Blood in Grandpont (6 page)

‘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.’

‘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.

‘You look exhausted.’

Susan had smiled and looked down at her feet almost bashfully, as if the other woman had told her how beautiful she was. And maybe that was exactly what Karen Pointer was saying.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Susan had replied, finally looking up.

Only then had Karen moved forward into the narrow hallway, where for some thirty seconds they had hugged each other before finally, tentatively kissing. Then they had gone into the kitchen and talked and talked over mugs of tea – about life and work, and the past and the future, and mothers. And Karen had insisted Susan
ring her mother, even though it was ridiculously late. And then they had gone to bed, though not initially for sex. They had lain together fully clothed, Susan facing the wardrobe as she always did, and Karen tucked close behind her, her left arm curled protectively around her companion’s body, and they had talked desultorily until they had both fallen asleep. Only much later, just after the clock on the landing had chimed four o’clock had Susan woken up and turned round and moved into territory that was for her scary and thrilling and unknown.

‘Wilson and Lawson have chased up the rest of Maria’s students.’ Fox was summarizing where they had got to. Holden forced herself back to the present. ‘But to be honest there’s nothing to add to what we had already found out. Dominic Russell left at the end of the interval, and the last person to see Maria was John Abrahams. She received no phone calls, and there is no reason to believe she was planning to meet anyone. One thing several witnesses agree was that there was ill feeling between Maria and Dominic that evening.’

‘But that doesn’t make him a killer,’ Holden insisted. ‘He was home by nine o’clock and fast asleep in front of the TV when Maria was killed, according to his wife.’

‘She might be lying,’ Fox stated.

‘So who else have we got in the frame? Jack Smith? Maybe he thought he was being cheated out of this painting.’

‘Maybe. If you ask me, his alibi sounds a bit thin. He said he was pricing up a job earlier in the evening, but how long would that take? And his wife was working the night shift, so there’s no saying when he got home.’

‘What about the family?’

‘The husband was at home, supposedly asleep, but Lucy didn’t get in until 10.30, so he doesn’t have a real alibi. She says she was at the hospital till 8.45 – that should be easy enough to check – and then she claims she had an ice cream and a coffee in Little Clarendon Street, before catching a cab home. I guess that all needs checking out. Joseph was at a party, but how easy would it be to slip out of that. What with drink and drugs, who would have noticed?’

Holden didn’t reply at first. Her mind had skipped to the weapon. A very sharp, thin-bladed knife, Karen had said. Maybe a stiletto switchblade. Easy to carry, and as easy to use for a woman as a man. Which meant no one was ruled out.

‘What do you think, Lawson? And you, Wilson?’ Holden was aware that she had been leaving them out of the discussion. But they never got the chance to join in because at that moment the door opened and through it burst an angry woman, behind whom there trailed the despairing desk sergeant, John Taylor.

The woman was tall and slim, with short black hair, dangling earrings, and oval, rimmed glasses. Her white blouse, dark slacks, and neat jacket would in normal circumstances have conveyed a message of smart professionalism, but the anger that seemed to rise from her, like steam from a geyser, sent out other signals, as did her first words, emitted as they were in harsh strident tones. ‘Are you Detective Inspector Holden?’ she demanded.

Wilson, Lawson and Fox had all risen to their feet, but Holden remained in her chair, apparently calm. She nodded. ‘Yes. And who are you?’

‘I’m Geraldine Payne. I want to know what you’re doing to find my bloody painting. That scumbag Jack Smith has told me all about it and how he gave it to that Italian bitch, and I want it back. It was found on my property and so it belongs to me.’

Holden stood up slowly, conscious she needed to get the situation under control. ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ Holden said firmly. ‘That is our priority. Obviously, the painting may be relevant.’

‘Well, of course it’s relevant!’ Geraldine’s face was flushed and her right arm was waving angrily in the air. ‘The woman stole a valuable painting, and now it’s gone. Obviously someone killed her to get their hands on it.’

