Holden nodded. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by you catching pneumonia,’ she said, wishing that she too could escape into the dry, but there were things they had to do first. ‘We’ll take a look round for the weapon.’ Holden now knelt down herself, not to take look at the wound, but check the woman’s coat pockets. This yielded a mobile phone, which she passed to her young colleague, Detective Constable Jan Lawson. ‘Bag this, will you.’ Then Holden stood up. ‘There must have been car keys, and probably money, and she’s wearing lipstick, so the chances are she was carrying a handbag. So let’s get looking for them. If we don’t find one, we can always check the car’s registration to get an ID.’
While Holden and PC Hughes began a methodical sweep of that end of the car park, Lawson and PC Wright followed a footpath which exited at the back and dropped down into Angel and Greyhound Meadow which separates this more modern area of East Oxford from the medieval city. Wright went left and Lawson right, but it was Lawson who found the handbag where it had apparently been tossed, half hidden under some bushes behind a fallen tree trunk. It was large and brown with black patches, like a crocodile. The leather was soft and expensive, and the name PRADA was positioned, discreetly but prominently, just under the lip of the bag. Lawson could only dream of owning something like this, assuming it was genuine, and no reproduction rip-off. Despite the circumstances she felt a brief flash of envy. The dead woman had clearly possessed both money and style.
The bag had not been ransacked. The only item obviously missing was a wallet or purse. Of the knife which killed the woman, there was no sign. All of which pointed to a mugging, a druggy wanting cash for his next fix, Lawson volunteered much later, as she drove her boss home. This was after they had made the necessary but unpleasant visit to the Tull household, to tell a husband and two adult children about the death of their wife and mother, Lawson was determined to put that experience behind her by focusing upon the practical detail of the case. Holden made no response to this speculation. ‘Don’t you agree?’ Lawson pressed. She wasn’t someone who found silence comforting.
‘Concentrate on getting me home in one piece, Constable,’ Holden replied brusquely. Her mind was on practical detail too, but for her there was a whole raft of it floating around in her head. What staff would she need? How early should she get Lawson to collect her in the morning? What were the chances of finding forensic evidence? (Might the killer’s clothing have snagged somewhere as he or she fled the scene?) Was there any chance of finding the knife? It could easily have been tossed into the river; and then again the killer could have taken it home, washed it clean, and put it back in the kitchen drawer, if that was where it had come from. A thin knife, Karen had said. How thin? And why had the killer stabbed her? She hadn’t been a tall woman, and if the killer had been an addict desperate for a fix, he could surely have done so with just a clout round the head. Or did he threaten her with a knife, and did she refuse to surrender her bag? In any case, it would be instructive to check out in the morning if anyone had actually tried to use any of the woman’s cards. Maybe Lawson was right: drugs were the obvious answer, but somehow it didn’t quite feel like it. The killing was clean and quick, as if someone knew what they were doing, not a messy desperate assault by someone driven half-crazy by the need for the next fix. Anyway, whatever, it was far too bloody early to go jumping to conclusions.
Lawson had gone obediently silent, allowing her boss’s thoughts to go where they would, and she said nothing else until she pulled up outside Holden’s house in Chilswell Road. Holden was relieved to be home. She liked her little house, tucked away here in the middle of Grandpont in south Oxford, protected by its position from the noise of the Abingdon Road to the east and that of the railway line to the west. It was raining harder again, battering against the windscreen of the car, but she wasn’t concerned. She had survived the floods of July 2007, so what was there to worry about?
‘Here we are, Guv,’ Lawson said, trying again. ‘I expect you’ll be glad to get to bed after all that.’
‘I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,’ Holden said firmly.
‘My mum always swears by a cup of cocoa,’ Lawson continued, her optimism undimmed.
Holden gave a snort, and immediately regretted it. Lawson was only trying to have a normal conversation, trying to deal with the brutality of what she had encountered that evening. But she, Holden, was being a right cow. She knew that. And it wasn’t just about the dead woman. She had other things on her mind. The relief at returning home was not an unalloyed feeling. Coupled with it came another feeling, an unnerving sense of loneliness that would sometimes lie in wait for her and leap out as she shut the front door behind her. What was it? Two years since that bastard Richard had walked out on her. Yet there were times when she found herself missing even him. Bloody hell, what was happening to her?
