Blood on the Cowley Road (15 page)

‘When she rang me, that morning.'

‘Oh,' the woman said. ‘I thought maybe this was an excuse that you'd arranged the night before, while you smoked your post-coital cigarette.'

Ratcliffe's eyes opened wider for a second. He wasn't surprised that Anne had talked about their relationship, but he was disappointed. However, ‘I don't smoke,' was all he said.

‘That evening, did Anne Johnson intimate that she might be late the next day?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Definitely not.'

‘When did you leave her house that night?'

‘What the hell has this got to do with anything?' He displayed anger now.

‘Please answer the question,' she insisted.

‘I don't know. About ten o'clock probably.'

‘Probably!' She frowned again, and rubbed briefly at her chin. ‘I suppose ... I suppose your wife can confirm what time you got home, and then we can knock off the time for travelling and—'

‘Do you take pleasure in wrecking lives?' This time the anger was genuine, fuelled by fear. ‘My affair with Anne Johnson has absolutely nothing to do with the death of her sister. Sarah killed herself the following morning. Just after 9.00 o'clock, wasn't it? You have no right to destroy my marriage, the lives of my two children, by bringing this to court, or revealing this to my wife.'

DI Holden leant back in her chair, and brought her hands up together in front of her mouth. If she had been sitting in a church pew, the observer would have concluded that she was praying, but in the context of a police interview, deep thought was more likely. She remained in this pose for several seconds, before abruptly standing up.

‘Interview terminated,' she said.

 

‘Are you ready, Guv?' Fox was standing cautiously at the doorway of DI Holden's room. Wilson was half a pace behind him, also unsure whether to enter or not. ‘We've kept her waiting quite a long time now.'

‘He's a slimy creep, that Ratcliffe,' she snarled. ‘Hell, I'd like to hang his balls out to dry!'

‘Being a creep isn't a crime,' Fox said patiently.

‘Well it bloody well ought to be,' she said defiantly, but the snarl was gone.

Fox stepped forward, apparently satisfied that it was safe to do so. ‘Wilson here has got a list of all the phone calls to and from Sarah's mobile.'

Holden looked past Fox at her detective constable and beckoned him. ‘Let's be seeing it then, Wilson.'

He moved forward, placed it on her desk, and stepped back. For a full half a minute Holden studied it. Then her finger stabbed down at one particular entry. ‘What about this one, Wilson?'

He moved forward again, bending down to get a clear view. ‘That's a phone box, Guv. In Iffley Road. Opposite the Cricketers. That's on the corner—'

‘Thank you Wilson,' she said firmly. ‘I do know where the Cricketers is, as it happens.'

‘Sorry!' he replied, stepping back again as his did.

Holden looked up from the list of phone numbers. ‘Don't apologize all the time, Wilson, unless you've got something proper to apologize for. You've done a good job'

‘Yes, Guv.'

‘Now, whatever happened to Sarah Johnson, we know we've got two other murders to solve, so I want you to turn your attention to them. In fact, to Martin Mace. I want you to follow up the money that was stuffed into Mace's mouth.'

‘What money?' said Wilson, who had yet to be updated on the allotment details.

‘There was a wadge of money,' Holden replied, ‘probably £500, stuffed in the dead man's mouth. Assuming, as we are, that the dead man is Mace, I want to know if the money was his or his killer's. Ring Pointer. She's got the wallet that Mace was carrying. Presumably, there'll be a debit card in it. Go to the bank. Check his withdrawals over the last few days. Five hundred pounds is too much to withdraw at a slot machine, so if he withdrew it, he'll have done it in person. We need any clues we can. OK?'

‘Yes, Guv. Thank you Guv.'

‘For God's sake, Wilson, don't thank me either,‘ she said wearily. ‘Unless I've done you a real favour.'

Wilson opened his mouth to apologize, but shut it again just in time.

 

‘Sorry to have kept you for so long,' Holden said, as she and Fox sat down at the table opposite Anne Johnson.

‘Oh, I assumed it was all part of the softening-up process.' Anne Johnson said this without emotion, a bleak smile across her face.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?' Holden said pleasantly.

