Blood on the Cowley Road (14 page)

‘Yes, Guv.'

‘And if, Wilson, you happen to let slip to her the information that we are also pulling Ratcliffe in for questioning, then that won't matter to me. Understood?'

‘Absolutely, Guv.'

It was almost 9.30 a.m. when Holden and Fox arrived at the allotments and the first thing Holden noticed was the smell. A smell of badly burnt meat that still drifted through the air along with the flecks of ash being disturbed by the freshening morning breeze. The blackened remains of Martin Mace's shed and the immediate area around it had been surrounded by a makeshift barrier of garden cane and police tape. Four uniformed police, two men, two women, stood uneasily at its four corners, eyes firmly fixed on the crowd of rubbernecking locals
and press who had been drawn by the news of unexpected excitement. Cameras clicked as Holden and Fox pushed passed them. They both fought a temptation to scowl, wishing they could get on with their job without interference, yet knowing only too well that violent death both alarms and compels.

‘Is it Martin Mace, Inspector?' one of the reporters called out. Holden recognized the rather high-pitched male voice as belonging to Don Alexander, a reporter at the
Oxford Mail
. ‘It's his shed, you know.'

Holden turned. ‘We will be giving a press conference in due course, Don. I'm sure you don't want me to speculate and give you misleading information. Now, if you don't mind all moving off, we'll try and concentrate on investigating this death.'

Holden waited and watched as the onlookers began to retreat reluctantly from the scene.

‘Hey!' she said suddenly to Fox. ‘Over there, on the left, in the black jacket. Isn't that—?'

‘Danny Flynn!' Fox said, completing her sentence. ‘It certainly bloody is.'

‘Well!' she added. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.'

‘Not so odd, if you ask me Guv.'

Reluctantly, Holden pulled her eyes away from the now fast-retreating Flynn, turned and resumed her walk towards the tape barrier.

‘Good morning, Dr Pointer!'

It was several seconds before one of the two figures in white protective suits stood up and turned towards the two detectives.

‘Not a good morning for this chap.'

‘Do you have an ID?'

‘Martin Mace is his name. Probably. I understand this is, or rather was, his shed. The fire has done a lot of damage, but the contents of his wallet have survived pretty well. So I think we can say with some considerable expectation of accuracy that either this body is that of a pickpocket, or that he is, indeed was, Martin Mace.' Pointer smiled. ‘And the next question?'

‘Without wishing to commit you to one hundred per cent at this stage, Doctor,' Holden said, ‘can you tell us how Martin died.'

‘Well, I think I can say with some certainty that he was alive when the fire started, so I guess we can safely say he burnt to death. His
hands had been tied behind him with wire. So had his feet. There are traces of a plastic covering which has burnt off it, so I imagine the killer used garden wire. Plenty of it here,' she said gesturing towards the immaculately cared for plants and canes. ‘Also, there was tape round his mouth.'

‘To stop him shouting? So he was conscious as well as alive?'

Dr Pointer frowned, then pulled something out of the pocket of her overall. ‘I guess so. But the tape had another purpose too. To keep something in his mouth.' She lifted the plastic bag in her hand up high. ‘Look! It's amazing how well it has been preserved. But then his mouth was firmly shut.'

‘Money?' Holden said in surprise.

‘Do you fancy a few new clothes, inspector,' Pointer said with a laugh. ‘Maybe we could go fifty-fifty. There's plenty of it.'

‘How much?' Holden asked, but without even a hint of humour.

Pointer shrugged. ‘I need to keep it for tests, obviously, but its all twenty pound notes. We reckon £500.'

 

‘This is more like it!' WPC Jan Lawson said as Wilson manouevred the car carefully out of the cramped car park at the back of the Cowley Police Station. ‘A proper murder case!'

Wilson said nothing. He was trying to concentrate on avoiding the riot van parked immediately to his right.

‘Is this your first?' she continued, but he again made no reply beyond an indeterminate grunt as he swung cautiously left past the Chief Superintendent's BMW.

The smile on Lawson's face hardened into a pout. Normally she had little difficulty in getting a man's attention, so Wilson's indifference irritated her. It wasn't that he was that dishy, but when she set her sights, however temporarily, on a man, she expected him to show an interest. She decided to try a different tack.