‘Nothing is obvious at this stage.’ Holden too had raised her voice, though she was still speaking less noisily than her opposite number. ‘We have several lines of enquiry ongoing, and that is one of them.’

‘Christ, did you learn that answer on some media communications course?’ Her voice changed into an uncannily accurate copy of Holden’s: ‘We have several lines of enquiry ongoing.’ She laughed aggressively. ‘It sounds like a load of bloody flannel to me. The sort of official shit you spout when you’re getting nowhere.’

If Geraldine was trying to provoke an angry reaction from Holden, she failed. In fact, Holden’s response was to laugh loudly back, as if she found the other woman’s words ridiculous. This had the desired effect of temporarily silencing the intruder, and in that interlude Holden stood up. She rested her hands lightly on the desktop and leant forward. ‘Tell me, Ms Payne,’ she said softly, so softly that the furious woman was forced to concentrate to hear her. ‘Did you know Mrs Tull?’ The question threw Geraldine metaphorically off balance, as it was meant to. For a moment or three, she said nothing.

‘Well, yes. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You called her an Italian bitch.’

‘Would you rather I called her an Italian cow?’

‘How do you know her?’

‘I’m a dentist. I used to do her teeth.’

‘Used to?’

‘Well, she’s not going to need dental surgery now, is she?’

‘But you didn’t like her?’

‘Those are your words, not mine, Inspector. We were different from each other. But as long as she was prepared to pay, I was prepared to look after her teeth.’

‘And what do you know about the painting? You say it’s valuable. But for all I know, it might be worthless.’

‘If that Italian bitch wanted it so much she was prepared to be fucked by that bloody plumber, then you can be sure it wasn’t worthless.’

‘It seems a bit unlikely, finding a valuable painting under the floorboards,’ Holden continued with a smile.

‘Do you know who owned the house before me?’ the other
woman snapped. ‘Miss Eliza Johnson. Ring any bells, Inspector?’

Holden nodded, for the name did ring bells. Eliza Johnson was an eccentric recluse who had leapt to prominence after her death the previous August, when it hit the news-starved media that she had left her house and her collection of fine art to a cats’ home, much to the disapproval of her only remaining relation, a niece. Which meant, Holden admitted silently, that any painting found there was likely to be a genuine and valuable work.

‘It does ring bells, Ms Payne.’

‘Well, find the painting, and you’ll find the killer.’

‘And did Jack Smith enlighten you on the subject of the painting. Because—’

But Geraldine Payne cut across her bows savagely. ‘You’re the detectives, aren’t you? That’s your problem. All he told me was that there were two women standing over a man who was lying on a bed.’

‘As a description, it’s not the most precise.’

‘Well, go and get a better description, then, Inspector. I’ve got a root canal to sort out. So I’ll go and do my job, and I suggest you do yours.’

Geraldine Payne turned and walked out, brushing past Sergeant Taylor, who shrank back before her despite the fact that he had at least 10 centimetres and 25 kilos advantage over her. He cast a final apologetic look at Holden, and then he retreated, hurriedly following the dental surgeon down the corridor.

As their footsteps receded, Wilson got up and shut the door, and then returned to his seat. ‘Maybe she’s right,’ he volunteered.

‘And maybe she’s not!’ Holden said with brutal force.

Wilson flinched, but he had learnt from experience that ducking out never won any Brownie points with the inspector. ‘I merely meant,’ he continued, ‘that it seems like a good motive. I mean, if it was a really valuable painting. We know Maria Tull was an expert on Venetian art, so she would have known the difference between the real thing and a dud.’

‘It seems reasonable,’ Fox said, coming out in support of Wilson.

‘But shouldn’t we be looking a bit harder at the alibis?’ Lawson interjected. ‘What with a wife who was in the habit of sleeping with the tradesmen, rival siblings seeking the favour of their father, and a stepdaughter who may have hated her stepmother, there’s plenty of scope.’

‘Hated her stepmother?’ Fox countered. ‘Isn’t that just your guess?’