‘Sorry,’ she said, trying to make amends. ‘I’m sure your mother is wonderful, Lawson. But I doubt I will ever be a cocoa person. Or even, before you suggest it, a herbal tea person. In these circumstances, a slug of whisky is more my line.’
‘Oh!’ Lawson replied. She was, untypically, lost for a suitable response.
‘But I appreciate your concern.’ Holden paused, and switched modes again. ‘Anyway, can you pick me up at 7.45 in the morning?’
‘Of course, Guv.’
‘Good.’ Holden opened the car door, but didn’t immediately get out. She twisted round to face her colleague again. ‘Mothers are a good thing, Lawson, and it’s important you have someone you can talk to. But remember that mothers worry about their children, so sometimes they also need protecting. They don’t need to know everything. Are you with me?’
Lawson nodded after a pause. ‘I think so Guv, yes.’
‘Good night, then, Lawson.’ And with that, the detective inspector got out of the car into the unrelenting rain and shut the door firmly behind her.
At 8.30 the following morning, DI Holden was sitting at her desk facing Lawson, Detective Sergeant Fox and Detective Constable Wilson. Fox was by some distance the oldest of the quartet, and the biggest. Being seated seemed, if anything, to accentuate his bulk, stretching his shirt and jacket tight across his chest and shoulders. Wilson, sitting next to him, seemed small by comparison, though in reality he was less than an inch shorter. Wilson was, however, a slight man, and his hunched posture merely underlined that slightness. He lacked confidence in himself, and not for the first time Holden wondered fleetingly if there wasn’t something she should be doing about it. Lawson, by contrast, sat bolt upright, her face open and eagerly watching her boss. She would, Holden had no doubt, go far if she chose to put career in front of domestic bliss.
‘So,’ Holden said, her eyes flicking between the two men, ‘I dare say you’re up to date on last night’s events. A stabbing in the St Clement’s car park. The victim is one Maria Tull, married to a GP in Bainton Road. He confirmed last night that she had been giving an art lecture at St Aidan’s Hall. The thin-bladed knife that killed her is missing, so Fox I want you to put together a search team and see if you can locate it. We found her handbag abandoned in the Angel Meadow, so that was clearly the killer’s escape route. Lawson can provide more details,’ she concluded, switching her gaze.
‘I’ve marked up a map showing where I found it, Guv,’ Lawson responded. ‘I turned right, so was heading towards Headington Hill. There’s quite a spread of trees and bushes there, along the edge of the grass. So I guess that’s the place to start.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Fox said firmly. ‘I’ll sort it.’
‘As for you, Wilson, see what CCTV coverage there is of the car park. Of course, given last night’s weather conditions, you may see a lot of umbrellas and hoods and few decent mug shots, but we might get lucky.’
‘No probs, Guv!’ This was only his second murder case, and Wilson, who had not had the experience of seeing the body, was thrilled to be part of it.
‘We also recovered the victim’s mobile. The last phone ca
ll she made was about 6.00 p.m.’ Holden faded to a stop. The wide grins on the faces of the two men made it apparent that Lawson had not only told them about the mobile, but had shown them the photo she had found on it too, a photo of a naked, as yet unidentified man. But Holden had no intention of indulging them. ‘So the next thing, after you’ve tracked down the car park’s CCTV, will be to track down who exactly was there at St Aidan’s and try to tie the details down tight.’
‘Yes, Guv,’ Wilson said, still grinning.
‘Well, bugger off then.’
Holden waited for Fox and Wilson to leave her office, and then cast a quizzical frown at Lawson. ‘What is it with men?’ she said in a tone that suggested she found them a rather quaint and alien species.
Lawson laughed. ‘As my mother always says, men are just overgrown schoolboys.’
Holden smiled back. ‘Well, I’m sure my mother would agree on that!’
