Blood on the Cowley Road

by Tickler, Peter

Holden didn’t notice them at first. It was some 20 minutes since Wilson and Lawson had retreated from her room down the corridor to their own, and in that time she hadn’t so much as opened the file on Sarah Johnson, let alone reread it. What with visiting the loo again – she really should cut down on the coffee – getting some paracetamol from her car, and then being ambushed on her way back by Linda from personnel, the time had raced unrelentingly forward, leaving all her good intentions in its slipstream. Back in her office, instead of sitting down and opening the file, she stood and gazed out of the dirty office window. Not that her brain registered anything that was happening in the stop-start Oxford Road traffic, for it was focused on violent death and also on her mother. Not that she was wishing one on the other, far from it. But somehow her mother’s words refused to go away. ‘Martin Mace and Sarah Johnson,’ she had insisted. ‘They are the key to the mystery.’ Who the hell did she think she was? Miss Marple? What the heck did she know about solving crimes? And yet maybe she was right. They were linked by this game of football at Wrexham, of course. But they were linked too by Jake. Jake and Sarah had a strong relationship, and Mace and Jake were or had been lovers. And then there was Blunt, a man Holden neither liked nor trusted. But that, she had to remind herself, did not make Blunt a killer. But he was another link, no question. And Blunt and Jake disliked, maybe even hated, each other.

  ‘Guv! Guv!’

  Holden turned round reluctantly, to see Lawson and Wilson in her room again.

  ‘We’ve found something, Guv!’ said Wilson.

  ‘What?’ she said pulling herself irritably into the present moment.

  ‘A car crash on the 5th. On a side road just off the A5, about 10 miles south of Wrexham. A VW van went off the road, about eight o’clock at night. Six passengers, all killed.’ Wilson paused and glanced at Lawson,

  ‘I rang the locals,’ she said, taking over the baton. ‘The van was from Oxfordshire. Three of them from Witney, and three from Oxford itself. They were peace campaigners, on the way home from some demo.’

  ‘You have a list of names?’

  ‘Yes, and pictures,’ Wilson said, holding out a wadge of paper in his hand.

  ‘One more thing,’ Lawson said. ‘We think it might be relevant, given the nature of Martin Mace’s death. The van caught fire. They reckon the petrol tank burst open on impact. It looks like all the occupants burnt to death.’

  ‘You think it may be relevant, Lawson?’ Holden exclaimed. ‘That’s the understatement of the year. Well, drop everything and for God’s sake go and pick them up – Smith and Sexton – before the murderer gets to them too.’

  Two minutes later Holden frowned hard at the sheet of paper she was reading, and scratched at her forehead. She had just finished reading the single-page report of Fox and Wilson’s visit to Anne Johnson. She leafed quickly through the rest of the file, not reading, but looking. Then she got up, crossed the room to her open door and walked purposefully down the corridor. ‘Wilson!’ she called, as she turned into the second doorway on the left. The startled constable looked up. He was sitting at his desk, with one hand holding a bag of salted crisps in its palm while the fingers of the other deposited some of its contents into his mouth. He jumped to his feet, almost dropping the bag as he did, wondering what the heck he had done now.

  ‘Just waiting for Lawson. She’s in the loo,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Where’s the diary?’ she asked.

  ‘Diary?’ Wilson replied, feeling hopelessly lost.

  ‘Sarah Johnson’s diary,’ Holden snapped. ‘When Fox and you visited Sarah Johnson’s flat and met Anne Johnson there, you found Sarah’s diary. It’s in the notes that you wrote up, Wilson. But it’s not in the file. So where’s it got to?’

  Wilson scratched his head. ‘I can’t recall seeing it recently. But I do remember it. It was a red diary, A5, you know, a desk diary. Maybe it’s in one of the drawers.’ He moved over to Fox’s desk and leant down, tugging at the nearest handle. When it refused to moved, he tried the next drawer, and then the third. ‘They’re locked, Guv.’

  ‘And presumably Fox has got the key.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘Gone to the dentist again. He thinks he’s got an abscess.’

