Blood in Grandpont

by Peter Tickler

  But the flustered Dorothy couldn’t remember. ‘It was just that he kept talking about her as if she was a great friend, and she pretty well ignored him.’

  ‘So was there anyone else that Maria seemed to talk to in particular?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Just let me think.’

  Lawson had let her think, patiently waiting for her to remember something, anything, but it was to no avail. ‘Oh dear!’ Dorothy had said finally. ‘I’m not sure I’m being much help.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lawson had replied politely. But she took it as her cue to terminate the interview.

  Holden and Fox arrived at the pathology laboratory just after three o’clock. An officious receptionist whom Holden had not encountered before insisted they don white coats, and then shepherded them through to a large white-walled room, in the middle of which Dr Pointer was leaning over a naked female body.

  ‘Ah, talk of the devil,’ she exclaimed brightly.

  ‘Good afternoon, Doctor Pointer,’ Holden replied, unsmiling, conscious of the po-faced receptionist hovering at her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Maureen,’ Pointer said. She waited until her human guard dog had retreated from the room. ‘Nice of you to come, Susan.’ She spoke as if it was a social call, the pair of them popping round for tea and cake. ‘And you too, Derek,’ she added, looking at Fox. ‘We like to use first names here, in case you’ve forgotten, Susan.’

  Holden acknowledged this rebuke with a slight upwards movement of her head. ‘Any progress on Mrs Tull?’

  ‘She’s as good as finished, Susan,’ came the reply. ‘Not that there’s a lot to be said. As you know, there were two stab wounds, one to the heart and one to the neck. The stab to the heart would have brought about almost instantaneous death.’

  ‘What about the weapon?’

  ‘The weapon? Ah, Susan, that is the one interesting thing about this case. It was a thin blade, and over 14 centimetres in length. Probably the killer plunged it as far as it would go.’ She paused, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Karen,’ the detective inspector said, finally using her name, ‘what sort of knife should we be looking for. I presume from what you are saying that it’s not something snatched from a kitchen drawer?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she said emphatically. ‘In my judgement, Maria Tull was killed with an Italian-style stiletto. A switchblade, perhaps, so that it could be easily and safely hidden in a pocket or handbag even. We’re looking at a thin blade, maybe as much as 15 centimetres in length, and a very strong one. A good-quality stiletto like this would generate very little resistance, and wouldn’t run the risk of bending. That’s what the killer would have needed. It pierced her coat and blouse, causing minimal damage – to the clothing that is. There is no sign that the killer had to twist the knife or force an entrance. One stab, straight in and then straight out. Instant oblivion. Not that the killer would have known for certain, especially not in those weather conditions. Hence, perhaps, the second stab to the neck. Just to make sure. Job done.’

  ‘Job done?’ Whether consciously or not, Holden used exactly the same words as Pointer had when she returned to the station, though whereas Pointer had used them as a statement, in Holden’s mouth they became a question. Both Lawson and Wilson swivelled to face her.

  It was Wilson who responded first. ‘We’ve got as far as we’re likely to get. Ten statements so far, out of the sixteen students printed on Mrs Tull’s list. They all pretty much agree on detail. Nothing out of the ordinary happened except for the foul weather. Mrs Tull locked up round about 9.45 p.m., according to John Abrahams, that is. He insisted on staying behind. A rather chivalrous, military type. Mind you, his chivalry has its limits. He went to catch the bus while she went to the car park. Otherwise, the only interesting thing was Dominic; you may remember his name was hand-written at the bottom of Mrs Tull’s list—’

  ‘I do remember,’ Holden cut in testily. ‘I am not senile.’

  ‘No, Guv,’ he replied, trying not to mind the sharpness of her tone. ‘Well, we have established that this man is Dominic Russell. He deals in fine arts, antiques, architectural antiquities, and so on. He has a business out on the ring road, near the Pear Tree roundabout. Anyway, he was clearly well known to Mrs Tull, but by all accounts they weren’t on best-buddy terms the other night.’