Half an hour later, Holden and Lawson were outside the Tulls’ front door in Bainton Road. The ring of the bell was answered almost immediately by Lucy Tull.
‘Oh,’ she said. It was a single word, the shortest greeting that she could have offered, yet the intonation of her voice and her body language spoke volumes. Their arrival, Holden realized, was certainly not welcome to her.
‘Do you mind if we come in?’ Holden asked politely. ‘We need to ask you all a few questions.’
‘Questions?’ came the sharp reply. ‘What sort of questions?’
‘It’s routine procedure,’ Holden continued, still resolutely polite. ‘It won’t take long, I hope.’
‘So do I!’ And only then did the young woman yield ground and open the door wide so they could enter. ‘Follow me!’ she said firmly, turning on her heel. ‘And shut the door behind you.’
Holden and Lawson waited in silence for three or four minutes in the large sitting room in which they had sat less than twelve hours earlier when giving the news of the death of Maria Tull to her family. Heavy steps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Joseph Tull, who walked over to an armchair and slumped soundlessly into it. Holden made no attempt to engage him in conversation, and instead looked out of the French windows and watched two goldfinches pecking fiercely at a bird feeder. She turned only when more footsteps presaged the arrival of Alan Tull and his daughter Lucy. He had the appearance of a man who hadn’t slept much, but his eyes nevertheless looked eagerly across at the two detectives. ‘Have you found the killer?’ he asked urgently. ‘Tell me you have!’
‘No,’ Holden said. ‘Not yet. I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor. We just need to ask you – each of you – a few questions.’
‘Why us?’ he said plaintively. ‘Shouldn’t you be out checking the CCTV cameras, and bringing all the local druggies in for questioning?’
‘Really, Dad,’ Joseph broke in angrily. ‘You’ve watched enough bloody crime dramas on TV. They want to ask us questions because we’re family. And because we’re family, we’re prime suspects too. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’
‘We do need to ask you where you were last night, yes,’ Holden acknowledged. ‘Your son is quite right. So if you just sit down, we’ll try to get it over with as quickly as we can. My colleague, Detective Constable Lawson, will take notes.’
‘Come on, Daddy.’ Lucy led her father over to the sofa, and there sat down with him, her hand gently resting on his arm.
‘I was out at a party,’ Joseph volunteered loudly. ‘Freddie Johnson’s. In Southfield Road. It was his birthday. Lots of people there. Lots of witnesses.’
Holden turned and faced him. ‘What time did you arrive?’
‘Oh, about nine o’clock, I should think.’
‘Did you arrive with someone? Did your friend Freddie let you in?’
He paused, as if in thought, and then made a face. ‘The answer to that is no, and no. Is that a problem?’
Holden smiled. ‘Not for now. But as it stands, without corroboration, it’s not exactly a watertight alibi if you need one.’
‘In that case,’ Joseph replied cheerfully, ‘I’ll find some witnesses, don’t you worry.’ As if finding witnesses was the easiest thing in the world. Like buying fags at the local corner shop.
Holden turned back towards the sofa. ‘Dr Tull, would you mind telling me where you were last night?’
‘I was at home. I got back from work just after six o’clock. Maria was still here. I had a whisky while she finished her supper. Let me think.’ He paused, and gave an impression of a man thinking. Holden too was thinking. Dr Tull had asked why they weren’t pulling in the local druggies. Why had he said that? She herself had certainly said nothing along these lines the night before, so where had that idea come from?
‘Ah yes!’ Dr Tull now gave the impression of a man suddenly remembering a vital detail. ‘I made a couple of phone calls, and then ate supper in front of the telly. I think I fell asleep for a while. After that I did a few chores. I was a bit worried because of the rain, and I went out to check the drain at the back hadn’t got blocked, but my trousers got soaked, so I went and had a bath, and then sat and read in bed, but I think I must have fallen asleep again.’
‘He did,’ Lucy said, taking up the baton. ‘I found him asleep with his glasses still on and his lights blazing when I got in.’
‘So where had you been, Lucy?’
‘The Raglan Hospital, in the Woodstock Road. I was visiting someone.’
‘We need a name.’