‘I bet you're a virgin.'

The different tack worked: the car lurched suddenly forward then rocked to a halt as Wilson's attention was well and truely grabbed.

She laughed. ‘Oops! Steady, Constable. Not the best way to impress Dectective Inspector Susan. Crashing in the car park on the way to arrest a murder suspect! You'll be back on bike duty if you're not careful.'

‘We're bringing her in for questioning, not arresting her,' Wilson said pedantically.

‘Whatever!' she said, before lapsing into silence. Wilson, who was having trouble finding a gap in the traffic on the Oxford Road, was relieved about that, but no sooner had he slipped out in front of a Morris Traveller than WPC Lawson resumed.

‘Anyway, by virgin, I was merely thinking in terms of murder. Your first time investigating one. Nothing else. All right?'

‘All right,' Wilson replied, who had hoped that this particular line of conversation had already ended.

‘Mind, you,' she continued cheerfully, ‘there's nothing wrong with a man being a virgin in my book. Nothing wrong at all.'

Wilson tried to concentrate on the road.

‘Not at your age, anyway.'

Wilson felt himself going red, and hoped against hope that she would stop.

‘So,' she said, with an effortless change, ‘did she do it? This Anne Johnson. Did she kill her sister, do you think?' She didn't wait for an answer. ‘I do hope so. It would be so much more interesting than a suicide.'

 

‘Bloody tractor!' Dr Adrian Ratcliffe was last in a queue of ten vehicles – eight cars of various colours and two white vans, to be precise – moving at twenty miles per hour behind the object of his fury. ‘Why can't it get off the main road?' he demanded of the empty passenger seat of his Saab. It had not been a very good trip; there were too many lorries on the road for that, not to mention roadworks at Shillingford which had delayed him for a full ten minutes. Even in a good mood Ratcliffe was an aggressive driver, always anxious to get there sooner (wherever ‘there' might be). Today, though, he had a genuine reason for such anxiety: if he didn't get to the Cowley police station by 10.30, then that bloody DI woman would be on the phone to school asking where he was or, even worse, sending round a pair of clodhopping coppers to cause maximum embarrassment.

‘Get on with it!' he shouted, as the car at the front of the column pulled out and then passed the tractor. ‘And you!' he urged as the next car edged slowly to the right, only to lurch back again as a BMW,
having just escaped the 30 m.p.h. zone in Nuneham Courtenay, accelerated towards them. ‘Damn!' he snarled.

In truth, Dr Ratcliffe still had some thirty minutes to get to his destination, which ought to have been more than enough given that the rush hour had passed, but he was finding it difficult to think rationally. For the fact is that he was worried. Very worried indeed. What if this went to court? What if his relationship with Anne Johnson came up. What if, God forbid, she used him as an alibi in open court? His imagination went into overdrive.

‘Miss Johnson, did you visit you sister the night before her death?'

‘No, My Lord, I was in bed.'

‘Can anyone vouch for that.'

‘My headmaster can.'

‘Really, and how is that Miss Johnson.'

‘Well, my Lord, we were fucking.'

‘Between what times?'

‘About 7.30 till maybe 11.00.'

‘Really. He must have a remarkable stamina!!'

‘Actually, it only took three minutes, but that's men for you!'

The whole jury titters, while in the gallery the press hacks rub their hands in delight.

He tried to shake free of his imaginings, but cold reality was no better. If this came out, Alice would never forgive him. That would be it. Finished. Caput. End of story. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. It was a cliché, but one which summed up Alice to a tee.

 

‘So, who do you want to be?'

Wilson, who had just pulled up in Marston Street, looked across at his companion with puzzlement writ large across his face. ‘Sorry?'

‘Good cop, or bad cop?' WPC Lawson said flatly.

Puzzlement was replaced by alarm. ‘What on earth are you talking about? We are only going to bring her in for questioning, not force a confession out of her.'

Lawson grinned. ‘Hey, Constable, lighten up.'

Wilson tried to smile back, but somehow his face wouldn't cooperate. He tried to think of some appropriate response, but his brain wouldn't cooperate with that either. In the end he just nodded, before
getting out of the car.