‘No!' The reply was definite.

Holden looked down and opened the folder of paper she had placed on the table. She spent several seconds frowning over the first page. Then she closed the folder and looked up. ‘You've been lying to us, Miss Johnson?'

‘Have I?' she replied, steadily holding the Detective Inspector's gaze.

‘In fact, you seem to make quite an art of not telling the truth.'

Anne Johnson shrugged, but said nothing.

Holden flicked a glance towards Fox, who immediately opened a folder in front of him, and drew from it a photograph which he pushed across the table in front of him.

‘Is that your car?' he asked.

‘It looks like it,' she said grudgingly.

‘The number plate is quite clear,' Fox said evenly. ‘For the sake of the tape recording, can you please confirm yes or no if this is your car.'

‘You obviously know it is,' she said belligerently.

‘This photograph of a car which you have agreed belongs to you was taken at the entrance to the multi-storey car park at the Magdalen Bridge end of the Cowley Road. As you can see from the timestamp at the bottom, it was taken at 6.40 a.m. the morning of your sister's death. Were you driving the car?'

‘I suppose I must have been.'

Holden leant forward. ‘In your original statement to DS Fox, you told him you hadn't seen her for some weeks prior to her death.'

‘Did I?' she said, as if she was genuinely surprised.

‘In fact, Miss Johnson,' Fox said, ‘you told me you hadn't even spoken on the phone?'

‘Look, what does it matter? My sister had jumped from the top of a car park. I was still very distressed. I might have said anything.'

‘We are trying to establish the precise circumstances of your sister's death,' Fox continued doggedly. ‘If you lie, it is a very serious matter. Now the fact is that we have photographic evidence of you arriving in Oxford and parking very near to your sister's home less than two and a half hours before she died. We also know from Miss Sarah Johnson's mobile phone records that she rang you up the previous night.'

Anne Johnson laughed. ‘Haven't you been a busy boy! A gold star for you.'

Holden leant forward and took up the baton. ‘Why did she ring you?'

‘Why do you think? She was depressed.'

‘More so than usual?'

‘Well, I guess so,' Anne Johnson said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘given that she then committed suicide. It's not the thing you do if
you're feeling on top of the world.'

‘But that's something we are trying to establish. If she did indeed commit suicide, and if so, why. Because the evidence so far is circumstantial. '

Anne Johnson's attitude of bored intolerance disappeared. ‘What the hell do you mean? Of course she committed—'

‘There's no of course in my book,' Holden snapped, ‘merely evidence – good, bad or circumstantial. And so far it doesn't add up to anything conclusive. There's nothing that says she must have jumped rather than she was pushed by person or persons unknown.'

‘So,' Fox cut in, ‘perhaps you can tell us in more precise terms what she said when she rang you up.'

Anne Johnson dropped her gaze, so that when she replied, she addressed her words towards the table.

‘She was very distressed. She said how she was feeling very low. How she hated herself. That she wasn't sure she could carry on.'

‘What was making her feel that?' Holden said.

Anne looked at her questioner as if she couldn't quite believe that she had heard her correctly. ‘She was a manic depressive. Up sometimes, down sometimes. There didn't have to be a reason to be down. Sometimes she just was.'

‘What did she tell you about her will?'

Anne looked at Holden sharply. She started to open her mouth, as if to speak, then closed it. She gave a shrug that Holden thought rather theatrical, the sort of gesture she remembered from a largely forgotten school production of Grease. ‘I really don't know what you're talking about,' she said firmly. ‘Are you saying she was making a will?'

Holden hoped her face wasn't giving anything away. She had hoped she would catch her adversary out with this question – cause her at the least to admit to knowledge of the will – but like Muhammed Ali in his prime Anne Johnson had swayed out of the way of the intended left hook with contemptuous ease, leaving Holden feeling stupidly clumsy. Holden, almost desperately, tried a right hook: ‘I gather you and Bicknell are very good friends? Rather strange that, to get so chummy with the man whose lunatic art project may have inspired your sister to kill herself.'

