Blood in Grandpont

by Peter Tickler

  Holden pursed her lips. Marjorie Drabble was a hard one to read. She sat down again on the chair, and leant forward. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if that is the case, what was the action that led to Dominic Russell’s death? His seduction of Christine?’

  Another laugh rang out, and echoed round the room so loudly that Holden wondered if the nurse wouldn’t come running to see what on earth had caused such unseemly behaviour. But no one came, and eventually the laughing petered out, and Drabble’s face grew stern. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ she demanded.

  ‘So you told Lucy because you knew that she had killed Maria and Jack, and so you also knew there would be nothing to stop her killing Dominic too. You killed Dominic by proxy, in fact. Is that right?’

  Drabble folded her arms, and looked straight into Holden’s face. ‘I did say I wasn’t a very nice person.’

  ‘That isn’t an answer to my question.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled what was almost a smile of sympathy. ‘You answer my question about Lucy’s death, and I’ll answer yours.’

  Holden hesitated, but only briefly. She too wanted to confess to someone. Needed too, even. A memory from childhood, painfully vivid, came to her: she was standing on the high diving board at the swimming pool, waiting to jump, and a line of children, mostly older than her, stood behind, urging her to get on with it or get out of the way. And she had been so scared, and yet she was determined to do it, because her mother was in the viewing gallery, watching. So eventually she had breathed in, pinched her nose, and had jumped. And much to her surprise, she had survived.

  She took in a deep breath. ‘I pushed Lucy over the balcony because she murdered the first person I have ever truly loved.’

  There, she had said it, and she shut her eyes. But the feeling of relief that she craved did not follow. Instead, she felt her throat tighten, and even with her eyes closed tears began to well up, and then her whole body started to shake again. And all she could feel was an intense, head-splitting feeling of hatred for the woman who had shattered her happiness. She had absolutely no regrets.

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ Drabble said. Her own eyes were red, and she dabbed at them with the corner of a sheet as she waited until she had got Holden’s attention. ‘I got Lucy to kill Dominic because I was incapable of doing it myself.’ Drabble said this in a determined, raised voice. ‘For years and years and years I had wanted him to die. Well, not just die. I used to fantasize that he would get cancer and then die a very long and very agonizing death, and that after death he would discover that God did exist and that God was a vengeful God who would condemn him to everlasting torment. You see, the bottom line was that I didn’t have the guts to do my own dirty work. But when this golden opportunity turned up in the form of Lucy Tull, well!’ She paused, and rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, on which beads of sweat had now begun to form. ‘You see, Susan, Christine wasn’t the only person to fall prey to Dominic’s charms. Six months before that, I had had an affair with him. Not a one-night encounter like poor Christine, but nearly three months of furtive meetings and often, I am ashamed to say, rather exciting sex. The only problem was that in my naivety I got pregnant. When I told Dominic, he dropped me like the proverbial hot potato, and I was left not knowing whose child I was carrying – Dominic’s or my husband’s. I never did try to find out. What was the point? At least the two possible fathers were the same skin colour and the same hair colour, and both even then showed a tendency to carry too much weight. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how alike they were, except in temperament.’

  ‘So that child was Graham?’

  ‘Yes. Of course he has no idea, and must never know. You do understand that?’

  ‘I do.’ What else could she say? She had promised to maintain secrecy. And she had meant it. And besides, some things were best kept secret.

  ‘And I suppose Graham is the other reason why I did nothing. Even if I had killed Dominic myself, the chances are I would have been discovered, and then what? People like you start digging and asking questions, and before you know it Graham is left with the awful knowledge that he may be a bastard. I may not have been a perfect mother, but I am better than that.’

  Both women now fell into silence. There was, suddenly, nothing left to say. Nothing left at all. Holden eventually stood up, stretched, and then stepped closer, bending down over the bed. ‘I’d better be off, Marjorie,’ she said quietly.

  Drabble looked up at her. Her face was wiped clean of emotion. Only exhaustion was visible. ‘Thank you for coming, Susan,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve enjoyed our chat.’

  Holden bent lower, and kissed the woman on the forehead.

  ‘Goodbye, Marjorie.’

  Holden turned and moved towards the door. Drabble watched her go. She saw her open the door, and watched it swing noiselessly shut behind her, and only then did she lift a hand in silent farewell.

  It was barely 5.30 in the evening, but it felt later. Susan Holden made her way towards the front door. It had been one of those grim autumnal days which underline the fact that winter isn’t so much round the corner, as already up your front path and hammering rudely on the door. Holden wondered, without enthusiasm, who else might be hammering on her door right now. The last few days had impressed on her something that she had known, but ignored for some time – that she didn’t actually have many friends. Most of her time had been spent at work, or doing things with work colleagues, or humouring her mother, or trying to forget all of those things. So the chances were that it would be a door-to-door sales person, one of those wretched people who try to sell you dishcloths you don’t need, or who offer you a ‘free inspection’ of your exterior brickwork, or a student trying to sign you up to some no doubt terribly good cause. Alternatively, it could be her mother, come to check up on her. That was as far as her imagination took her.

