Blood on the Marsh

by Peter Tickler

  ‘Why must she have?’ Holden’s tone was acerbic.

  ‘I can’t imagine any woman who’s lucky enough to have grandchildren, not doting on them. It wouldn’t be natural.’

  There was no quarter being asked, and certainly none given. The production of a grandchild had been a taboo subject ever since her daughter’s traumatic affair with Karen Pointer, but now, it seemed, the knives were well and truly out. And there was bright red blood dripping from both blades.

  ‘Here we are!’ Fox said loudly, like a boxing referee trying to part two boxers at the end of a particularly gruelling contest. ‘Home sweet home!’

  But his words were falling on deaf ears. ‘You’re living in cloud cuckoo land, Mother. For all we know, it was David who killed his grandmother. For all we know, he was so fed up with her nagging him that he laced her whisky with enough morphine to kill a mule.’ Holden had no compunction about exaggerating when it suited her argument.

  ‘But why would he have done that? After all Nanette had done for him. I mean, have you thought how on earth this Bella found out that David was her son? Would she really have recognized him after all these years? Of course not! I bet it was Nanette. Somehow she must have realized that David, her adopted little grandson, was none other than Bella’s abandoned baby. And so she brought them together.’

  Fox had got out of the car, and had opened Mrs Holden’s door. ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she beamed. ‘So kind of you.’ She eased herself out with as much alacrity as her legs and hips allowed, expecting a riposte from her daughter. Getting in the last word was not, she knew from experience, very easy with her daughter. But the detective inspector said nothing. She too extricated herself from the seat belt and car. Then she tucked her left arm inside her mother’s right, and motioned her forward.

  ‘Come on then, Mother. Let’s get you upstairs. I think Sergeant Fox has heard enough from the two of us.’

  Vickie was studying her nails when the phone rang. She wished she hadn’t painted the red ones red. It wasn’t even a nice red. It was garish, disgusting. They should be black too. They should all be black.

  The cordless phone was on the arm of the sofa. She watched it ring – two, three, four times – and only then did she lean over and pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. David.’ He was whispering.

  ‘Where the hell are you, David?’

  ‘I’ve run away.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘Don’t call me stupid.’

  ‘Sorry.’ It was a trigger word with David. She knew that. ‘Mum’s out of her mind.’ Involuntarily, she was whispering back. ‘She’s looking for you.’

  ‘I’m not coming home. Ever.’

  ‘You must, David. We’ll look after you.’

  ‘Never, ever, ever, ever.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Dad is a bastard. He’s a lying bastard. I’m never coming home.’

  ‘David, Dad is dead.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Dad is dead,’ she repeated. ‘Somebody killed him.’ She paused, willing him to say something, but he didn’t. ‘Was it you, David? Because Mum and I will protect you. We’ll lie for you. They’ll never know.’

  There was silence, except for the sound of heavy breathing. She tried to think. She had to say something else. Keep him from hanging up. ‘I’m glad he’s dead, David. If you killed him, it’s the best thing you ever did.’

  She paused and waited for a response. But this time there was no breathing to be heard. David had terminated the call.

  ‘You weren’t very kind to your mother.’ Fox spoke with care, a man treading gingerly through a minefield, conscious of the explosion that one wrong step might provoke.

  They were standing in the parking area designated for the use of residents of the south-eastern corner of Grandpont Grange. They had seen Mrs Holden up to her flat, and left her in the rather fussy hands of her friend Doris. Fox was by the driver’s door, but had made no attempt to get in. Holden glared at him. ‘Wasn’t I!’ It wasn’t a question. It was a red and white ‘No Entry’ sign, and spoken in a tone that told her sergeant to drop the subject.

  But Fox wasn’t quite ready to give up. ‘You weren’t.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. But if you don’t mind, we’ve got a murder case to solve.’

  ‘She’s your mother, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ Holden gave a sigh. She felt tired all of a sudden. She looked up towards her mother’s flat. There was no sign of her at the window, but she was there, inside, an old lady longing for a grandchild, for something worth living for as death loomed larger and closer. And she, her only daughter, was failing her.

  Fox shrugged and unlocked the car. ‘So where do you want to go?’

  ‘Let’s go and see Vickie.’

  ‘Why?’ Fox was startled. ‘We saw her earlier.’

  ‘I want to ask her some questions while her mother isn’t there. Why the hell do think, Sergeant?’

  ‘But she’s a minor, Guv! You can’t just turn up and question her without an appropriate adult present.’

  Holden was about to bite back, but beyond Fox’s head she could see an elderly couple in matching tan mackintoshes making their way unsteadily across the quadrangle towards them. She opened the door, got in, and slammed it shut.

  ‘Whose side are you on, Sergeant,’ she demanded as soon as he had shut his door. ‘Do you want to find out who the killer is, or not? Because let me assure you that it certainly matters to Detective Superintendent Collins, and for that reason it sure as hell matters to me. It is Vickie’s father who has been murdered. It is Vickie’s brother who is on the run. And in case your memory doesn’t stretch back that far, let me remind you that it was Vickie that Paul Greenleaf was taking dodgy photos of shortly before he was murdered. So maybe, just maybe, Sergeant, Vickie hasn’t told us everything she knows.’

