Blood on the Marsh

by Peter Tickler

  Greenleaf lifted his head. His hair was longer than hers, falling almost to his shoulders. It framed a strikingly round face, but if his chin failed to jut aggressively, his eyes were hard and uncompromising. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I can only assume from your manner that you have just heard the news about Bella.’

  ‘Too right I have. She’s just rung me and told me she’s been suspended because of you.’

  ‘Actually, she’s been suspended because of herself.’

  ‘You complained about her, you bastard! And now head office has gone and suspended her indefinitely.’

  ‘We have to run a professional service. The fact that she is your sister does not put her outside the rules.’

  Fran Sinclair’s eyes had been locked on to his throughout this exchange, but now she dropped her gaze to the desk, as if unable to tolerate looking at him anymore. It was then that she noticed the paperweight. She didn’t recall having seen it before – a semi-globe of glass with some twisting greens and reds inside – but then she didn’t make a habit of visiting Paul Greenleaf in his lair, not if she could avoid it. Her left hand shot forward and grabbed it, and almost in the same movement she stepped backwards, well out of his reach.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Put it down.’

  ‘When you’ve answered my questions.’ She smiled at him, tossed the paperweight casually in the air and caught it, and then repeated the action, again and again. The feel of the object, satisfyingly heavy and smooth and so full of possibility, calmed her down. Raw anger gave way to something more calculating. ‘What exactly has Bella done?’ She spoke slowly and precisely. ‘What did you say to head office? And why the hell didn’t you discuss it with me first?’

  ‘I didn’t discuss it with you, firstly because you, as Bella’s sister, have a clear conflict of interest, and secondly because I am the manager of Sunnymede and therefore the buck stops with me.’

  ‘So what is Bella supposed to have done?’

  ‘Some money has gone missing from Mrs Wright’s room.’

  ‘You mean Nanette Wright, who died?’

  ‘Her son and daughter-in-law have complained that the fifty pounds that they gave her the day before her death was missing from her effects.’

  ‘Are you saying Bella stole it? And what proof have you got anyway?’

  ‘No absolute proof. But I have to take complaints seriously. Furthermore Mr Day’s family are also unhappy about some bruising on his arms, and they too have complained to me and threatened to take it further. As you know, Bella cares for both these persons.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she’s responsible. There are plenty of others who go in and out of their rooms. Hell,’ she sneered, ‘even you visit patients occasionally!’

  But Greenleaf was not to be distracted. ‘Obviously, there will be an investigation, and that will determine Bella’s guilt or otherwise, but for now she remains suspended from work, on full pay. However you, Fran, as my assistant manager, should be concerning yourself with this.’ He pushed across the desk a ring-bound A4 booklet. ‘It’s the report on Sunnymede. As you will see, it’s not entirely favourable, and—’

  She cut across him as anger began to rise like an erupting geyser again. ‘When did this come in?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘So why have you waited until now to let me see it?’

  ‘I needed to read it, and reflect on it myself. And consider what steps we might take.’

  ‘Ah! Of course. I see.’ It was as if a light bulb had been turned on in Fran’s brain. ‘And the reporting of Bella is one of those steps, is it? She’s the scapegoat to get you off the hook?’

  ‘I’m not the only one in danger of dangling from a hook.’ There was a note of menace in his voice, and he thrust his forefinger towards her. ‘May I draw your attention to the criticism of our drugs regime and the quality of our food in the report. These are both areas that come specifically within your remit.’

  He stopped talking and waited for her reaction. Initially there was none, for she too had fallen silent as she considered what he had said. Then she again tossed the paperweight in the air with her left hand and caught it with her right, before lobbing it suddenly at his head. Taken by surprise, he ducked and held up his hands to catch it at the same time. It hit his right hand, and then thudded onto the desk. ‘Butterfingers!’ she said scornfully, before picking up the report and marching out of his office.

  Bella woke at 6.30 a.m. the following day. That was the time she always woke in order to get to work for 8.00, but there was, of course, no need today. Nevertheless, she swung herself out of bed, padded barefoot through to the kitchen, and turned on the kettle. She had plans for the day, plans to make the most of her enforced rest. In fact, her suspension could just turn out to be the best thing that had happened to her for a long time. And so it was that Bella Sinclair showered, dressed, breakfasted, brushed her teeth, and put on her make-up in just forty minutes, and left her flat even earlier than usual. And she did all of this with a feeling of expectation so powerful that it blotted from her consciousness the distress of the previous day. Look forward, not back. That was her motto. She had been given an extraordinary opportunity, a second opportunity, and she had no intention of letting it slip. Paul Greenleaf could wait till later.

  Detective Inspector Susan Holden paused in front of the door, took a deep breath, and knocked. She heard a muffled voice from inside, assumed it was an invitation to come in, and opened the door.

  ‘Ah, Susan! How nice to see you.’ Detective Superintendent Collins stood up. The tension inside Holden eased a fraction. First names and manners; it couldn’t be a dressing down, then. ‘Do be seated.’ He waved towards the chair opposite his desk. She sat down, but her mind was slipping into panic mode. Maybe he was being nice because what he had to tell her was nasty. Ever since she had returned to work, she had had the feeling she was on probation, that after her six-month leave of absence, no one was quite sure if she could cut it any more. And now here she was, being summoned by the big cheese, with his big Cheshire cat grin and an unseen agenda.

