Blood on the Marsh

by Peter Tickler

  Holden knew most of what he was telling her. Listening to one side of a phone call often tells you more than half the story. She’d like to have called round now, but tomorrow would have to do. At least it would give her time to think. Mind you, she wasn’t sure she wanted too much time to think. Since Karen’s death, she had found that thinking often led into dangerous areas.

  ‘Can you drop me off at my mother’s, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They got in the car, and Fox started up. Holden got out her mobile, and then lay back in the seat with her eyes shut as it rang. It was late notice, but her mother could knock up supper at the drop of a hat. That was something she had always been good at.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mum is upset. She keeps bursting into tears. I feel sorry that Nan Nan is dead too, but I don’t feel like crying. I never do. I mean, what is the point? It won’t change anything. Nan Nan is dead. She died after supper in Sunnymede. But she was old. Life wasn’t much fun for her any more. So what’s wrong with her being dead?

  She was my grandmother. Everyone called her Nan because her name was Nanette. That’s interesting, isn’t it? But she was my Nan Nan and Vickie’s Nan Nan and nobody else’s, and if I don’t feel the need to cry, why should Mum? The fact is Nan Nan is better off dead at her age.

  She was nice to me most of the time. When I was little, she’d give me sweets every Sunday. She’d come over for lunch, and afterwards, when she was drinking a cup of tea in front of the TV, she’d call me over and open her handbag and pull out a tube of fruit pastilles, or a packet of Skittles. And Mum and Dad would tell her she was spoiling me, but she’d wink at me and say: ‘That’s Nan Nan’s prerogative, to spoil little David.’

  She would come and babysit me every Wednesday. But there were no sweets then. She’d read me a story at bedtime, but only one, and then she’d put my light off. And that was it. I had to stay there. Once, I felt hungry, so I went downstairs and asked her if I could have a bowl of cereal. She was watching the TV and she was furious. She grabbed me by the arm, and slapped me really hard. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t because I was afraid she’d slap me again. ‘Go to bed, you wicked boy!’ she shouted, and I smelt this stinky smell coming from her mouth, and I ran as fast as I could upstairs again, and I slammed my door shut behind me and hid myself right under my duvet in case she chased after me. But she never did.

  That was the way it was with Nan Nan. Nice if you behaved yourself; nasty if you didn’t. But I was her favourite – until Vickie was born.

  ‘So what is it you want? I like to have a lie in on Saturdays.’ Maureen Wright had been dressed when she answered the door just after 8.30 that morning, but she had already made it crystal clear that it was only because her daughter had warned her.

  Holden slipped into appeasement mode: ‘We’ll try to keep this very brief. We are truly sorry to spoil your Saturday morning.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ came the truculent response.

  ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘He’s out all morning.’ There was no further explanation.

  ‘No matter. I’m sure you’ll do just as well.’

  ‘Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, and then let me be?’ Maureen Wright was growing more confident and stroppy with every passing moment. Not that Holden cared.

  ‘Where’s your mother-in-law’s hip flask?’

  The sneer on Maureen’s lips vanished, and there was – for a flickeringly brief moment – a pause. ‘Her hip flask?’ She was playing for time. Holden had absolutely no doubt about it. Maureen Wright was trying to work out what to say.

  But Fox had already had enough. If he was giving up even part of his Saturday, it wasn’t so that this woman could piss them about. ‘It was amongst the bag of your mother-in-law’s possessions that you took from Sunnymede following her death. We want it now. It’s evidence.’

  ‘What do you mean – evidence?’

  Fox stepped forward, so that he was just in front of Holden. He raised his voice. ‘Where is it?’

  Maureen licked her lips. She felt a familiar fear, the fear of male aggression, fear of a sudden fist in the stomach. Not that the hulking detective would do that to her, here. But that’s what Jim had done, plenty of times, and fear was hard-wired into her gut. She bowed her head in auto-submission. ‘I’ll get it.’

  She brought it to them in a large carrier bag, which she placed on the round pine coffee table as if it was an explosive device. ‘It’s all there. All her stuff. I couldn’t face going through it.’

  Fox put plastic gloves on, and looked into the bag. He fished into it and pulled out the hip flask. He shook it, unscrewed the top and then sniffed it. He offered it to Holden. She too sniffed. Then they both looked at Maureen Wright.

  At 8.05 on the following Monday morning Fox picked up Holden from Chilswell Road, in South Oxford. Some fifteen minutes later they pulled into the car park of the Cowley police station. Holden had been tempted to go straight to Sunnymede, but there were things that had to be done first. Inevitably, emails had to be checked, before they built up to a ridiculous degree. But even as her computer was kicking itself into life, the phone rang. It was Detective Superintendent Collins.

  ‘How are things going, Inspector?’

  The very sound of his voice caused a ripple of anxiety down her spine. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘I meant what’s the progress on the Nanette Wright case?’

  ‘Oh!’ She was momentarily flustered, an unusual sensation for her.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve had the press on the phone.’

