Blood on the Marsh

by Peter Tickler

  ‘Did she sometimes get pain?’

  ‘I expect so, yes. Certainly discomfort. She had her good days and her bad days.’

  Holden stood up, and walked over to the window, looking out again at the cars. The doctor’s was an old Volvo estate, P-reg. She had seen him drive it in. She turned to face him.

  ‘How often do you prescribe morphine for patients?’

  ‘Only when they are in pain.’

  ‘And you never prescribed it for Nanette?’

  ‘I thought I had already made that clear.’

  ‘But she got some, didn’t she? That’s a fact. That’s why she’s dead.’

  It was Featherstone’s turn to stand up now. He was barely taller than her, and they stood face to face, like two boxers sizing each other up. ‘I do hope you’re not accusing me of anything?’ He almost hissed the words.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she replied.

  It wasn’t until three o’clock that afternoon that Fox and Holden stood at the main entrance to a block of flats in Blackbird Leys Road. It stood tall and graceless in the grey light, overlooking the much maligned Blackbird Leys estate, convenient for the buses into Oxford city centre, for the community centre across the road, and for the parade of shops at the end of Cuddesdon Way. Fox pressed the number 13 bell, and when a disembodied and almost indecipherable female voice answered, he pushed open the door. They took the lift, but said nothing as they rose to the fourth floor. There was graffiti on the walls and the light in the ceiling flickered erratically. Fox smiled. His Uncle Jim had lived here in the 1980s, a fat jovial man with serious body odour problems, and a passion for fish and chips, liberally sprinkled with vinegar. Fox could almost smell them, pungent and compulsive.

  The lift juddered to a halt. Fox led the way out, and knocked on a tired green door immediately opposite them. Several seconds passed before there was a scrabbling sound from within. The door opened to reveal a woman of almost identical height to Holden. Her hair was thick and red, there was a stud in her right nostril, and she wore a black three-quarter-length coat. A striped red and grey scarf was draped around her neck.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gasped, as if in explanation, ‘I only just got back.’

  Holden presented her ID. ‘I presume you’re Bella Sinclair?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned without any further comment, leaving them to make their own way in. She sat down on a black sofa – a DFS special, Fox reckoned, from at least ten New Year sales ago – still in her coat, and waited. The flat, Fox couldn’t help noticing, smelt, not of smoke or food or burnt toast, but of an indecipherable flower smell. Was that what she had been doing while she kept them waiting, spraying air freshener in the hope of convincing them that the flat really wasn’t that dirty?

  Holden was already making a start. ‘We need to ask you a few questions about Nanette Wright.’

  ‘So you said on the phone. But why? She just died, didn’t she, like old people do?’

  Holden spread her hands. ‘Technically, people don’t just die. There’s always a reason, and our job is to determine the reason for her death. It may well be quite innocent and straightforward or.…’ Holden didn’t finish her sentence, but it provoked a laugh from the woman facing her.

  ‘Or it could be murder most foul?’

  Holden looked down at her hands, which she suddenly realized were clasped tightly together. She deliberately separated them, resting each hand on a knee, and looked up.

  ‘Were you aware that Mrs Wright had a hip flask in her room?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her reply was instant, as if she had anticipated the question. ‘It wasn’t a secret.’

  ‘Do you know what she drank from it?’

  ‘Whisky, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes, I think. That’s what she told me.’

  ‘Did you ever fill it up for her?’

  ‘God, no! It’s against the rules.’

  ‘And you’re a stickler for rules, are you? It’s just that you don’t look like it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.’

  ‘But you’ve been suspended, haven’t you?’ It was below the belt. A cheap shot. Holden knew that before she made it, but it was something she had to explore. If Bella Sinclair was the sort of person who stole fifty pounds from a dead woman and physically abused an old man, then she was surely capable of overdosing an old woman who was causing her trouble.

  ‘Christ, so that’s it!’ The earlier confidence had been replaced by something not so far from panic. ‘Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. That bastard Paul wants to get rid of me. He wants to use me as a scapegoat. You ask my sister.’