‘Ah!' said Anne Johnson, ‘I wondered when you'd bring him up.'

‘How long have you had a sexual relationship with him?' Fox said, trying to bring relief to his boss.

‘Sexual relationship?'

‘How long have you known him?' Holden came in.

‘In the biblical or non-biblical sense?' she replied with a smile. She waited for a response from Holden, but none came. Eventually, she gave another of her theatrical shrugs. ‘A few days. That's all.'

‘You expect us to believe that?' It was Fox again.

‘What exactly are you implying?' Anne Johnson snapped.

‘Let me give you a scenario,' Holden said calmly. ‘You are at home. Dr Ratcliffe has just left and you get a phone call. From your sister. She is, as you say, maybe distraught, maybe depressed. But that is not what grabs your attention. It is what she tells you. That she is going to change her will. A will which until that time left everything to you. She is not a poor woman. She owns her own flat. You find it difficult to sleep, wondering what the hell to do. So early next morning you drive to Oxford. You park in the multi-storey, and go and see her. What goes on between the two of you only you know. But let's suppose that you try – but fail – to persuade her not to change her will. You leave, and you drive your car out of the car park at about half past eight. But my question would be: what did you do then? Because half an hour later your sister plunges off the top of that same car park. Now, can you fill in the gaps for us?'

Anne Johnson had been watching Holden very carefully right the way through this exposition. When Holden stopped talking, she puffed out her cheeks. ‘Wow!' she said. ‘You've obviously missed your vocation. As a writer of fiction.'

‘Not much fiction there,' Holden said with a smile, and she turned briefly towards Fox.

‘We know,' he said, ‘from Sarah's phone records that she rang you that night at about 10.10. Fact. We have your car arriving on CCTV. Fact. We have your car leaving on CCTV. Fact. At 8.30 a.m. Yet you only get to school in time to teach the third lesson, which commences at 11.30. Again, fact. We have spoken to Sarah Johnson's solictor, who has confirmed that she had arranged a meeting to change her will. Fact. And, of course, your sister's death is a fact. Only its cause remains uncertain.'

‘Another point of fact,' Holden said, leaning forward again, ‘is that much of the fiction has been coming from you, Miss Johnson. For example, you lied to your school about your car breaking down. You lied to DS Fox when you told him you hadn't seen or even spoken to your sister recently. So why should we believe you when you claim to have no knowledge of Sarah's will. And why should we believe you when you say you have only very recently met Ed Bicknell. It doesn't take much imagination to suppose that he was part of your plot, conveniently standing there at the bottom of the car park with his suicide plaque, and even more conveniently photographing her looking at the plaque.' Holden paused, pondered and then decided to take the plunge. ‘Only who is to say that it was her, standing there in her long mackintosh. Who is to say it wasn't you? That you were making sure that Bicknell got some photos of you pretending to be your sister, contemplating her suicide, before you made your way to the top of the car park, and there pushed your waiting sister over the edge.'

She stopped then and silence descended on the room. Holden and Fox sat unmoving, their eyes on their suspect, wondering, hoping against hope, almost (in Holden's case) praying for the woman opposite to break down and confess. Eventually Anne Johnson leant back in her chair and let out a deep sigh. ‘Are you,' she said coldly, ‘accusing me of murder?'

Holden pursed her lips together, knowing she had not won. ‘At this point, I am merely trying to point out the possibilities.'

‘In that case,' her interviewee said, ‘I've changed my mind.'

‘In what sense,' Holden responded instantly.

‘In the sense that, if there are any more questions, I'd like to have a solicitor present.'

A four-minute phone call was all it took for Wilson to ascertain Martin Mace's bank. And much of that four minutes was taken up with waiting while Dr Pointer checked the contents of Mace's wallet. There then followed a short exchange.

‘There's a debit card for the National Exchange bank, but no credit card,' Pointer began briskly. ‘The account name is Martin N. Mace. The account number isn't entirely clear. The edge of the card is a bit scorched, but the first six digits are two, one, five, four, two and I think that's a six. But I expect that is enough to be going on with?'