  Fox nodded, acknowledging her authority. ‘Even so, Guv, she is a minor.’

  ‘Which is why we are only going to have a chat. A nice, informal, off the record chat. And you’re going to be there bearing witness to the fact. OK?’

  Fox said nothing. The act of manipulating the car out of its parking place had suddenly become a thing that demanded all of his attention.

  ‘Is that clear, Sergeant?’ Detective Inspector Holden had raised her voice even more. She had no intention of being second best to a driving manoeuvre.

  ‘Absolutely crystal, Guv.’

  The call came when Wilson was in the loo, and before Bella had got round to taking Wilson his cup of tea. It was either luck or fate, but she didn’t give a stuff which. She moved back into the kitchen, as she answered it. ‘Hello, David. It’s Mother. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ She spoke in lowered, reassuring tones.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I’ll look after you. Tell me where you are. I’ll get a car. Tell me where you are, and I’ll rescue you.’

  ‘They think I killed Dad. What will they do to me if they catch me?’

  ‘I won’t let them catch you, David. I promise. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come.’

  She would have said more, but she could hear the sound of Wilson exiting the loo. ‘Keep calm,’ she whispered, ‘and wait for me.’

  ‘David, why won’t you ring me?’ It was the fourth time Maureen had rung him since leaving her house, and for the fourth time he didn’t answer.

  Again she left a message. Not a new message, just the same message in slightly different words, but each, as Lawson was fully aware, increasing in intensity and desperation. She wasn’t at all sure this was going to help, but for once the self-confidence that the young DC normally displayed had collapsed under the pressure of the situation, and she had said nothing to dissuade her.

  ‘For God’s sake, David, you must ring me. I will protect you, but you must tell us where you are.’ Maureen paused. Laws
on opened her mouth to say something reassuring, but Maureen hadn’t finished. ‘David, you must give yourself up. Otherwise, how can I help you?’

  Roy Hillerby parked his car in Knights Road, locked it, and walked reluctantly towards the bus stop. The wind was blowing sharply from the east and he pulled his coat more closely around him, but it made no difference. He looked up high, at the flats, as if in expectation that she would be there leaning out of the window, waving him a thank you. But, of course, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t. She didn’t need to. All she had to do was whistle, and like an obedient dog he’d come running, panting and grateful just to be noticed by her. What a bloody fool he was! And why on earth had he given her his spare set of keys, because now it was as if she had a divine right to the use of his car.

  He stopped, sent her a text as he had promised he would, and then looked around. A number 5 bus was coming up Blackbird Leys Road. He waved his arm to get the driver’s attention, and broke into a jog, because the last thing he wanted was to end up waiting at the bus stop in this godforsaken weather.

  ‘Are you OK, Constable?’

  Detective Constable Wilson, who had just emerged from a five-minute stint in the loo, flushed crimson. ‘Sure! Absolutely.’ He spoke quickly and awkwardly. ‘Just a call of nature. A bit of an urgent one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll take a turn now, if you don’t mind, and after that I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wilson slumped down on the sofa. The copy of the Oxford Mail he had been reading was lying where he had left it, and his hand reached over to pick it up, but his eyes had other ideas. For they were fixed not on the newspaper, but on Bella Sinclair’s legs and arse as she stepped her way across the living room. Only when she and her kitten heels had disappeared fully into the loo did he pick the Mail up, with an audible sigh, and turn to see what was on TV later that evening.

  Bella didn’t need the loo, at least not for the reason that people normally need a loo. Once inside, she bolted the door, and then unlocked the glass-fronted wall cabinet. It took her a minute or so to inspect the labels of several items until she had found what she was looking for: one reading ‘temazepam’. She opened the box. There were four small capsules inside. They weren’t hers, at least not originally. She’d ‘borrowed’ them, in case she needed a bit of night-time help, from Mrs Jeffrey’s stash. It was, as she saw it, one of the perks of the job, to pick up drugs here and there. You never knew when they’d come in handy. It was lucky Mrs Jeffrey had had such trouble swallowing in her final days. Liquid capsules were so much easier to administer. Especially in a nice cup of hot tea.

  ‘Hi, there!’ Holden put on her most cheerful voice, but Vickie Wright was having none of it. After Fox had rung the bell, there had been a rattle of a chain, and the door had opened only a few centimetres. A pale-skinned, black-eyed face had peered out unenthusiastically.

  ‘What do you want?’ a voice demanded.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘Have you found David?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The door was pushed shut, there was another rattle of the chain, and then it swung half open. But Vickie Wright kept her hand on the catch, and her body in the doorway, challenging them to enter without her say so.

  ‘So why aren’t you out looking for him?’

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question, and yet Holden was initially stumped to give a reasonable answer. Or any answer. Though given her limited experience of Vickie, and given that she was Maureen Wright’s daughter, Holden shouldn’t have been surprised by Vickie’s demeanour.

  ‘We have a team of people out there looking.’

  ‘Yeah, right. You have a team.’