  She undid the security chain on her door and pulled the door wide. She didn’t need a ruddy security chain, didn’t need to peer through a thin crack to check on the identity of her visitor before allowing them in. She wasn’t decrepit. Whoever it was, let them come in. She was ready for them.

  ‘Hello, Guv!’

  ‘Fox!’ She wasn’t ready for him.

  He stood there, his hands in his coat pockets, and a slightly forced smile of greeting on his face, as if posing reluctantly for a photograph. His face and hair were glistening, and Holden realized that behind him it was raining the thin, miserable rain that had threatened all day but never quite materialized.

  ‘I was just passing, Guv, and I thought—’

  ‘For God’s sake, come in. And I’m not your Guv at present, as you well know.’

  He eased himself past her, and then started to fight his way out of his coat. He had never been inside her house before. He had called there on a number of occasions, but only to pick her up or drop her off. There were pegs in the corridor and he was conscious that his coat needed hanging up rather than dumping in a damp pile somewhere. ‘Actually, I’m on the way to the Phoenix, but I’m running a bit early, so I thought I’d call in and see how you were.’ As lies goes, it was barely adequate.

  ‘What would you like to drink? Tea or alcohol.’

  ‘I’d go for a small whisky, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Ice, water?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the kitchen. It’s nicer there.’

  The whisky bottle was, Fox noted, three-quarters empty and was standing defiantly in front of the kettle. He sat down at the table, and watched in silence as she found two tumblers and poured out two generous portions.

  ‘It’s not the same without you,’ he said suddenly, as she set his glass in front of him.

  She sat down opposite, and smiled back. It was good to have a visitor. Any visitor. Even Fox. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean it’s better with me out the way?’

  ‘It’s bloody marvellous,’ he said in a deadpan voice.

  ‘Glad to hear it!’ And sh
e laughed, though rather unconvincingly. Then silence fell, an uncertain and – as far as Fox was concerned – an uneasy silence. He knew he had to say something, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her just yet.’

  ‘We thought you’d like to know about Sarah Russell and Geraldine Payne.’

  Holden looked up, relieved. She was wondering why the hell he had really come. To check that she hadn’t fallen apart? But this was comfortable territory – the nuts and bolts of the case.

  ‘You know’, he continued. ‘About why it was that Sarah succumbed to blackmail by Joseph Tull.’ He paused, as he wondered how precisely to phrase his words.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Holden said, the familiar impatience back in her voice.

  ‘Well, we interviewed them both. Geraldine and Sarah, that is.’ He paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It turns out they weren’t having an affair. Geraldine admitted to being a lesbian, not that that was news, of course. But Sarah Russell insisted she wasn’t. It was just that she’d had it up to her ears with her husband. She wanted a divorce, but she hadn’t told him because she was trying to make other living arrangements first, and Geraldine was her confidante.’

  Holden frowned, her mind fully focused. ‘I hadn’t realized that Geraldine and Sarah were great friends.’

  ‘It was more complicated than that. Remember, Jack Smith found the Judas painting in Geraldine’s house.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, they both admitted that they thought that Dominic Russell was helping Maria sell it on, so with Maria dead, Sarah became Geraldine’s best bet to recover it for herself. But Geraldine was also Sarah’s support. Sarah had been wanting to leave Dominic and get a divorce. No surprise there perhaps, but Sarah also reckoned Dominic was cheating her. She was an equal partner in the business, but profits had been dropping, and then she discovered that Maria had set up a big deal for Dominic when she was last in Venice, but he had denied it, saying there was only one painting involved. So she was pretty damn sure that he was doing other business but putting it through a different company.’

  ‘You have been busy. Well done!’ She spoke like a teacher congratulating a five-year-old, but she meant it, though frankly it wasn’t that earth shattering. It was rather prosaic, in fact. Money and petty jealousies. When push came to shove, that’s often what it did boil down to. Grubby little motives. She took another sip of whisky. ‘Sounds like you don’t need me.’

  Fox looked across at her. Self-pity wasn’t something he was used to seeing in his boss. Perhaps, as Lawson had wondered out loud back at the station in her know-it-all way, perhaps Holden was cracking up.

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Guv. We all want you back. And both Lawson and Wilson sent their best wishes. They’re very concerned for you.’

  ‘That’s kind of them,’ Holden replied. And she meant it. She missed them. She missed not being in the office – the routine, the camaraderie, the banter – and she missed her team. They were important to her, and yet here she was under suspension, not knowing when she would be allowed back. Or if. She cleared her throat noisily, as she felt her eyes begin to moisten. ‘And how are Lawson and Wilson?’

  Fox didn’t answer immediately. He was looking intently into his glass, as if within its contents he might find the elusive answer to all things temporal and eternal. Or, at least, something intelligent and helpful to say. Lawson’s and Wilson’s concern, and his own too, was not merely about her suspension, but it was also about the death of Karen Pointer. It seemed that he had been just about the last person in the station to know about Holden and Pointer’s relationship, and he knew he ought to say something, but he could think only of the obvious things like he was really sorry or how they were all thinking of her back at the station, but these sounded bloody feeble when he rehearsed them in his head. Perhaps sympathy always feels forced and inadequate to the person expressing it. But whatever, that wasn’t why he had come.