‘Thank you, yes, Dr Pointer,' Wilson replied gratefully, and remembering his previous meeting with the pathologist. ‘I am sure that will be fine.'

‘The nearest branch is in Headington, by the way,' she continued.

‘Thank you,' Wilson said again.

‘I bank there myself.'

‘Right. Well, thank you for your help.'

‘Is that what DI Holden expects?' Pointer said.

The question, not surprisingly, threw Wilson. A pause was followed by an ‘Um, er', and only after another brief silence did Wilson come up with a coherent response. ‘I'm not sure I know what you mean, Dr Pointer.'

At the other end of the phone line, a laugh rang out. ‘Does she expect you to say thank you all the time? Because you've said it three times to me already!' And she laughed again.

A wave of embarrassment swept over Wilson. He felt himself flush, and ridiculously had the thought that Dr Pointer could detect this even down a phone line. Desperately, he tried to think of something to say
in defence of his own boss, but he could think of nothing. In the end, all he was able to utter was the rather feeble ‘DI Holden treats me very well', which in turn provoked another distant burst of savage laughter. Wilson felt very small and inadequate, and was glad that this conversation was all happening over the phone.

‘You're beginning to sound like her lapdog,' Pointer concluded viciously. And with that parting shot, she hung up.

‘Are you all right?' It was ten minutes later, and it was Lawson who was speaking. By this time they were already halfway to Headington, travelling smoothly along the Slade after a slow, stop-start procession along Holloway. Lawson had been notably silent so far, and Wilson, after the sharpness of Pointer's tongue, would have preferred anything – even her joking about his virginity, in fact especially her joking about his virginity – to silence.

‘Yes,' he said automatically. The car in front pulled to a halt as a mother and pram waited to cross at the pedestrian crossing. ‘Actually, what I mean is, no! Dr Pointer gave me a bit of an earful.'

‘Ah!' Lawson said. Wilson waited in vain for her to say something more. The car in front moved forward again, and he in turn followed.

‘I'm not sure she likes the Guv,' Wilson said.

Lawson, as Pointer had at the other end of the phone line, laughed, but it was a harmless, tinkling laugh. ‘Haven't you heard the rumours?'

‘Rumours?'

‘You've not heard, have you?' Lawson continued with delight.

‘No,' admitted Wilson.

‘Well, the story is,' she said with another giggle of pleasure, ‘the story is that Pointer hit on Holden the first time they met, and Holden freaked out and—'

‘I don't think we should be gossiping about the Guv,' Wilson said prissily.

‘OK,' Lawson replied casually, but ignored his admonishment nonetheless. ‘I'll gossip. You stay quiet. Anyway, the story is that Pointer put her hand on the Guv's arse, and Holden slapped her round the face.' She laughed again. ‘I wish I'd been there to see it. Imagine!'

Wilson, despite his best intentions, smiled. He looked across at the profile of WPC Lawson, who was now looking forward. He noticed
that the right-hand corner of her mouth was twitching, in response no doubt to her imaginings. He turned his eyes back to the road in front, and frowned as the sun suddenly emerged from behind the clouds and forced him to squint against the intense change of light. But inside, his smile remained.

‘You going to do the talking?' Lawson said as they approached the door of the National Exchange bank.

‘I could do,' Wilson said uncertainly.

‘I'll act the dumb blonde,' running her hand through the back of her neat bleached hair.

‘Is that a threat or a promise?' he replied.

It is amazing what a police uniform can do. Even before Wilson had displayed his ID card, the sight of Lawson brought immediate attention from behind the glass security panels. They were ushered through to a small office, where the manager, a Mr Ronald Knight, greeted them, rising anxiously from his seat.

‘How can I help you?' he said, holding his hands up in a feebly melodramatic gesture. ‘I hope you haven't come to arrest me!' he joked.

Wilson ignored the opportunity to respond in kind. ‘We want to check out a withdrawal by one of your customers. A Martin Mace. We believe he may have withdrawn £500 in cash in the last few days.'