‘Marjorie Drabble. She’s dying of cancer.’
‘When did you leave the hospital?’
‘Hell, how should I know? You don’t worry about time when you’re visiting someone. You try to give them your full attention.’
Holden gave a slight shrug and smile. ‘I appreciate that, but we do need to know,’ she insisted. ‘Did you stay to the end of visiting hours?’
‘It’s a private hospital. They don’t throw you out on the dot, but I guess I must have left by 8.45.’
‘And then what?’
‘I went and had an ice cream in Alfredo’s in Little Clarendon Street, and then because it kept raining I had a coffee, and then when it didn’t stop I caught a taxi home. I guess I must have got in between ten-fifteen and ten-thirty.’
‘Which taxi firm?’
Lucy gave Holden a look of utter disgust, as if she couldn’t believe the nit-picking pedantry of her questioner. ‘Oxford Cabs,’ she said finally, and stood up, placing her hands truculently on to her hips. ‘You can check with them if you want to.’
‘We will,’ Holden replied, unwilling to concede any more sympathy to a young woman whom she was finding it hard to like.
‘Is that it then?’ Lucy snapped back brusquely.
Holden nodded. ‘Joseph and you are welcome to go. However, I do need a couple more minutes of your father’s time.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. DC Lawson, sitting there taking it all in and writing brief notes, decided that Lucy had already taken over the role of matriarch in the house.
But Holden was not deflected. ‘Lucy,’ she said firmly, ‘Constable Lawson will come with you. Because one practical thing we do need are some photos of your mother.’
This request had the most surprising effect. Lucy, who had briefly turned her baleful gaze upon Lawson, twisted back round towards Holden. ‘Maria Tull is not my mother,’ she snarled. ‘My mother died over twenty years ago, in a car crash. Maria is my stepmother,’ she continued, her tone now so stressed that Holden feared for what she might do next. ‘So if you want photos, Joseph is the person to ask. If it’s all right by you – or even if it isn’t – I’m going to go to my room now, as I need to make a phone call.’ With that, she stalked out of the room, and up the stairs.
‘I’ve got lots of photos,’ Joseph said triumphantly. ‘Come on, Constable, I’ll show you them all and you can choose as many as you like.’
Lawson followed Joseph out of the door, closing it carefully behind her, for she knew what Holden wanted to do next. Behind the
shut door, silence descended. Holden hadn’t quite decided how to ask what she had to ask. In her head, as Lawson had driven her to Bainton Road, she had rehearsed three different approaches, but she had failed to be satisfied by any. While Lawson was parking, she had torn up her mental notes and decided to play it by ear. In the end, she decided, how she said what she had to say probably wouldn’t matter that much. What would be important was Alan Tull’s reaction.
It was Alan Tull who broke the silence. He had been slumped back in the sofa all the time Lucy was in the room, but now he sat up, shook himself slightly, and leant forward. ‘So,’ he said, politely, as if addressing a new patient in his surgery, ‘how can I help you?’
Almost without realizing it, Holden took a deep breath in and then slowly let it out. She put her hand into the small black bag she was carrying and pulled out a mobile phone. ‘We found this in your wife’s coat pocket. Does it belong to her?’ She spoke casually, and held it up to show him, but he glanced at it only briefly, as if it had no interest to him. ‘Well, if it was in her pocket, I dare say it is. It certainly looks like hers. Why do you ask?’
Holden studied the mobile, and her fingers quickly flicked across the keypad. Then she stood up, walked over to the sofa, and held it in front of Tull. ‘Can you tell me who this is?’ she said quietly. She kept her own eyes on Tull, and she saw shock – or what she certainly believed to be shock – flash across his features.
‘God!’ was all he said.
Holden continued to watch him for clues. The picture on the mobile was of a naked man, sprawled on his back on a bed, but apparently raising himself with one arm. The look on his face suggested he was not expecting to be photographed at that moment in time. Was it just a bit of fun, or blackmail? That was the question that Holden had debated with Lawson when her constable had discovered it while checking the mobile for recent phone calls. And that was what she was trying to divine now.
Blood in Grandpont Page 3