  It was Holden’s turn to be taken by surprise, though she tried to hide it. ‘Your sister?

  ‘Fran Sinclair. She’s my sister.’ Bella grinned. ‘You didn’t know, did you? You call yourselves detectives, and you hadn’t even worked that out?’

  ‘You don’t exactly look like sisters.’

  Bella laughed out loud. ‘Well, I got the beauty, and she got the brawn. She’ll tell you that. But actually we reckon we’ve got different fathers, but Mum never admitted it.’

  ‘Right.’ Holden nodded and looked down. She noticed that her hands had twisted themselves together again, but she didn’t try to untangle them this time. She just needed to keep on track. ‘Why do you think you’re being made a scapegoat?’

  ‘That’s Fran’s theory. Sunnymede has had a bad report. She says Greenleaf is using me as a fall guy. If they can demonstrate that there’s just one bad apple, it looks better for him.’

  ‘You say that’s Fran’s theory. Do you have a different one?’

  Bella Sinclair stood up abruptly, peeled off her coat and scarf, and tossed them down on the other end of the sofa. She walked over to the large double-glazed window and stood with her back to it. She was still an attractive-looking woman, ridiculously trim and with strikingly good legs. Holden felt a pang of jealousy. ‘Paul Greenleaf is after revenge.’ Bella spoke as if on stage, delivering a monologue to a packed audience as she explained the intricacies of the plot. ‘He fancied me, you see. Fancied me like crazy. The only problem is, he repulses me. Creepy, he is. I knew on the day of my interview he’d be trouble.’

  ‘When was this?’ Holden realized she didn’t know how long Bella had been at Sunnymede.

  ‘Five, six months ago. I spent nearly ten years in New Zealand. Travelling at first, then working. I even got hitched to a Kiwi. But that all fell apart and I came back to England, and Fran got me an interview at Sunnymede. Last June, it was. Greenleaf was all over me. “How do you like your coffee? It isn’t too hot, is it? I’ve got a special supply of chocolate biscuits. Have one, but don’t tell your sister.” God, he was pathetic. I should have walked out. I knew he’d be trouble, but I needed the job and I reckoned I could handle him.’

  She paused, and turned to look outside. Somewhere, the grey cloud broke ranks, and a shaft of sunlight burst into the room, illuminating her profile. Holden swallowed. It was easy to see Bella inspiring lust in men. And not just men. ‘So was there an incident?’

  Bella continued to look out across Blackbird Leys. ‘I managed to put him off at first. Whenever he tried to chat me up, I found something else to do. It wasn’t difficult. There’s always stuff to do at Sunnymede. But then one Wednesday, he turned up here. Wednesday is my day off, but at 10.30 that morning the bell rang and it was him. I was stupid enough to offer him a coffee, and well, you know how it happens, next thing was we were in my bed….’

  ‘A moment ago you said he repulsed you.’ Holden liked to think she could smell bullshit a mile off, and right now Bella stank something terrible.

  ‘Jesus, Inspector, hold your horses. Sometimes in life you make mistakes. Sometimes you sleep with people you never should have.’

  ‘And sometimes people lie to the police.’

  Bella showed no sign of being affronted by Holden’s accusation, but she rebutted it firmly. ‘Look, I know I’m not pe
rfect, but I can assure you that I’m not lying. Ask Mr Greenleaf.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Of course, he may try to deny it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Holden was puzzled by the ‘of course’.

  ‘Well it wasn’t exactly his finest hour.’

  ‘Not his finest hour?’ Holden paused. ‘What do you mean?’

  Bella smirked. ‘I’m sure you can work that out for yourself, Inspector.’

  ‘So what happened after that?’

  ‘He asked if he could come over again another day.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘The very worst thing.’ She paused, milking the moment, and turned to look back again out through the window. The chill sun had disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘I laughed at him,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 4

  She came back. The woman with the red hair came back to the shop yesterday morning. I think she’s mad.

