Blood on the Marsh

by Peter Tickler

  BLOOD ON THE MARSH

  A gripping mystery full of twists

  (Detective Susan Holden Book 3)

  PETER TICKLER

  Revised edition 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  © Peter Tickler

  First published in Great Britain 2012

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Peter Tickler to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  ALSO BY PETER TICKLER

  A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is my third crime novel, and yet the first time I have acknowledged anyone, so perhaps first I should apologize to and thank the various people who have helped and supported me practically and emotionally over the past two novels. My wife, Fiona, has put up with and encouraged my writing habits, even at the most inconvenient of times, and for that I thank her with all my heart. Not to mention Aenaone, Oswin, Ben, Hugo, Simon and Penny. I could go on, but I am reminded of an anecdote when some notable said to Churchill something along the lines of ‘Winston, I don’t think I’ve told you about my grandson’ and he replied, quick as a flash, ‘And don’t think I’m not grateful!’

  As for this book, I have received technical advice from Martin Brodetsky, Simon Lubin of the British Transport Police, and Dr Aenaone Wearn. If I have – deliberately or otherwise – misused their advice and information, the fault is entirely mine.

  As for the geography of Oxford, I try very hard to be authentic, but occasionally I do just make buildings and streets up. And my human characters are all pure fiction (though not the dogs).

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  Nanette Wright was teetering on the edge. If there had been a Richter scale for temper, hers would have been right up there at the top end – 9.5 pushing 10. Not that a close observer of her behaviour would have been surprised – and there had been several of those recently. For the truth of the matter was that ever since she had arrived at the Sunnymede Care Home some six months previously, the tectonic plates which kept her nature under control had come under increasing pressure. And today they were on the verge of collapsing altogether.

  ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  She clasped her hands to her head, and screamed inside. God! First there had been that wretched nurse, Bella. She thought she was the bee’s knees, that one did, but she was nothing more than a jumped-up skivvy, an auxiliary. It was common knowledge that she’d only got the job because of her sister. Half the time she flounced around pretending she was Florence Nightingale reincarnated. That was bad enough. But recently she had become a complete cow, slagging her off something terrible just because she’d had the slightest accident. Well, wasn’t that what she was paid to do? To clear up after accidents?

  As for Bella’s sister, Fran, she was no better, lecturing her about not leaving her food. Well, she’d eat it if it wasn’t so inedible half the time! Maybe the disgusting dyke should sort out the kitchen staff, and leave old ladies like herself alone.

  Nanette leant over to her side table, pulled open the middle drawer and fumbled around until she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out, leant back against her pillows, and grimaced. She didn’t feel too good. She hadn’t done so for a while. Not that anyone here seemed that bothered. They all pretended, of course, but she could see through that. Only Dr Featherstone seemed genuinely concerned. But then he was no spring chicken himself, and he could appreciate that old age is no fun. Still, life had its compensations, and she was holding one of them in her hands – a hip flask. Her husband Ronnie had bought it in Brighton years ago, but he was dead so now it was hers. And what a lifeline it had become, stuck as she was in this miserable nursing home, with her aching bones and decaying flesh. Old age! What she’d give to be young again! But at least she could have a drink to keep her spirits up. She unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. It stung the back of her throat, and she instantly felt better. She took another, and then another.

  Well, she’d show them. She’d show them all. She’d put in a formal complaint. That’d serve them right.

  And she took another swig.

  ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  They were the last words of Nanette Wright. Or rather, they weren’t, because words are either written or spoken, and these were neither.

  Admittedly, they appeared as thoughts in her raddled brain, but only milliseconds before a tsunami of nausea engulfed her body. They rose nevertheless to her lips which pursed and twitched and contorted in a vain attempt to bring them into uttered life. But they never became words. And even if they had, and even if someone had been at her bedside to hear them, to whom would they have referred? To Bella the negligent nurse? Or Fran? Or maybe to a member of her family (her son, if the truth be told, was a front runner in the stupidity stakes)? Or even, perhaps, to herself?

  ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

  The last words she never spoke.

  CHAPTER 1

  It is Tuesday 1 December in the year 2009, about 8.50 in the evening. Oxford United are losing at Crawley, and our main rivals Stevenage Borough are beating Ebbsfleet, and my world is falling apart.

  And my mobile is ringing. S H I T!

  I ignore it at first, turning up the radio in the hope that this will somehow shut the caller up, and that whoever it is will get the idea and go away. But it refuses to stop. So I pick it up to see who it is. It’s Mum! What is she doing ringing me now, today, at this time? She knows I’ll be listening to the football. I saw her on Sunday, and I’ll see her tomorrow, like I always do on Wednesdays. So why the hell is she ringing me now?