‘Can I ask why?' Knight said. ‘We do have rules of confidentiality.'

‘He's dead,' Wilson said firmly. ‘So he's not going to object. And we wouldn't have trailed up here unless it was important for our investigations.'

‘Of course,' Knight replied. ‘It may take a few minutes. Please sit down.'

‘Thank you,' Lawson said for both of them, and flashing one of her brightest smiles at Knight. ‘That's very kind of you. And if Mr Mace came and collected his money in person, perhaps we could talk to whoever it was gave him the money?'

‘Of course,' Knight said again.

‘And coffee for three?'

‘Yes, sorry, I should have offered you some.'

‘Bless you,' Lawson smiled again.

‘Bless you!' Wilson said after Knight had scurried out of the room. ‘I
don't remember that in my training course.'

‘I learnt in from my Dad,' she grinned. ‘It's very effective.'

‘Is he a vicar?'

‘Now, that would be telling,' she teased.

Ronald Knight returned a couple of minutes later with a tray of coffee in his hands and a young, nervous-looking woman at his back. She was dressed in black trousers and white blouse, with a fine gold chain round her neck, and a tiny gold stud through her left-hand nostril.

‘This is Sunita,' he said. ‘It was she who served Mr Mace with the £500.'

‘Thank you, Mr Knight!' Wilson said warmly, rising from his chair. ‘Please sit down, Sunita,' he continued, gesturing to a chair and at the same time so positioning himself that Knight knew that his own presence was not needed. ‘We'll give you a shout, Mr Knight, when we are finished.'

‘How do you like your coffee, Sunita,' Lawson was saying as Wilson shut the door. ‘Milk? Sugar?'

‘Just milk,' she said. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, Lawson noted as she poured some milk into each of their cups. She realized that she didn't know if Wilson took milk, but frankly now wasn't the time to ask him. He'd have to like it or lump it.

‘I like the stud,' said Lawson.

‘Thank you,' came the reply.

‘I really do. I wish I could wear one, but my boss would never approve.'

‘Oh!' Sunita said, and glanced across at Wilson, who was doing his best to be the proverbial fly on the wall.

‘Oh, not him!' Lawson giggled. ‘He's just my driver!'

Sunita giggled in return, while Wilson stiffened slightly, feeling that WPC Lawson was overdoing it.

‘Can I be very personal?' Lawson said, leaning forward conspiratorily. ‘You've got a really lovely complexion. What do you use?' The conversation continued like this for some time. Wilson was reminded of his sister and her friend Mandy's after-school discussions. As he sipped his coffee, he allowed his memory to float to times gone by, to sitting in front of the TV while the two girls chattered on and rubbed
apricot-smelling moisturiser into each other's faces, while he pretended not to listen.

‘So,' Lawson was saying with great reluctance, ‘I suppose we'd better talk about the 500 pounds. Otherwise your Mr Knight is going to wonder why it's all taking so long.'

‘He's probably counting the minutes on his watch,' Sunita said with a grin. ‘He's very strict on our coffee breaks, you know. Fifteen minutes maximum.'

‘In that case, we'd better get down to it,' Lawson replied. ‘First of all, when did Mr Mace take out the money?'

‘Yesterday afternoon. Round about 2.15, 2.30.'

‘So, you remember serving him?' Lawson asked off-handedly.

‘Oh, yes! He comes in quite often. Usually to pay money in. He's got his own business. Drives a lorry, I think he said once.'

‘And do you remember how he was?'

‘Oh yes!' she said again. ‘He was in a foul mood. Really foul. I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth. Normally he's very cheerful. “Hello darling!” he'd say. Or “Hello duck,” sometimes. I remember the first time he said it, I said to him what did he mean, because I was no duck, and I didn't take kindly to being called one. And he was very apologetic, and he said calling someone duck was, like, friendly. His mum was always calling people duck, and he had just picked up the habit. And then he had winked at me, and asked me what was wrong with being called duck because he always thought ducks were the nicest of all birds. And I said well in that case I didn't really mind. Anyway, he didn't call me duck this time, and he didn't call me darling or anything. He just handed over his chequebook with a cheque made out for £500 and said he needed cash. “Going off on holiday, are you?” I said, or something like that, but he just said “Get on with it”. So I did.'