  ‘So, how are things?’ the flashing teeth said.

  ‘Things are fine, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  Holden looked at him. She could give him a load of flannel or she could be straight. And flannel wasn’t her style.

  ‘Well, actually, since you ask, things aren’t really fine.’

  ‘Oh?’ There was sudden interest in his voice. ‘You mean you’re finding it difficult to slot back in after your …’ He paused, struggling to find the words. She waited, unwilling to give him any help. ‘After your misfortune,’ he concluded finally.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she snapped back. ‘I don’t know what gave you that idea! I’m fully recovered.’ The words came out automatically. She had rehearsed what she might say in such a circumstance, but she had failed to allow for the anger that arose in her like an avenging fury. Misfortune! What sort of word was that for describing the death of Karen, the woman she had loved above all others? Misfortune? The patronizing git! She tried hard to rein in her emotions. She was aware that his eyes had narrowed. He was watching her, sizing her up. She needed to be careful. ‘With respect, Sir, the fact is that I’m bored. I want to get back onto real detective work, not the Mickey Mouse stuff you’ve been funnelling my way. I didn’t sign up for that. I want to solve real crimes.’

  His eyebrows twitched – or appeared to do so. Holden wondered if she’d said too much, but there was no taking it back now, and besides, she didn’t want to. He had summoned her, and this was her chance to say what she felt. She might not get another.

  He leant back, steepled his fingers under his chin, and smiled. ‘That’s a very good sign, Susan, being bored. Just what I’d expect of a good officer. What you went through was make or break stuff. And the fact that you’re bored, well I’m not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure it’s a damned good sign.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Holden wasn’t
quite sure what she was thanking him for. It had only been words so far. Nice words, but even so.

  Collins picked up an A4 folder in front of him and passed it across the desk. ‘This is for you. It’s a suspicious death. An old lady dies in a nursing home. On first appearance, it all looks very straightforward. The only problem is that the pathology guys have found something unexpected inside her. Looks like it could be an accidental overdose or even murder.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ This time she really meant it. The file in her hand was light, but her fingers were grasped tightly around it. This was her chance to get her career back on track.

  ‘You’re reporting directly to me on this, Inspector.’ He switched from first name to rank with chilling swiftness. ‘And Sergeant Fox will be working with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Now that she’d started thanking him, she couldn’t stop.

  ‘If you feel you need more help, whether it’s more people on the ground or.…’ He paused again, apparently uncertain of the words to choose. ‘Or if you need any other sort of help for yourself, then you ring me. Right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You do understand what I’m saying, Inspector?’

  ‘I think so, Sir.’

  ‘It’s just that, if you take any more sick leave or special leave, it wouldn’t be good for your prospects.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  For the second time that morning DI Holden found herself poised outside a rather unprepossessing wooden door. This time, at least, she had the comforting presence of Detective Sergeant Fox at her shoulder. Fox would never be the life and soul of any party, but as he had driven them over from Cowley station, he had been – for him – remarkably chatty. He had told her how pleased he was to be working with her again, and had waffled happily on about his sister’s new house in Portsmouth. He had even started to recite the plot of the film 2010. Holden could certainly have lived without that, but she had been content to let it run.

  The pseudo-brass plate in front of her bore the name of Dr Charles Speight. She took a deep breath. Speight was Karen’s successor, and it was impossible to be here without memories coming back. She knocked, and pushed open the door. Dr Speight was a tall man, as quickly became apparent as he unfolded himself from his chair and rose in greeting. ‘Detective Inspector Holden, I presume,’ he purred, as he made his way round the desk and extended a hand. Holden took the handshake, firm and somewhat clammy.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Fox,’ she responded.

  The two men locked hands. Fox himself was fractionally the shorter, but he carried more weight, and for a moment Holden had visions of them engaging in a trial of strength, each refusing to let go until the other was on his knees. But the handshake was brief, nothing more than the most perfunctory touching of flesh, the minimum the situation required.

  At Speight’s suggestion they sat down, but Holden was not a person to waste unnecessary time on formalities. ‘I understand,’ she said, plunging in, ‘that there were irregularities in the death of Mrs Nanette Wright.’

  ‘Irregularities?’ Speight’s voice was soft, sardonic and public school. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘If you want to put it another way, Doctor, that’s your choice, but I’ll stick to calling it irregularities.’ Holden spoke assertively, thrusting her face forward as she did so. ‘And you can stick to telling me what those irregularities are.’ There was a short, impatient pause. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course!’ Speight had heard about Holden, about her relationship with his predecessor Karen Pickering, and about her extended period of sick leave following Karen’s death, so he was prepared for her to be a bit prickly, but not this combative. ‘At first sight, it looked like heart failure. Mrs Wright fell asleep early evening, or so it appeared, but when the nurse went in to tidy her up, she realized she was dead. The doctor who attended knew she had heart problems, but when he examined her he wasn’t entirely happy about her symptoms, and so he asked for an autopsy. So, we conducted one and found a high concentration of morphine in her bloodstream.’