  ‘We’ve ordered up a helicopter too.’ Holden was conscious that she sounded like she was making excuses. Maybe she was! After all, why on earth was she here, knocking on Vickie’s door when David – maybe the murderer, or at least the key to the murderer – was out there on the run? The 12-year-old with black hair, white face and pretty much black everything else was staring at her like she was a piece of particularly smelly dog shit. Holden felt embarrassed.

  Fox intervened. ‘Do you mind if we come in for a few minutes?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Vickie shrugged and retreated inside, leaving them to follow. Keeping the police waiting while she decided whether to let them in had, apparently, stopped being fun.

  Vickie sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room, but said nothing. Holden sat down opposite on the sofa, while Fox sat to her left in the other armchair. Holden wasn’t quite sure what it was she was going to ask, except she couldn’t help feeling that Vickie and Maureen hadn’t, between the two of them, been telling her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  It was Vickie who eventually broke the silence: ‘My Mum’ll kill me if I don’t do my homework.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  Silence again. It was a game. Like staring at each other – the first to blink loses. They could both feel it, and Fox wondered if Holden had forgotten that Vickie was a minor and also (as far as he was aware) not a suspect. Vickie, however, was interested only in winning. She was saying nothing more. Not until the bitch opposite asked her a question.

  ‘Has David been in touch?’ the bitch said eventually.

  ‘No,’ Vickie lied.

  ‘Why don’t you ring him now?’ the bitch pressed.

  ‘Ring him? Why would he answer?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ The bitch leant forward, unblinking. ‘Humour me, Vickie. Ring him.’

  Vickie reluctantly unfolded her hand from around her mobile and made the call. She put it on loudspeaker. They all heard it ring twice, and then the call was killed. David, it seemed, did not want to speak to his adopted sister.

  ‘Tell me what really happened at Charlton-on-Otmoor.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, after they took the photos of you and Ania dressed as schoolgirls.’

  ‘I told you, I got a headache, so my dad drove me home.’

  ‘What caused the headache?’

  Fox’s mobile rang. Holden made a face that Medusa would have been proud of. But she waited nevertheless.

  ‘He’s not at the scout camp,’ Fox reported.

  ‘I want you to go.’ Vickie stood up as she said this, and her voice was wobbly. She rubbed her right eye, smearing mascara across her cheek as she did so. ‘I want you to go and find him.’

  Maureen had pinned her hopes on David being at the Youlbury Scout Centre. If he had gone off camping somewhere nearby, this had to be the obvious place, surely. The last time Maureen had been there was eight years ago, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. How could she not? The only problem was she kept expecting that bloody scoutmaster, Peabody, to suddenly materialize from behind the next tree or bush, with his moustache, beaky nose, and sweaty forehead. She looked around and tried to concentrate. There were ten of them out looking for David – two constables, six community support officers, Lawson and herself. But they had found no sign of him. Mind you, there were loads of signs of people having camped, but that meant nothing. People were always camping there, every weekend, and during the weeks often enough. So one lone person was hardly going to leave an unmistakeable trail. To know that David had been there, they would need to find something that belonged to him, or maybe one of his empty baked bean cans. She had told the police about his baked beans, and how they were bound to be Heinz, but they had found nothing, and were now gathered in a group while Lawson and the two uniformed constables discussed what to do next.

  It was as she watched them, with a sense of growing despair, that she had her moment of enlightenment. She shouted across the clearing. ‘You’re wasting time here!’ Nine pairs of eyes swivelled to look at her. Given that it was she who had insisted this was the best place to look for him, this wasn’t going to win her any favours or friends.

  But Maureen didn’t care, because suddenly it had al
l become only too clear. Of course he wouldn’t have slept here. It was the last place he would have slept. He had run away from here the last time, ran away from the bullying boys and that bloody little Hitler, to sleep on his own, well away from them all. That was what had brought it all to a head. That was why he had been expelled by that bastard Peabody. Because Peabody had had to spend half the night looking for David in the pouring rain, and at the end of it they had found him asleep and dry in an old brick-built shed near the Jarn Mound. The Jarn! Of course! Maureen felt an almost physical leap of hope. That was where he would have slept if he had come up here. She would find him there. And then he would be safe.

  It was the sound of the helicopter that caused him to panic. He was sitting in his den, with his arms wrapped tightly round his knees and his rucksack ready and packed. He was sitting and waiting because that was what Mother had told him to do. ‘Keep calm and wait for me.’

  Unlike Mum, who had left four voice messages, and in the last one told him to give himself up. Give himself up! Like a criminal. That was it. She and the police thought he was a criminal, and they were hunting him down. Like Tommy Lee Jones hunting down Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. He loved that film, but now it had come to life and he was in it, and he was the one fleeing for his life. And the woman who claimed to be his mum was Tommy Lee Jones.

  And now, up above, he could hear a helicopter. He waited and listened. He knew that was what he had to do. To wait until the helicopter had passed over, and then to start running.

  He stood up, hefted the rucksack onto his back, and waited. And then, as the helicopter’s engine faded into the distance, he began to run hell for leather. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going, but he knew which direction the main road was, and he knew he had to get there if he was ever to meet up with Mother.