  ‘They’re fine,’ he said finally. Although it wasn’t entirely true.

  Holden took a sip at her whisky. ‘Anyway, I’ll be back before you know it.’

  ‘Of course you will, Guv.’ But neither of them was convinced. ‘I want you to know that I’m on your side, Guv.’ He had meant to work his way gently into this conversation, but he found that sort of thing difficult. The crucial thing was to get it said, to get it out there on the table. ‘Lucy Tull’s death was an accident,’ he insisted, and he brought his left hand down heavily on the table to emphasize his point. ‘Hell, it could just as easily have been you falling over that balcony, couldn’t it? In fact, it was a case of either you or her, and thank God it was her.’

  Holden looked down at her glass, and took another, deeper sip, taking refuge in it from the jumble of her thoughts, and in particular the one thought that wouldn’t go away – that it might have been better if it had been her. That way, she too could have embraced oblivion or whatever it was that awaited people after death. At least she and Karen would have been there together.

  ‘There’s something else you need to know, Guv.’ There, he had said it. Started the ball rolling. That was the hardest bit. That’s what he told himself, though he didn’t believe it. Soon he would get to the end of telling her, and then he could leave.

  Holden was looking at him. Her face was etched with pain and tiredness and grief, but overlaying it all was a look of resignation of such awfulness that Fox suddenly felt terribly afraid for her.

  ‘Well, tell me then!’ she said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘It’s to do with Karen Pointer,’ he said. ‘We thought you should know. Her inquest is next week, but in view of everything we felt you should know first. Before it becomes public knowledge.’

  He picked up his glass, and took another slug of whisky, in the hope that it might help. ‘Someone filmed her death,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Fox had seen plenty of people in shock, and had had to pass on the worst kind of news to people, but rarely had he seen blood disappear from a person’s face with quite such dramatic speed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Fox swallowed. He would tell it how it was, stick to the basic facts, and no more. Then he would go. ‘There’s a block of flats adjacent to Karen’s block. It overlooks the canal like hers. It looks pretty much like her block, actually. A woman was out on her balcony. It’s near enough the same height as Karen’s, so she had a good view of what happened. And when she realized something was going on, she used her mobile phone to film it. She got a ten second video clip. Not of the precise moment of death, I should say, but of the struggle just before it.’

  ‘So, has she sold it to the media? Is it going to appear on the six o’clock news?’

  ‘No, we’re holding it as evidence. But I guess we’re lucky she didn’t just post it on YouTube.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘Well, we are fortunate at the moment, but in the future who knows.’

  ‘So it shows them struggling on the balcony, does it?’

  Fox hesitated, and when he did reply it was only a signal word. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Mostly!’ Holden’s response exploded across the gap between them with such force that Fox flinched backwards. ‘What the hell do you mean by “mostly”?’

  Fox leant confidentially forward. Oddly, the burst of temper encouraged him. It was more like the woman he knew. Tough, direct, no bloody nonsense. ‘The neighbour heard a lot of shouting initially. She was on her balcony, and was just finishing her fag, when she heard all this noise. Really wild, scary shouting she said it was. And the next moment a woman came out on the balcony. That was Lucy. And then moments later another woman – Karen – came out, and she was doing most of the shouting, it seemed.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ Holden was on her feet now, and her voice was raised, almost shouting in sympathy. ‘Karen was probably petrified. She was trying to scare Lucy. She knew she was the killer.’

  F
ox held up his hand, and held it there as he waited for Holden to calm down. He hadn’t finished yet. ‘Karen had a knife in her hand,’ he said simply.

  ‘What? Karen?’

  ‘Yes, Karen.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s on the film. There’s no doubt at all. Karen had a knife in her hand when she came on to the balcony. And then she attacked Lucy with it.’ He paused again, but this time there was no question or interruption from Holden. ‘She actually caught Lucy with it, a gash across the lower left forearm, but after that the knife was dropped or got knocked out of her hand, and anyway when the film cut out after ten seconds, the two of them were struggling hand to hand, and Karen was being pressed back against the wall. According to the witness, she fell to her death only seconds later. The witness then rang 999, before heading for the lift, to try and come down and help. She’s a bit arthritic so running down the stairs wasn’t an option. It was her I nearly knocked over when I ran to come and help you.’

  ‘It was self-protection.’ Holden was still standing up, and she was lecturing Fox loudly, her right hand in the air, emphasizing her point of view. ‘Don’t you see, Karen knew that Lucy was the killer. She had worked it out. She left me a message on my mobile. She must have been scared witless. So she took the knife out of her butcher’s block to defend herself. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Fox tried to sound calm and logical, but underneath he had gone to pieces. ‘But it’s not my view that counts.’

  Holden strode across to the side door that led to the garden. She banged her forehead against it with such force that Fox stood up in alarm.

  Then she swung round and pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘What other view is there?’

  ‘A lawyer could make a case to say that Karen was the aggressor. That she lost her temper or her mind, took one of her own knives, and tried to stab Lucy, who had just kindly helped her home from the dentist.’