  She brought a picture with her this time. She said it came all the way from New Zealand. It wasn’t very big. It was a painting of the sea, and there were very steep cliffs, and a rock with seals on. She said it was a place called Doubtful Sound. Doubtful Sound! What sort of name is that? I think she was kidding me. People do. They think I’m stupid, so they tease me.

  We’ve got lots of different samples of frames on the wall, and she chose one, and I worked out how much it was going to cost. I wanted to check the price with Jaz, but she had popped out again, and the woman told me not to worry. She’d pay whatever it cost when she collected it.

  At lunchtime, I ate my sandwiches in the shop like I always do. Then I went for a walk, ending up at George and Delila’s for an ice cream. I always eat it very slowly, and I never have the same ice cream two days running. Yesterday I had pistachio.

  And then the woman with the red hair walked in. Her name is Bella. I didn’t call her that, of course, because she is a customer, but it’s easier than describing her as the woman with the red hair. She bought me a passion fruit and mango ice cream. I shouldn’t have agreed to that, but I got flustered, what with her coming in and saying at the top of her voice what an amazing coincidence it was us meeting again, and maybe it was written in the stars. She started to sound really weird, so when she asked me if I wanted another ice cream, I said ‘Yes’ even though that broke all my rules. Only one ice cream at lunchtime. And then she sat down opposite me. She had got herself a chocolate ice cream, and as she ate she waved her spoon around and talked about how great it was to be in Oxford and how she loved shopping in the Cowley Road. I could smell her perfume, only it wasn’t as nice as Mum’s.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said eventually.

  I looked at my phone. It was only 12.42. I couldn’t go back to the shop yet. ‘I’m David Wright. I live in a flat in Barns Road. It’s what they call a studio flat. I like it.’

  ‘Tell me about your family.’

  ‘I have a mum and a dad, and a sister called Vickie. There used to be Nan Nan too, but she died.’

  ‘How old is Vickie?’

  ‘Twelve.’ I stood up then. I didn’t like her asking all these questions. ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ I said.

  I took as long as I dared in the toilet, and then I went back over to the table, and looked at my phone and said I’d have to go because I had to be back at the shop. Actually, I could have stayed for five more minutes, but I didn’t want to hear any more questions. ‘Thank you for the ice cream, Ms Sinclair,’ I said. It is important to be polite, even to people who are a bit mad.

  ‘Call me Bella,’ she said.

  But I didn’t.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I’ve got the results on the flask back from forensics.’ Holden spoke without enthusiasm. It was Tuesday morning, shortly after 8.30 a.m., and DS Fox had just sat down opposite her, a coffee in his right hand, a pad and pen in his left. Despite the necessity for all detectives to grapple with the wonders of information technology, he remained at heart a pad-and-biro man. He took a sip and waited for Holden to speak.

  ‘Not a trace of anything in the flask. It had been washed out very thoroughly.’

  Fox wasn’t surprised. There hadn’t been the slightest whiff of anything when he had sniffed it. ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Not even the old woman’s?’

  ‘Not a single print.’

  Fox grunted, and took another sip of coffee. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he recognized the importance of this. ‘So the flask was washed and wiped clean. By the person who put the morphine in the flask, presumably.’

  ‘Or maybe by someone who likes washing up in rubber gloves.’

  Fox looked at Holden sharply. He didn’t like being teased. Was she being serious? It was hardly a joking matter.

  ‘If that was the case,’ he replied, ‘then they would admit it. And so far no one has.’

  ‘No. But maybe we’ve just not asked the right person.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  Holden smiled bleakly at her sergeant. Sometimes she liked to wind him up a bit, but right now it was more a need to distance herself from the tension she felt inside her head. ‘Not really. It’s a possibility, that’s all. But what this does indicate is that in all likelihood we’re dealing with murder, or at the very least, homicide.’

  ‘In which case, we’re looking at someone who works at Sunnymede, or one of her family.’

  ‘Or someone who visited her at Sunnymede.’

  ‘Do you think her family could have got hold of morphine?’