  The phone stops eventually. After eight rings. That’s how I’ve set it, to switch to the answering system after eight rings. Not that I am counting the rings, because I am too busy listening to the commentary, and … ‘Yes!’ I begin to yell and scream. Max, who lives in the flat below me, won’t like it, but who cares? Ebbsfleet have equalized against Stevenage. The tide is turning. ‘Come on you Yellows!’ I go to the fridge, pull out another can and sit down again. I can feel the adrenalin fizzing round my system like cherryade.

  Then, wonder of wonders, Ebbsfleet score again, so Stevenage are losing. ‘Yes!’ I shout and swig and jump up and down all at pretty much the same time. Some of my drink ends up on the floor, but who the hell cares?

  The commentator on Radio Oxford is getting excited. Oxford are applying the pressure, but time is slip-sliding past. We’ve got to get the ball into the net. And fast. And then, unbelievably, we score. Goal! Get in there! Oxford 1, Crawley 1. The commentator is screaming, and he, I and every Yellows fan worthy of the name unite in celebration. Take that, you Crawley bastards!

  But the mobile is ringing again. Would you believe it? Ther
e are only ten minutes to go and it’s Mum again. Should I or shouldn’t I? What on earth is she ringing again for? I am tempted to press the red button, but I can’t do that, not to her. So I answer it. I’ll keep it short, and then I’ll be able to listen to the rest of the game in peace.

  ‘David Wright here,’ I say. I always say that when I answer my phone. Even when it’s my mum ringing.

  ‘David.’ Her voice is faint and somehow odd. ‘Something has happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something very sad has happened.’

  Christ, can’t she get to the point? ‘What has happened?’

  ‘It’s Nan.’ Mum is having trouble saying whatever it is she wants to say. And I’m having trouble hearing her because the guy on the radio is going nuts again. We’ve got a penalty. ‘She’s dead,’ she says finally.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘Nan Nan has died.’

  I say nothing at first. It’s hard to think with the radio blaring like that. And then, shit! Would you fucking believe it? Beano has missed the penalty. Oh my God!

  ‘Shall I come round?’ I say eventually.

  ‘Oh, yes please.’

  ‘OK.’ I terminate the call, and then power off the phone. I take a final swig from my can, drop it on the floor, and jump on it with both feet. Once, twice, three times. Not that there’s any need because it was pancake flat after the first jump. I pick it up, and take it to the blue recycling box. Then I sit down, and turn up the volume one more notch. How the hell can Beano have missed a penalty? We are into injury time. And now the guy on the radio is screaming. He is going absolutely sodding bonkers. We’ve scored again. A header by Beano. Genius! Brilliant! 2–1. We’ve only gone and won the game! We’re still top. Five points clear and a game in hand. Promotion here we come! And I shout as loudly as I possibly can so that everyone else in the flats will know my joy.

  I go to the loo, have a piss, and then I turn my mobile back on. I key in a message – ‘On my way’ – and I send it to my favourite.

  The stalker had stamina, that was for sure. He had parked his car – a T-Reg Peugeot – in Lytton Road at 7.00 p.m. that Wednesday evening. His quarry might be in the house, or might not. The curtains were drawn, so it was impossible to know. He would just have to wait and hope. At 9.30 p.m. he was still there, patiently waiting, but an increasingly noisy part of his mind – not to mention his bladder – was telling him he might as well give up for the night and try again another time. He looked at his watch. He’d give it until 10.00 p.m. That would be his limit. It would leave him time to go and get a well-deserved pint. But as it was, he had only two more minutes to wait, before the front door opened and his quarry emerged.

  He recognized him instantly from the photos: tall and angular, black hair cropped short, circular glasses, and a loping gait that made him stand out from the crowd. Not that there was a crowd. Lytton Road was never a place for crowds, and certainly not on a damp winter night. He slipped out of the car, locked it, and lit a cigarette. The cigarette wasn’t just the result of a craving. He had had one inside the car only ten minutes earlier, but he needed to look busy, just in case his quarry turned round. But the man was walking enthusiastically away from him, arms swinging like a pair of pendulums, towards Rymers Lane, on his way home, or so the stalker hoped. It had been easy to find out where his parents lived, but where he lived himself, that was what he wanted to find out now. He started to pad in pursuit, at first very steadily, and then accelerating as his quarry disappeared to the right, up Rymers Lane towards the car park. The pursuit lasted some ten minutes, threading its way across Between Towns Road, up the hill of Beauchamp Lane, and into Littlemore Road before turning sharp left into Bartholomew Road, and right along to its end. Here the stalker hurried again, as his quarry jogged across Barns Road before turning right past the deserted children’s playground and along the damp pavement for some fifty metres. Finally he veered off to the left, taking a diagonal path that led to a compact three-storey block of flats. Here he stopped, keyed in a number and pushed open the main door. His pursuer, who had chosen not to cross the road, but instead to track along the opposite pavement, cursed, aware that he couldn’t possibly, at that distance, see the combination entered. Nevertheless he stood and waited, and was rewarded thirty seconds later by a light being switched on in one of the top floor rooms. He watched a figure come to the window and pull first one curtain and then the other. He nodded with satisfaction. Just one more thing to do. Now it was his turn to jog across the road and walk up to the main door. There he stopped, pulled a torch out of his pocket, and checked through the name tags against each number. There, near the bottom, was the one he was looking for: D. Wright. He turned and began to walk back whence he had come, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. He must tell her what he had discovered. She’d be pleased. Maybe she’d be so pleased that she’d let him stay.