She paused, looking up at Lawson as if for approval. Lawson nodded encouragingly. ‘So he was quite aggressive then?'

Sunita pursed her lips – rather attractively Wilson thought – as she considered this. ‘I'm not sure aggressive is quite right. Anxious perhaps. Very anxious. Edgy.'

‘That's very helpful,' Lawson said. ‘Thank you.'

They lapsed into amiable silence. Sunita, holding her mug in both of her delicate hands, was temporarily oblivious of the situation. Like
Wilson only a few minutes earlier, she had slipped back into childhood: she was a little girl again, savouring the slightly naughty thrill of a few minutes out of class. A wistful smile spread imperceptibly over her face. Finally, Wilson leant forward.

‘Sunita,' he asked quietly, as if unwilling to break into her reverie, ‘was he on his own?'

She turned towards the previously silent detective. Her brow furrowed slightly as she tried to recall. ‘I think so,' she said eventually. ‘I mean there wasn't anyone standing with him when I gave him the money. But there were several people behind him. It's a small foyer, so maybe one of them had come in with him. I don't know.' Sunita gave a sudden shout – ‘Oh!' – which she strangled as soon as she made it. Her hand came up, as if trying to attract the attention of the teacher in class. ‘He got a phone call!' she squeaked excitedly. ‘While he was queuing. I'd just finished with one customer and I looked up to beckon him forward, and his mobile rang. I thought he'd turn it off, but he answered it straight away.'

‘Could you hear what he said?' Wilson asked eagerly, a young hound scenting a fresh trail.

‘Oh, yes!' Sunita said, excited by her own remembering. ‘He said something like, “I thought you were someone else,” and then he said something rather odd. Only, I didn't think it was odd at the time, but of course it was.' She paused, as if to get her breath back, and then turned towards Lawson, as if she was happier confiding in someone of her own sex. ‘The person who rang him must have asked him what he was doing, because he said he was paying money into his bank. But then of course, he came up to me and asked to withdraw some money. Now that's pretty odd, isn't it?'

 

‘You need someone to talk to, you know.' Jane Holden dropped her pearl of wisdom casually as she placed a cup of black coffee in front of her daughter, and sat down opposite, with her own half-filled cup.

‘Since when have you been a fan of therapists?' Susan said incredulously.

‘Therapists?' came the wide-eyed, innocent's response. ‘Whoever said anything about therapists? When I say someone to talk to, I just mean a friend. You know, someone you can pour out your day to –
good, bad, or indifferent. Though of course it's most important when you've had a bad day.'

‘I'll keep it in mind,' Susan said uneasily, suspicious of the way the conversation was heading.

‘A nice man, for example,' Jane added.

‘Mother!' Even though she was half expecting it, Susan Holden couldn't help screeching her response.

‘Or a nice girl friend,' Jane Holden continued calmly. She paused. Then recommenced even more casually. ‘If, that is, men are off the agenda for now!'

‘Stop!' Susan held her left hand up to emphasize the word. ‘Stop right there!'

Her mother shrugged, said nothing, and took a sip from her coffee. The two women sat in a distinctly non-cosy silence for perhaps a minute, though to Jane it seemed a lot longer. Susan was glad of the peace, but her mother, then as so often, was uncomfortable with silence.

‘Well,' she said abruptly, ‘What sort of day have you had? Because to judge from your mood, I assume it's not been a good one?'

Her daughter shrugged.

‘For goodness sake,' her mother said, exasperation evident in every syllable. ‘Why don't you tell me about it? You obviously need to talk to someone, and right now the only person available is me. Pretend I'm not your mother. Pretend I'm Robin Williams, or Freud, or whoever you'd rather I was. Only don't just sit there bottling it all up.'

Susan Holden exhaled an exaggerated sigh, and gave her mother her long, hard look. ‘Didn't you see today's
Oxford Mail
?' she asked irritably.