  ‘I see,’ Holden said, though she wasn’t sure that she did see. What the hell was he doing buggering off to the dentist without telling her first anyway? ‘Well, ask around. Someone must hold a spare set of keys for these desks, or a master. Anyway, use your initiative and find the diary, and bring it to my office. And sharpish!’ Holden turned and left him to it. What was it her father used to say? Don’t keep a dog and bark yourself. One of the few sensible things he did say. So let Wilson get on with it.

  Barely three minutes later, Wilson appeared triumphantly at her door, with Lawson at his shoulder and the elusive red book in his hand. ‘Bingo!’ he said with a grin. ‘It was in Fox’s bottom drawer. I couldn’t find a key so I had to—’

  Holden had raised her finger to her lips, like a librarian bringing a noisy reader to heel. Wilson dribbled to a halt.

  ‘Too much information, Wilson. You got the diary and I assume you didn’t cause any serious damage doing so. That’s enough for me.’

  ‘Yes Guv.’

  ‘So bugger off and find Smith and Sexton.’

  Doreen Sexton looked at her watch for the fourth time in ten minutes and swore. Not that anyone would have known for she never cursed out loud. ‘It’s not lady-like,’ her mother had drummed into her throughout her childhood. Not that being lady-like was high in Doreen Sexton’s priorities for herself. She was far too practical in her approach to life and too committed to her nursing to give herself airs and graces. But, nevertheless, she – like her mother and her mother before her – left the swearing to the menfolk, and even then insisted that it remain outside the house.

  ‘Where is he?’ This time her words were audible, although there was no one else in the house to hear them ‘He promised!’ she pleaded to herself. Sam Sexton had indeed promised to be back in plenty of time to give her a lift to the hospital. Normally she caught the bus, but she had four bags of bric-a-brac and clothes for Alice’s jumble sale. She looked at her watch again. She’d give him a couple more minutes, but then she’d have to go and catch the bus and leave the jumble behind. It wasn’t like Sam to let her down. Whatever he was or wasn’t, he was a very reliable man. It was one of the things about him that she’d always liked. Once in a while, a bit of romance would have been nice too, but most of the time she was content with reliability. So where was he, and why was his mobile turned off? Surely he hadn’t let the battery run flat? Normally he was so careful to keep it charged. Again, she looked at her watch. She couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to get her coat and go. ‘Sam Sexton,’ she said out loud, ‘you’d better have a very good excuse!’

  And then the front doorbell rang.

  At much the same time that Doreen Sexton was opening her front door, Detective Inspector Holden was sitting at her desk staring into space. If the Oxford Mail had chosen that moment to ring up and check on progress, or if Linda from Personnel had appeared at the door (as she had threatened) to collect the long overdue appraisal forms, or indeed if the Queen herself had dropped in for a chat, it is doubtful whether any of them would have been able to attract her attention. For her mind was in freefall, and it was spinning wildly as it fell.

  After Wilson and Lawson had scuttled off down the corridor, Holden had laid the diary down on her desk and opened it. Flicking through the pages, she had soon come to the month of May. There it was. Down the left-hand side were Monday 30 April, then Tuesday 1 May and Wednesday 2 May. She had run her eyes down the right-hand side of the page looking for Saturday 5 only it wasn’t Saturday 5. It was Saturday 12. ‘Damn!’ She had sworn. And then repeated herself in an increasingly noisy staccato. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  Someone had ripped a page out of the diary, the very date they were interested in. Sarah herself, before s
he died? But why? Or someone else who had got to the diary before Fox and Wilson. Or, someone since, in which case who? Who had access to it? Fox? He must have looked at it in the first place. Or Wilson? Come to think of it, he had located it pretty quickly. Steady, Holden. Don’t be bloody paranoid. These are your colleagues you’re talking about. She picked up her mug and drained the remains of her coffee. It was cold, but she barely noticed. But Fox. Where was Fox? Where the hell was he? She picked up her mobile, flicked her way through her list of names until she came to ‘Fox mob’ and rang. It cut straight into an answering message. She terminated the call. The dentist. Maybe he was still there? But which dentist did he go to? If her memory hadn’t gone AWOL, she was pretty damn sure it was that one down the road, past the hardware store. Stewart wasn’t it? Or Stuart?