  Bella Sinclair’s body moved. For the previous seven and a half hours it had lain as still as death, a warm corpse in a dishevelled sea of bedding. Occasionally the violent shock of ginger hair would twitch, as if to demonstrate proof of life, but otherwise nothing. It was Wednesday, and it was Bella’s day off, and deep within her subconsciousness she knew that today she could lie in.

  Outside, the sun suddenly emerged low and cool from behind the grey wintry cloud. Its light lanced through the gap in the curtains of Bella’s bedroom and homed in on the flash of her hair, ruthlessly exposing the cheapness of the dye she had used. Not that there was anyone there to notice, for Bella had slept alone. For a second time her body stirred. This time it also uttered a low grunt, followed by a loud fart. Bella’s lips adjusted themselves into a smile, and she wriggled down further into the bedding, unwilling to engage with the day. But her bladder had other ideas. It was demanding attention. She groaned, wrenched back the duvet cover, and rolled out of bed, stumbling with eyes half closed along the short, familiar route to the loo. And once there, she sat, thinking of nothing, until there was no need to continue sitting. She tore some paper from the roll, wiped herself, and staggered back towards her bed, in the hope of recreating the blissful refuge of sleep.

  But sleep wouldn’t come, for her brain had kicked into gear and was revisiting and reprocessing the phone call she had received from Roy Hillerby. Poor Roy. She should have asked him round after all he had done for her, at least given him some company. But he would have ended up staying, she knew that, and he would have wanted more than company, and that wasn’t what she wanted. She should never have slept with him in the first place. It was a potent and dangerous combination feeling sorry for someone and feeling sorry for yourself. It led you down avenues that turned into dead ends, and then how the hell did you get out? She tried to close her mind to him, to everything. She pulled the duvet tighter round her, and screwed her eyes shut, but her peace had gone.

  It was then that her mobile rang, shrill and insistent, its sound magnified by the silence of the room. She swore and rolled over, stretching her right arm towards the side table. She pressed the green button on her handset as it rang for the fourth time, registering as she did so that it was 9.43 a.m. and that the caller was not a familiar one.

  ‘Is that Arabella Sinclair?’ It was an unfamiliar voice too, and no one, but no one, called her Arabella.

  ‘Are you selling something, because the answer is no.’

  ‘This is not a sales call.’ The woman spoke firmly, with an edge to her voice. ‘This is Margaret Laistor. I’m the human resources manager at head office.’

  Bella shivered. Margaret Laistor. She knew her. At least she knew the name, from the letter she had received when she had been hired, and from the occasional pedantic email that would appear in her inbox, with policies and codes of practice attached. What the hell did she want?

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘I do know,’ the woman said.

  An image of Ms Laistor materialized in Bella’s brain – horse face, hair tied back tightly in a bun, and
a nose that matched her stuck-up voice – and a flash of anger ran through her. What right had the cow to ring her at home on her day off? ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ she demanded.

  There was no immediate reply, merely the distant sound of breath being sucked in. ‘I’m calling to inform you that you’ve been suspended.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘With immediate effect,’ the woman continued, toneless and emotionless – a female robot auditioning for the role of GPS voice. ‘You will not go into work until allegations against you have been investigated.’

  Bella was fully awake by now. With a single kick of her legs, she freed herself from the duvet and raised herself so that she was sitting upright on the edge of the bed. ‘What allegations?’ she demanded.

  ‘All I can say for now is that, if proven, they would amount to gross misconduct.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  But Ms Laistor had said all she was going to say. ‘I shall be posting a letter confirming our conversation later today. By special delivery. In the meantime, goodbye.’

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Fran Sinclair stormed along the short stretch of corridor that separated her tiny office from the much less tiny office of Paul Greenleaf. He was the manager of the Sunnymede Care Home; she was the assistant manager, and she was steaming. She banged loudly on his door and pushed it wide open without waiting for a response.

  Greenleaf was sitting at his desk, and his head resolutely refused to lift. He knew instinctively who it was, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly why she was there. He tensed himself for the onslaught.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ She had advanced to the desk, placed both hands on its surface, and was leaning forward so as to get as close to him as her 158 centimetres would allow. Her body was stocky, her hair was short, dark and more than tinged with grey, and she was nobody’s fool. ‘Well?’ she demanded, when there was no instant response.