‘Based on the way she behaved when we interviewed them, it’s more than a guess. It’s a reasonable conclusion.’

‘All right, that’s enough.’ Holden stood up, conscious of the tensions in her team. ‘What we need to do is cover all the bases. I’ll check out Lucy Tull’s alibi. Dr Tull doesn’t have one, but if he knew about his wife’s infidelity, he’s got to be a prime suspect, so we need to test out his story as far as we can. Check with his neighbours. Maybe they saw him return home after work. Maybe they saw Maria leave for her evening class. Maybe he went out afterwards and isn’t telling us. I want you, Wilson, and you, Lawson, to deal with that. Sergeant Fox, you look into the son, Joseph. Find out a bit more about this party he went to. Who are his friends? Is he heavily into drugs, because he sure as heck looks like he uses. As for Jack Smith, let’s pay him a visit at the end of the day – when he’s home with his wife. That way, we’ll be able to apply some pressure. We need to know exactly what this missing painting looks like. All right?’

‘Yes, Guv,’ came the chorused reply. The session was over.

Marjorie Drabble smiled at her unexpected visitor. ‘Sit down, won’t you,’ she said softly, and with a wave of her hand.

‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Holden replied, sitting down in the proffered chair.

‘There’s not much else to do here, except to watch wretched daytime TV. Anyway, it’s not every day one is visited by a senior detective.’

The nurse had obviously briefed Marjorie Drabble in the five minutes during which Holden had had to wait in the reception
area, as well as preparing her for her visitor. She was, Holden couldn’t help but notice, obviously very well cared for. As she noted the general smartness of the room, the brushed hair and spotless nightie, the side-table ordered with fresh water, cards, and a photo frame of a bride and groom, Holden felt her vaguely socialist principles wilting. If, God forbid, her own mother ever needed hospital care, this surely would be the quality she would deserve too.

‘Even so, I’ll try not to take too much of your time.’

‘Did they offer you a coffee?’ Marjorie replied, conscious that this was her room and that despite the circumstances she was the hostess.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Holden paused, and ran a hand through her hair. She knew of no set of protocols that had to be observed when interviewing a terminally ill hospital patient, except perhaps to keep it short and low-key. So she smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile, and said simply: ‘I am investigating the death of Mrs Maria Tull.’

Marjorie Drabble smiled back from the pile of plumped pillows against which she lay. ‘I thought you must be.’

‘We are required to follow up everything and double check statements, so all I need to do is ask you to confirm that Lucy visited you on Monday night.’

‘Lucy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘You surely don’t think she’s involved!’

‘No,’ Holden said firmly and quickly, conscious of the alarm apparent in Mrs Drabble’s voice. ‘Of course not. It’s just standard practice to establish the movements of all the family. Then we can rule them out. And Lucy told us she was visiting you.’

‘Yes, she was.’ The reply was controlled, and if Holden had had an emotional thermometer to check, she would have found it registering something close to normal. It suddenly occurred to Holden that there was more to Mrs Drabble than met the eye. Before she had been reduced to this bed-ridden state – a prisoner on a medical death row – she might have been a rather formidable woman.

‘Can you remember what time she left?’

‘I expect they keep a visitors’ book in reception.’ It was a fair point, Holden acknowledged silently, but she realized too that Mrs Drabble was not going to freely offer up information at the drop of her detective’s hat. Not that female detectives were prone to wear hats on duty.

‘Visiting hours end at eight o’clock, don’t they?’ Holden said.

‘I’m sure you know that they end at eight thirty!’ The answer was instant. ‘Either that or you are a much less competent detective than you appear to be.’

‘So Lucy left at eight thirty, then?’

‘I never said that inspector.’ The smile was back on her face, though it was a smile devoid of warmth.

‘Do you mean she left later?’

‘They aren’t strict on visiting hours here. And Lucy wasn’t a clock watcher when she visited me. In fact, I usually had to remind her that time was more than up. So I’d guess it was more like eight forty-five when she left.’

‘So she visits you regularly, does she?’