  ‘If they wanted to kill her, yes. But Sunnymede seems the most likely source.’

  ‘So what’s the next step?’

  ‘I think I’ll ring the super, and ask for some extra help. I bumped into DC Lawson when I arrived this morning. I know she’s up for it. And from what she said, Wilson would be too.’

  Vickie Wright half ran along Barracks Lane. She had twenty minutes before the next lesson, and she wanted them to herself. It was colder than she had thought. She’d left her coat in the classroom, but she wasn’t going to go back and get it now. As she came to Fitzroy Close, she almost turned right into it, and then upbraided herself for being an idiot. That was force of habit, she knew. How many times had she gone up there at lunchtimes to pay her Nan a visit? But there would be no more of that. Even so, she was tempted to head up towards Sunnymede. It would be a way of remembering her Nan. But then she remembered her dad. He might be there. He was doing a few jobs for the care home. He had been talking about it the night before. The boss – Paul something – sometimes gave him jobs to do around the place, and the last person she wanted to run into was her dad. She continued walking along Barracks Lane, her pace now more regular. The wind was blowing from the northeast, down across the sports fields and straight through her. To make things worse, she could feel rain in the air. She stopped and pulled out her mobile. What was the point of rushing all the way to the framing shop, when she could much more easily ring David? Her fingers flickered across the key pad, and she put the phone to her ear. He answered immediately:

  ‘David Wright speaking.’

  She smiled. There was something very reassuring about his predictability.

  ‘Hello, David Wright,’ she replied. ‘It’s Vickie.’

  ‘I know it is,’ he said.

  ‘How are things?’

  ‘I’m working. Jaz doesn’t like me stopping to answer my phone.’

  Vickie made a face. Jaz wouldn’t care at all. She knew that. Jaz was really nice, the nicest of all her mother’s friends. ‘Shall we meet up after you’ve finished work? I could come to your flat for a bit.’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. She expected that. David didn’t like sudden changes to his plans. He would need to think about it.

  ‘Please!’ she implored. ‘Mum and Dad are both working late today.’ That was a lie. But not an important one.

  ‘All right,’ came the reluctant rep
ly. ‘I finish at 4.30.’

  ‘I’ll meet you outside the shop.’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘Don’t worry, David Wright. I won’t be.’

  Whatever Detective Superintendent Collins’ faults were – and in Holden’s view he had a self-confidence and self-importance that were almost Blairite in their intensity – procrastination was not one of them. Barely half an hour after Holden called him, there was a knock on her door, and in came Detective Constables Lawson and Wilson. Holden looked up and returned their broad smiles.

  ‘You look like you’ve just won the lottery.’

  ‘Almost as good, Guv,’ Lawson replied, still grinning. ‘We’ve escaped Sergeant Johnson’s community policing seminar.’

  ‘Well, that is a shame!’ Holden leant back her chair and surveyed them. She had always liked Jan Lawson, from that first day when the WPC, as she had been then, had buttonholed her in the station car park and had told her that her label was showing. She had short blonde hair, mischievous eyes, and a character to match. Wilson, she thought, looked older, more mature. His dark hair was longer than she remembered (slightly), and he stood there smiling languidly, apparently more at ease with himself than she ever remembered. It was the first time she had seen him since her extended break, and he seemed to have aged several years in those six months. Mind you, that was just as well. Half the time he had looked and felt like an awkward 16-year-old schoolboy, not a young detective making his way.

  Holden picked up the phone. ‘I’ll get Sergeant Fox, and then we’ll bring you up to speed.’

  ‘It’s good of you to see me at such short notice.’ DC Wilson sat down opposite Charles Hargreaves. The solicitor had kept him waiting outside for ten minutes, but he hadn’t minded because Hargreaves’s PA, Miss Celia Johnson, had not only brought him a cup of tea, but had then engaged him in bright conversation. Her round face was framed by brown curly hair, and her laughter rose deep and rather coarse from within. Wilson had found himself wondering how she might react if he asked her out.