abusing another patient, and also of theft. If you were going to start with someone, then Bella was the obvious person. And if Bella had done something, then maybe Roy Hillerby was the man who might know. But if he was soppy about her, he was hardly going to split on her.

  ‘If there’s something you know, you must tell us, Roy.’ Holden had leant forward, emphasizing her point. ‘Because if you know something and you refuse to tell us, then that’s aiding and abetting, and that’s very serious. You could get yourself locked up if you don’t tell me everything you know. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Roy Hillerby’s eyes narrowed, and the sinews in his neck tightened visibly. ‘Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot,’ he hissed. There wasn’t even a hint of a stammer. ‘Bella and I are friends, and she has done nothing wrong. N … n … nothing!’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  Holden and Fox had retreated outside Sunnymede, so that Holden could succumb to her third cigarette of the day. Until a few days ago, she had convinced herself that she had got her habit well and truly under control, but she knew now that her willpower was in serious danger of collapsing. She had smoked two cigarettes on the trot when she had got back home the night before, and she had even had one that morning before her cup of tea. She knew it was a bad sign. When the case was over, she told herself without conviction, things would improve.

  ‘He never answered the question,’ Fox said. There was a blank look on Holden’s face, and Fox realized that she hadn’t followed his thought pattern. ‘About whether they were lovers.’

  The blank look faded. ‘Do you think they are? Or have been?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he was very protective of her.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed. He’s clearly fond of her.’

  ‘But why would she kill Nanette Wright? There’s no motive, is there?’

  Holden took a final pull on her cigarette, dropped it onto the gravel, and ground it underfoot. ‘If Nanette Wright was the vicious old woman that Hillerby said, then who’s to say she didn’t provoke Bella?’

  ‘But murder?’

  ‘Manslaughter, probably. Consider this. She puts morphine in Nanette’s hip flask as some form of petty revenge, or perhaps just to quieten her down. The only problem is, she overdoes it, and the old woman reacts badly to it and dies. Anyway that’s my best guess.’

  Fox scratched his head as he wondered whether to say what he felt he should say. Now that Lawson and Wilson were both gone, there was only him to say it. He cleared his throat. ‘Look Guv, where’s the evidence? Because the way I see it, what you’ve said is an interesting theory, but that’s all it is. In fact, not even a theory. As you said, it’s a guess, even if it is a best guess.’

  Holden wished she had another cigarette in her packet. Damn Fox! Damn him for his common sense. Damn him for being so damned steady! From behind her, she felt a sudden breeze. She shivered, and looked round, and then felt several spots of rain on her face, cold and unrefreshing. What a bloody rotten day it had turned out to be!

  ‘Thank you, Fox,’ she said sarcastically. ‘In that case, we need to find some evidence, don’t we.’ And with that she started walking towards the front entrance.

  At much the same time as Detective Inspector Susan Holden was irritably berating her sergeant, Mrs Jane Holden was stepping on a dog turd on the corner of Marlborough Road and Whitehouse Road.

  Grandpont is an area that has seen something of a canine explosion since the late nineties. Perhaps because of its proximity to green spaces, or perhaps in response to the threat posed by burglars, or perhaps for other more complicated and ill-defined reasons, the narrow network of streets that make up the area immediately to the west of the Abingdon Road are home to a surprising number of dogs. From the ubiquitous collies and Labradors to dachshunds (short-haired and long), from unkempt rescued mongrels to aristocratically trimmed schnauzers, they are to be seen dragging their owners out in all kinds of weather and at all times of day and, indeed, night. Dylan, Monty, and even – believe it or not – Freud, it is the dogs that control the exercise regimes of many a Grandpont household. Mostly they behave at least as well as their owners – and mostly they wait until they have the grass of the nature park under their paws before answering the call of nature, but occasionally accidents do happen in the streets, and even more occasionally (though still too often) their owners fail to clean up after them.

  And this is what had happened on that miserable Thursday, when Mrs Jane Holden got to the crossroads of Marlborough and Whitehouse. She didn’t see the turd. Of course she didn’t, or she wouldn’t have put her shoe in it. She had just been to see an ill friend from church. To find her sitting slumped and grey in her armchair, wheezing noisily as she fought for breath, had upset Mrs Holden. And now as she headed back towards her flat, it had started to rain too. As she huddled inside her coat and thrust her hands deeper into her pockets, her left foot made contact with a very fresh and slimy turd. At that very same moment she was twisting her not so flexible body in order to turn the corner into Whitehouse Road. She was not a particularly heavy woman, but her hands, being in her pockets, were in no position to break her fall. She plummeted sickeningly hard onto the pavement, and her head cracked against it with such force that she lost consciousness instantly.

  If people really could turn in their graves, Nanette Wright would have been turning in hers. The only t
hing was, she hadn’t yet made it that far. Instead she was locked up in the mortuary, cold and stiff, while the pathologist waited for the coroner, and the coroner waited for the police, and the police got on with more important things. As far as Detective Constables Wilson and Lawson were concerned (not that it had been their call, but actually they agreed with their detective superintendent on this), the death of a single old woman in a care home was less important than a major drugs bust. As for Detective Inspector Holden, Nanette Wright’s death paled in significance compared to the damage that her own mother had sustained in Marlborough Road. So only Detective Sergeant Fox woke up on that Friday morning with Nanette Wright’s death on his mind. He had received a phone call from his boss about nine o’clock on the previous evening; she had given him the full details of her mother’s misfortune – her fall, her possibly cracked pelvis, how she was being kept in the John Radcliffe Hospital overnight, how she might need an operation, and, in that case, how was she going to cope? He had listened calmly, and assured her that he would manage on his own throughout Friday. Was he sure, she had asked? Yes, he was sure, he had replied. She would ring, maybe. No, really, there was no need. He would manage. And so they had left it. Fox would manage. And why not? For underlying their conversation – implied, but never stated – was the reality that Holden’s mother was alive and was therefore more important than Nanette Wright, who was dead, and would have died sooner rather than later even if her whisky hadn’t been spiked with morphine. And besides, was the accidental overdosing of an ill old woman really such a crime?

  Fox spent Friday treading water. After reading through all of Wilson’s notes, he drove to Oxford Waste Ltd and spoke to Dennis Adkins, a rather podgy, moustachioed, petty functionnaire, who took relentless delight in explaining his system, and in showing, item by item, how he had a matching receipt for each of Sunnymede’s disposal records. Fox retreated as soon he was able, and spent the rest of the day back at the station, where administration and reviewing the detail of the case came as a blessed relief. And after that, of course, came the weekend.