  ‘Right,’ Holden said out loud to herself, as she pulled the Yellow Pages down from the bookshelves. ‘Where are you?’ It took her a minute to track down the number, but only seconds to dial it.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Stewart’s dental practice,’ came the almost immediate answer.

  ‘Is Derek Fox there?’

  There was a muffled giggle from the dental practice. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Derek Fox. You do know him, don’t you? He’s one of your patients. I understand he was due in for an appointment and—’

  The receptionist cut in aggressively, irritated by the domineering tone of the caller. ‘Yes, I know who Derek Fox is, but who are you? We don’t give out information to just anyone.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Holden said in a softer tone, realizing her mistake. ‘I should have said. I am Detective Inspector Susan Holden. I am DS Fox’s superior officer and I urgently need to contact him.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here,’ the reply came.

  ‘When did he leave?’ Holden pressed.

  ‘Leave? He’s not been to see us for a while. Let me see. I’ll just bring his records up. That’s right. He last came in March for a check-up, and he’s due in next month, for his next check-up.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Holden knew it was a stupid question as soon as she said it, but she had to make certain.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ came the hostile reply. ‘What do you take me for? A dumb blonde?’

  ‘Mrs Sexton, is it?’

  Sexton peered uncertainly at the blonde-haired young woman who stood on her doorstep, and then at the man lurking at her shoulder. ‘Who are you?’ she asked irritably. ‘I’m just off to work.’

  ‘I’m WPC Lawson and this is Detective Constable Wilson,’ the woman replied, showing her ID as she spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, but this time less stridently. Anxiety, too, was evident in her voice.

  ‘Do you mind if we come inside?’ came the evasive response.

  Doreen Sexton hesitated for moment, as if she was considering saying she did mind, but then she just shrugged, moved to the side and motioned them in with a movement of her head.

  ‘I’ll get in trouble if I’m late,’ she said, as she shut the door behind them.

  ‘We’ll try not to be long,’ the man said. ‘It’s just that we want to speak to your husband.’

  ‘Sam? Why?’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ the man continued, sidestepping her question. ‘Or perhaps you could give us his mobile number.’

  ‘Look,’ she said firmly, trying to assert herself. ‘What is this all about? Has he done something wrong? Because if you want me to cooperate, then I need to know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down, Mrs Sexton,’ he said, still failing to address her questions.

  ‘Don’t patronize me,’ she snarled. ‘Just because I’m a woman.’ If looks could kill, Wilson’s blood would have been smeared across the kitchen wall, but no such thing occurred. Eventually, Doreen Sexton emitted a snort of disgust and turned her body and face towards the female detective.

  ‘Mrs Sexton,’ Lawson said, intervening. ‘We don’t mean to patronize you. But we are concerned for your husband’s safety. We really do need to locate him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She spoke with alarm in her voice. ‘His safety? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You are aware of Martin Mace’s death?’ Lawson continued determinedly. ‘We understand he was a good friend of your husband. And we think it is possible that Martin’s killer has a grudge against Sam and also Al Smith.’

  ‘God!’ she said, breaking the habit of a lifetime. ‘Oh, God!’ And she grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to steady herself.

  ‘Please, sit down Mrs Sexton,’ the blonde woman suggested. This time Sexton obeyed.

  ‘He’s not answering his mobile,’ she said disconsolately. ‘It’s turned off. It’s not like him, you know. He always keeps it on. Always.’

  ‘When is he due home?’ Lawson asked quietly.

  ‘He’s late! He promised to be back to give me a lift to the hospital. I’ve got all these things to carry, you see, too much to take on the bus, and he promised. He normally keeps his promises. Something must have happened to him. He’d be here if he could. Something must have happened to him. Oh my God!’

  ‘Please, try not to worry,’ Lawson said, conscious that this was asking the impossible, but conscious too that she had to keep the woman from freaking. She’d had quite enough of that today with Danny. ‘Where was he working today? He’s a builder, isn’t he?’