‘Is that it?' Lawson said, indicating a red door immediately opposite them across the road.

‘Yes,' Wilson replied.

‘Right,' she said, marching towards it. ‘I'll be the bad cop, then.'

Wilson locked the car and strode anxiously after her. What the heck was she going to do?

Lawson got to the door first and pressed the bell, once, twice and then again. ‘You can lead,' she said, as Wilson caught up with her.

Anne Johnson opened the door. This time, there was no towel swathed round her head, but her welcome was just as hostile. ‘Not you again!'

‘Good morning, Miss Johnson,' he said. ‘I'm afraid we need to ask you a few more questions.'

‘Questions?' she exclaimed.

‘Down at the station.'

‘What the hell do you mean?'

‘Do you mind if we come in for a moment?' Wilson pressed on patiently.

‘Yes, I blooming do,' she said firmly.

‘I really do need to use your toilet,' WPC Lawson said, stepping forward from behind her much taller colleague. ‘You know what it's like.' Anne Johnson opened her mouth to object, but Lawson wasn't waiting for an answer. ‘Coming through,' she said, and pushed her way past the astonished woman.

‘Really!' Anne Johnson huffed, but she knew she had lost the skirmish.

‘And who might you be?' Lawson said, as she entered the living area. A tousled figure in crumpled white T-shirt and jeans was just getting up from the sofa. The man said nothing, but Wilson, following his colleague, recognized him instantly.

‘Bicknell!' he exclaimed.

 

By the time Holden and Fox had returned to Cowley Police Station, both interviewees were ready and waiting for them. Ratcliffe was in Room B, on his own, while Anne Johnson was in Room C, with WPC Lawson standing discretely in attendance. Holden, however, was in no
mood to rush. She spent some ten minutes in the ladies toilets, took another five minutes to make herself a mug of coffee, and then strolled casually along the corridor to Wilson's office. The detective constable was bent over the printer next to his desk.

‘Any problems, Wilson?'

‘The printer's jammed,' he said, without looking up.

‘I meant with Anne Johnson.'

‘Oh,' he said, looking up with a sheepish look on his face. ‘Sorry. No, no problems.'

‘Good.'

‘But there was one interesting development.'

‘Oh?'

‘Ed Bicknell was there.'

‘Bicknell!' she exclaimed. ‘How very interesting. What was he doing there?'

‘Can't say they volunteered any information. He just said he had to be off. In the circumstances, I thought it might be best for you to pursue that line of enquiry.'

There was a coughing sound from the corridor. Holden turned, to see Fox entering the open door. ‘I hope I haven't been delaying you Guv?'

‘No,' she said, and turned back to Wilson. ‘While we interview Ratcliffe, can you do me a timeline of everything we know about Sarah Johnson's last hours, starting from 7.00 p.m. when Dr Ratcliffe visited Anne Johnson's house in Reading. Sightings of her Mini. Phone calls, et cetera.'

‘Yes, Guv.'

 

‘It's Sam.'

‘All right?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'm busy.'

‘Have you heard from Martin?'

‘No.'

‘He's not answering his mobile.'

‘Oh!'

‘Got your ticket?'

‘Yeah. Look I've got to go.'

‘Okay.'

‘See ya!'

 

‘I do hope this is important. I spoke to someone over the phone – name like a carpet, Constable Wilton or Shagpile or something – and I can't for the life of me see what else there is to say.' Dr Adrian Ratcliffe spoke aggressively. He was damned if he was going to be pushed around, and in the circumstances attack seemed the best form of defence. Take charge, throw the enemy off balance, cover his tracks.

‘Would you like a coffee?' the woman asked. Trying to lull him into a sense of security, was she? What sort of idiot did she take him for?

‘No!'

‘Tea?'

‘No!'

‘Water?'

‘Does it come with whisky?'

The woman looked down at the papers in front of her, turned the top sheet over, and frowned. She looked up. ‘Why did you lie to Constable Wilson?'

‘I didn't.' He said it without blinking, looking straight into her face.

‘You said Anne Johnson's car had broken down.'

‘That's what she told me.'

‘When?'