  He paused, as if to get his breath back.

  ‘What do you mean by that? Not being on best-buddy terms.’

  ‘Well, Mr Russell stayed only until the interval, about half eight or quarter to nine. He did a bit of sales patter, handed out his business card to anyone who was prepared to take one, and then he left. The only thing is, Mrs Tull didn’t seem to be very happy about him being there.’

  ‘I see.’ Holden raised her left hand, and began to massage the lobe of her ear. It was itching. It was always her left ear, never the right one. But she did like wearing her studs. ‘Anything to add, Lawson?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Any observations?’

  ‘Yes!’ Lawson was quick to take her opportunity. ‘I think we’re agreed that Mrs Tull may have felt he was encroaching on her ground, turning a lecture into a sales plug if you like. If not, well, the fact that Mrs Tull hardly said a word to him all evening? There must be some reason for it.’

  D.R. Antiquities occupied three old farm buildings just inside the Oxford ring road. Had they not been uncomfortably within earshot and exhaust range of both the A34 and the main exit road from North Oxford, they would no doubt have been converted into rather pricey country homes. ‘I moved the business here five years ago,’ Dominic Russell explained, as he escorted Holden and Fox into the largest of the three buildings. ‘I used to be in Jericho, but the landlord was desperate to develop the plot into canal-side apartments, so I negotiated a very generous deal to give up my lease early, and Bob’s your uncle, here I am now. D.R. Antiquities. If you fancy a nice statue for your garden, a bit of stained glass as a feature in your hall, or a nice little Victorian genre scene on your dining room wall, then Dominic’s your man!’

  DS Fox gritted his teeth as he listened. Holden had asked him to accompany her while she left Wilson and Lawson to chase up on Maria Tull’s unresponsive students, and he had appreciated that. But already he was wondering how much of this garrulous git he could stand. Indeed, he thought he already understood only too well why Maria resented him turning up unannounced and buttonholing her students. In fact, if anyone had deserved a knife in the gut that night, it was surely Dominic bloody Russell.

  But Dominic was alive and well and talking. ‘This used to be the cowshed,’ he said with a flourish of his hand. Even Fox found it hard not to be impressed by the collection of items through which they were now passing. There were stained-glass windows of various saints, and of Jesus holding a lamb; busts and statuettes of classical figures; a set of six gargoyles; dark oak pews from a church; oil paintings of castles and seascapes, sour-faced gentry and still lifes; old street lamps; and even a row of Foden lorry radiators. Fox paused despite himself to peer more closely at one of them, and then whistled at the price on the tag.

  They had come to a glass door, through which Dominic now led them. ‘My office,’ he announced, ‘and my wife Sarah.’ The woman at the computer looked up briefly from her computer, and then down again, as if the visitors were beneath her interest. ‘She helps out from time to time. Minette usually mans the post – nice girl, French-Canadian, but her parents are over here so I’ve let her have a few days off.’

  ‘Do you really think the police are interested in Minette?’ Sarah Russell said tartly, and without even the pretence of looking up. ‘Perhaps you should invite them to sit down and ask their questions, and then they can go.’

  ‘Please,’ her husband said apologetically, and with another wave of his arm towards the two plastic green chairs ranged against the right-hand wall.

  Holden and Fox sat down, while he plonked himself down at the other desk, opposite them.

  ‘Was it quick?’ he said leaning forward,
the effusive manner suddenly abandoned. ‘I mean, did she suffer?’

  Holden registered the fact that this was the first time he had shown any sympathy for – or indeed interest in – Maria Tull. ‘Yes, it would have been quick,’ she said simply, not wanting to give out too much information.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘We understand you attended Maria’s lecture last night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Venetian art is an interest of yours?’

  He laughed. ‘All sorts of art are of interest to me, as you have seen.’

  ‘So why did you leave at the interval?’

  ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you have done your homework.’ And he wagged his finger at Holden.

  Holden wondered if this was the way he was, or whether he was playing for time. She kept her eyes on his, and said nothing. Fox noticed that Mrs Russell had given up pretending to be busy and was now watching her husband with considerable interest.

  ‘It was a long day, yesterday, and I was tired. I wanted to support Maria, of course I did, and she certainly knows, or knew, a lot more about Venetian art than I do, but I was there to network, essentially. Of course, half of them were there just because they wanted a reason to escape from the house and the wife or husband, but you only need to make one good contact and it’s been worthwhile.’

  ‘How would you characterize your relationship with Maria Tull?’

  The question, fired in low, caught him amidships. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you wanted to support her. I guess that implies a relationship of some sort.’

  ‘Ah, spot on, detective,’ he blustered, as he fought to regain his equilibrium. ‘I’ve known her husband since we were at Keble together, and her almost as long as Alan has known her. And until someone stuck a knife in her, she and I worked together. Not in any formal sense, but if she found something that I could shift I’d give her a commission, or vice versa if she found a buyer for any of my stock. It suited us both very well. So to answer your question, that was the sort of relationship we had. A business one. All right?’

  ‘Can you tell me what you did when you left St Aidan’s?’

  ‘I went home.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  The reply to this question came not from Dominic, but from Sarah Russell. ‘He came in just as I was settling down to watch Waking the Dead.’

  ‘And he stayed in, did he?’

  ‘As I recall, he got himself a whisky and then fell asleep in the chair. It was very peaceful, apart from the snoring!’

  ‘Is there anyone else who can verify this?’

  Sarah puckered her lips together while she considered the question. Then her eyes brightened. ‘There’s Charlie!’

  ‘And who is Charlie?’ DI Holden replied.

  ‘Charlie is my cocker spaniel.’

  Mrs Jane Holden laughed when, much later, her daughter recounted this to her. ‘She must have a sense of humour, that Sarah!’

  Mother and daughter were sitting at the elegant mock-Georgian dining table in Mrs Holden’s spacious retirement flat in Grandpont Grange. They had just eaten a three-course meal courtesy, Susan was fairly certain, of Marks and Spencer, and in deference to the older woman’s bad back they were still sitting at the table as they sipped their coffees.

  ‘I’m not sure I thanked you for the supper,’ Susan said absentmindedly, ignoring her mother’s comment. She was looking down at her cup, which she held in her two hands as if cradling something small and precious.

  ‘I’m used to that,’ her mother said sharply.

  Her daughter looked up. ‘Sorry!’ It was the automatic reaction of a daughter to a demanding mother.

  ‘Your father never said thank you for a meal. He would clear away the dirty dishes, and stack them on the side in the kitchen, but he never said thank you.’

  Silence descended. Perhaps if Susan had been a perfect daughter, she would have pondered the implications of this exchange, and then sympathetically explored the issues and feelings that underlay her mother’s words. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, for her mind was on other matters. And they were much more pressing. At least, as far as she was concerned, they were. She frowned. ‘That’s the last thing I would have said about her.’

  Her mother looked at her in bewilderment. ‘About whom?’

  ‘Sarah Russell. Serious, controlling, contemptuous even. But I wouldn’t have described her as having a sense of humour.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her mother was back on track. ‘You didn’t find it funny, what she said about Charlie the cocker spaniel?’

  Again, her daughter’s response was not an answer. ‘He’s the hilarious one in their relationship. The life and soul of the party. Like daddy was. The perpetual naughty little boy. Sarah is stuck with being his mother.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean she can’t sometimes be funny.’

  ‘I think she was trying to distract me.’

  ‘From what?’

  Her daughter didn’t immediately reply. It was something that had occurred to her only as she had been sipping at her coffee, and she needed to give it one more whirl in her head before she gave life to it by expressing it in words. Eventually, however, she shrugged. ‘From the fact that she is his alibi.’