  ‘And that killed her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ It was Speight’s turn to get assertive now. Doubting his medical prowess was akin to questioning his manhood. ‘If I wasn’t certain, I would say so.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Holden said quickly. It was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. ‘So how much morphine does it take to kill someone?’

  ‘That depends.’ He paused. It was an annoying reply. At least he hoped it was annoying for the detective inspector; he still felt riled by her. But the fact was she needed his medical knowledge, so she’d have to blooming well be a bit nicer to him.

  Holden didn’t rise, though she sure as hell felt like it. In fact, she felt like giving him a bloody good slapping, or even better, doing something irreversible to his testicles with a large pair of pliers, but instead she buttoned her metaphorical lip and waited for him to continue in his own self-important time.

  ‘Morphine provides pain relief, as I am sure you know. For example, one might give it to persons suffering from terminal cancers. As time goes on, the pain may increase and the body may get used to the morphine, so the dosage level has to be increased to be effective. However, in the case of an opiate-naive patient, that same level of dosage could be fatal.’

  He paused, or rather stopped. He wanted a response, probably a question about what opiate-naive meant, Holden reckoned, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. ‘So Mrs Wright wasn’t on morphine?’

  ‘I rang and spoke to a Ms Fran Sinclair at Sunnymede. She says not.’

  ‘So how might this morphine have got into her system?’

  ‘Well, injection is the most direct, but there’s no sign of any puncture marks. I’ve checked for that. Otherwise, morphine comes in tablet and liquid form.’

  ‘And how many tablets, for instance, would she have had to take to end up dead?’

  ‘Maybe half a dozen.’

  ‘And liquid?’

  ‘Maybe thirty millilitres. Ten milligrams in a tablet is the equivalent of five millilitres.’

  ‘And does morphine have a strong taste? I mean, if someone had slipped it into her tea or cocoa, would she have noticed?’

  ‘That depends on her sense of taste.’

  ‘Because either she administered it herself, to commit suicide. Or somebody else did, and in that case we’re talking homicide or murder.’

  Dr Speight shrugged dismissively. ‘Well I guess that’s your call, Inspector.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Yesterday was a strange day. Very strange. This woman came to my shop. Well, not my shop, Jaz’s shop. She runs it, and I work there. It’s called ‘Frame It’. Because we frame pictures. We also sell frames, and pictures, and posters and display cases, but my job is to do the framing. I’m good at it.

  Jaz is a friend of Mum’s. I like her. She has blonde hair, and a thin oval face, and perfect teeth, and she calls me her left-handed right-hand man. She’s funny too.

  Jaz had popped out to Tesco. She always uses that expression. ‘I’m going to pop out for a few minutes, David,’ she says. ‘You’re in charge. I’ve got my mobile. If there are any problems, just ring me. OK?’

  I don’t like her to pop out for too long, in case things happen. So I am glad she always takes her phone. It makes me feel safe.

  So, she had gone to Tesco, and I was sitting behind the desk in case anyone came in and wanted something. I can’t make frames and look after customers at the same time. It’s too much. Jaz agrees it’s too much.

  Anyway, almost as soon as Jaz has gone out, this woman walks in. She has long hair, longer than Jaz’s, and it is bright ginger. I think it must be dyed. She is thin like Jaz, and is wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, and a leather jacket, and she has a stud in her nose.

  But what is odd is that sh
e got on my bus that morning. I catch the Number 1 bus from Barns Road, opposite my flat, and I get off at the penultimate stop on the Cowley Road. I know it is the penultimate one because once I was so busy sending a text to Mum that I missed it, and I had to get off at the next one, just before the roundabout.

  Anyway, the point is that the red-headed woman was at the bus stop that morning. There were five of us waiting. The other three were regulars, but I hadn’t seen her before, so when we all got on the bus, I took out my notebook and I wrote down the date and time, and I drew a picture of her. It’s a good picture. I’m good at drawing. I might show it to Mum later.

  When I got off the bus, she got off too. I pretended not to notice, but it was hard not to stare at her red hair. And then, just after Jaz had gone to Tesco, she walked into the shop.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I said.

  ‘Do you make frames here?’

  It seemed a silly question to me. Wasn’t it obvious we make frames? But Jaz says it is important to be polite to everyone, so I said ‘Yes’.

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have the picture with you?’ Now it was my turn to ask a silly question, because she wasn’t carrying anything except a brown handbag that was slung over her shoulder. But maybe it was a very small picture.

  ‘It’s at home. I saw your shop, and I thought I’d drop in and ask.’

  ‘I make the frames.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but it is important to keep conversations with customers going. ‘Whatever size you want.’

  ‘Perhaps I can bring it in another day.’

  I nodded. I really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  She nodded too, and smiled. ‘Do you have a business card?’

  ‘No.’ People didn’t usually ask me for a business card. I wished Jaz would come back. I had three pictures I had to get framed, and I didn’t want to be asked any more questions.