  ‘He finished early. He rang me, and said he had to go and meet someone about a job, but he wanted me to know that he hadn’t forgotten me, you know that he had remembered that I needed a lift.’

  ‘Did he say who this meeting was with, or where it was? Maybe he’s just got held up—’

  ‘Some rundown cottage, he said. Off the Garsington Road. It had an odd name. I remember thinking, that’s a funny name for a house—’ She trailed off, as she tried desperately to recall the name from her memory bank. ‘Like in a fairy tale. Not a real life name ... Oh, God, I can’t remember. I can’t remember!’

  ‘Don’t worry Mrs Sexton,’ Wilson said soothingly. ‘It’ll come to you in a minute. That’s what my mum always said to my dad when he couldn’t remember something. As soon as you stop trying to remember, then it’ll pop straight into your head. And it always did. Always!’

  An observer could not have divined whether Doreen Sexton took in, or was even aware of, these words of homespun wisdom, for her head remained tilted slightly to the right, while her eyes were fixed on a distant point beyond and above Lawson’s shoulder. The only thing that moved was the expression on her face, from one of intense concentration to increasing blankness and then, remarkably and suddenly, transfiguration. ‘Of course,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Of course. Dingle Dell. That’s what it was! Dingle Dell Cottage.’

  At much the same time that Wilson and Lawson were ringing the Sextons’ doorbell, DS Holden was ringing the Oxford Mail. Given that every time her phone had rung that afternoon she had hoped against hope that it wasn’t Don Alexander asking her for news of developments, this was at one level a remarkable turnaround. But although Holden had an in-built suspicion of the media, the bottom line was that she needed his help, and she needed it fast.

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Holden,’ she said as soon as he answered the phone.

  ‘What a pleasure, and what an unusual event to be rung up by you, Susan,’ he replied suavely.

  Holden ignored the familiarity. If he had been ringing her, she would have taken him on, but right now she had no option except to swallow her irritation.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Well, Susan,’ he said, enjoying his position of superiority, ‘that’s a turn-up. But of course I wouldn’t be being public-spirited if I didn’t give you every possible assistance in your investigations.’ He paused, and then noisily cleared his throat, before continuing. ‘However,’ he said with emphasis, ‘of course I do have to answer to my editor for my time and it is only fair to—’

  ‘You’ll get first bite at the story!’
Holden said sharply. ‘Don’t you worry!’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried Susan. I know I can rely on your word. So what is it I can do for you?’

  Al Smith was losing his cool. He had arrived early at the Wittenham Clumps car park. Deliberately so. He had wanted to get there in plenty of time to suss out the area. To see if he could gain any sort of edge. There were three cars parked up when he pulled in, and he felt better when he saw them. If the bastard was going to try and kill him, he wouldn’t want to do it in front of witnesses. So as long as there were other people there, he was safe. But suppose one of the cars was the killer’s. Maybe he too had come early. Maybe he was up there in one of the Clumps, hiding amongst the trees in the undergrowth. The Clumps were aptly named: two clumps of trees which appeared to have been plonked at random on the tops of these two hump-like hills by some higher power. A god with a love of camels and a sense of humour perhaps. But for Smith the place had a sense of something more sinister, a pagan god. Smith had been there only once before, and he remembered seeing a wicker figure in the nearest wood. He must have been eleven or twelve, and he remembered the fear he had felt. Not that he had admitted it to his mum or dad – that would have been sissy. But he remembered how very cold the wood had felt and how glad he had been to reach the far side and emerge into the bright, warming sunshine.

  Suddenly he was back in the present, and realized that, ridiculously, he was shivering. He tried to ignore it and scanned the open grassland that surrounded the two hillocks. A woman with two small black-and-white dogs, Jack Russells probably, was walking up towards the left-hand copse, while a man with a light-coloured Labrador was climbing the slope towards the nearest copse. The driver of the third car was nowhere to be seen however. He – or she – could be anywhere: in one of the copses, or the other side and out of sight. A simple visitor enjoying the view and the air. Or the killer.