  Shortly after making this observation, Susan Holden pecked her mother on the cheek, thanked her again for the meal, and left. Or at least she would have left, except that her mother, who had gone to the front door of the flat as if to let her out, had turned and was leaning against it, blocking her exit. If Holden had not been so preoccupied, she would perhaps have sensed trouble.

  ‘You ought to go out more,’ she heard.

  ‘I thought that was what I was doing this evening,’ she replied. ‘Going out.’

  ‘Supper with your mother does not constitute going out.’ Her mother spoke firmly, as mothers do when squaring up to their children. In her case she had got only one daughter, but that made her well-being all the more precious. And she was worried about her. ‘We are sociable beings, designed to have a partner in life.’

  ‘Ah!’ Susan knew where this was going. It was a surprisingly long time – two or three months maybe – since they had had a conversation like this. But not long enough. Susan was tempted to answer back, but the single glass of wine over her supper had mellowed her mood. So she fought the urge.

  Her mother was still leaning against the door, looking at her daughter, and there was sadness in her eyes. ‘Just because Richard was a bad one doesn’t mean every man is.’

  Susan glared at her mother. There was no sadness in her eyes, only fury. That was forbidden ground as far as she was concerned, a no-go area dotted with unexploded mines. Bloody Richard. Bastard Richard. Richard who slapped her around, Richard who cheated on her, Richard who eventually ran out on her, thank God! Why the hell hadn’t she walked out on him first?

  ‘Were you happy with my father, then?’ If her mother was going to mention the unmentionable, then so would she.

  ‘Yes.’ Sometimes only a lie will do.

  ‘Oh yeah. Not from where I was sitting.’ Why not be aggressive and nasty? She would give as good as she got.

  Her mother wrenched the door open. The words had done their job, and some. ‘I can see I shouldn’t have started this conversation.’

  Her daughter strode past, and only when she was outside did she throw back a reply, but it was lost in the slamming of the door.

  It would typically take little more than two minutes to walk to her house in Chilswell Road, but once she was in Whitehouse Road, she stopped under a street lamp, removed her mobile from her bag, and made a call. She needed someone to talk to. About the case. That’s what she told herself. She had talked to her mother, of course, before the evening had disintegrated, but she hadn’t been able to talk to her about the photo of the naked Jack Smith or the painting he had found. Apart from anything else, this wasn’t information she wanted getting gossiped round the neighbourhood. So she still
needed to talk to someone else, someone she could bounce her thoughts off, someone she could trust. At least, that was what she told herself as she searched for the number. Which was why and how she came to ring Dr Karen Pointer at 9.25 that evening.

  ‘It’s Susan Holden,’ she said when her call was answered.

  There was the briefest of pauses. ‘Hello, Susan. What a lovely surprise.’

  ‘I’ve just had supper with my mother.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. Well, it was OK until we got on to the subject of me, and then it all went tits up.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Again there was a pause, though less brief. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

  ‘I’m just walking back to my house.’

  ‘Would you like me to come round, Susan?’

  There was a pause. What did she want? Across the road, two students walked past. She recognized the woman as living up her end of Chilswell Road. They were talking intently, apparently oblivious of her scrutiny, and they were holding hands. ‘Yes, please,’ Holden replied.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘So, where are we, Sergeant?’ In truth, DI Holden should have had a pretty firm idea herself of where they were, but at 9.05 that next morning, as she sat in her rather frayed but ergonomic office chair, facing the three members of her team, her mind was having a struggle to stay in the present and not drift back to the previous night.

  Karen Pointer had arrived at her house in Chilswell Road within fifteen minutes of their brief phone call. Holden had seen her arrive, and had opened the door before the bell had rung. For several seconds they had stood unmoving, one outside, one inside. Was either of them conscious that this could be or might be or should be a defining moment in their relationship – crossing of the Rubicon or maybe a Pandora’s box moment? Perhaps. It was Karen, eventually, who had broken the silence.