  ‘There’s nothing new for them.’

  There was a snort from the other end of the phone. ‘And is there anything new for me?’

  ‘She was killed by a large dose of morphine. Possibly medical negligence, possibly murder.’ She spoke briskly, and with a scarcely concealed impatience at having to waste time humouring her boss. ‘Mrs Wright was holding a hip flask when she died. We’ve been waiting for forensics to come back to us over that.’

  ‘Was she now?’ There was a pause. ‘Well, I suggest you keep behind them, because I’d like to put out a statement a.s.a.p.’

  She fought the temptation to be bloody rude. Of course she’d keep behind them, but not so that he could keep the press happy. ‘Actually, Sir,’ she said with a huge effort, ‘that was going to be my first job. I’ve literally just sat down at my desk.’

  ‘Ah, I’m delaying you, Inspector, am I?’

  Holden had the sense not to be as blunt as she felt. ‘Sir, I assure you that I’ll keep you informed of any significant developments, and as soon as they happen.’ That wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough.

  ‘Good,’ he replied.

  Holden put the phone down. The logon screen had appeared on her monitor, and she entered her username and password and hit the ‘Enter’ key. Then she got up and wandered down the corridor, got herself a black coffee and returned to her desk. Only then did she pick up the phone to ring forensics. The delaying of the call by a couple of minutes was, she knew, a pathetically pointless act of defiance, but it made her feel better. A woman called Doreen answered, listened, talked to someone in the background, and assured her that the hip flask was receiving their top priority. Holden thanked her and rang off, both pleased and irritated that the phone call had achieved nothing.

  Another two phone calls, nearly thirty deleted emails and some fifty minutes later, Holden and Fox entered the staff room of Sunnymede Care Home. Almost immediately Paul Greenleaf appeared, obsequiousness personified. Holden ignored his offer of coffee: ‘We need to speak to Ania Gorski again.’

  The smile that had been plastered across his face faded. ‘She’s not in trouble is she? She’s a very good worker.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Holden was giving no ground, and no information either.

  ‘You’re in luck, actually.’ He tried another futile smile. ‘She’s working days this week. I’ll go and find her, shall I?’
/>   ‘Just a minute.’ Holden held up a hand. ‘If last week Ania was on nights looking after Mrs Wright, who was on the day shift before her?’

  Something flashed across Greenleaf’s face, a look of surprise, maybe even alarm. At least, that’s what Holden thought she saw. ‘It’s not quite like that. In the daytime patients tend to move around. They aren’t confined to their rooms.’

  ‘But let’s suppose Mrs Wright chose to stay in her room last Tuesday.’ She spoke briskly, and with irritation in her voice. She hated being patronized, and she hated it when people didn’t answer her questions. ‘Wasn’t there a nurse allocated to look in on her, make sure she got a meal?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘It would have been Bella Sinclair.’

  ‘Well I’d like to see her after Ania, in that case.’

  There was a noticeable hesitation. ‘I’m afraid she’s off work.’

  ‘Off work? Why’s that?’

  Again Greenleaf hesitated. ‘Actually, she’s been suspended.’

  ‘Suspended?’ Holden’s head jerked up as if it had been yanked by a puppeteer. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last Thursday.’

  ‘And why has she been suspended?’

  Holden felt she could smell Greenleaf’s anxiety. He was still standing, near the door, his body half turned towards it, as if desperate to be allowed to leave. ‘She was accused of stealing some money from Mrs Wright.’

  Holden nodded, remembering the conversation with Maureen and Jim Wright. But she continued as if it had never occurred. ‘From Mrs Wright? How much? Why haven’t you already told me about this?’ She could feel her pulse hammering in her neck. She tried to slow herself down. ‘And when did this occur?’

  ‘Fifty pounds. Mrs Wright’s son, Jim, gave her fifty pounds on the Sunday when he visited her. But there was no sign of it when they collected her possessions on Wednesday. So they made a complaint.’

  ‘Why do you think it was Bella who stole it? Couldn’t it have been someone else?’

  ‘There have been other issues with Bella. Another of our patients, a Mr Day, had bruising on his upper arms that we weren’t happy with. So we took the decision to suspend her until we could investigate both matters fully.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’ Holden was letting nothing pass. Fox felt a burst of pleasure. This, he realized, was what he had missed most of all, seeing his guv doing her impression of a terrier with behavioural problems.

  ‘I was required to report it to head office.’ There were globules of sweat on Greenleaf’s forehead, and very little conviction in his voice. ‘Ultimately it was they who implemented the action.’

  Holden felt the bitter taste of bile in her throat. She knew what it was like to be suspended and she knew too where her sympathy lay. What the hell did he mean by ‘ultimately’? It sounded like a cop-out to her. He had reported the woman, knowing what it would mean, but he didn’t have the balls to accept responsibility. Still, right now, she had other priorities.

  ‘When you’ve found Ania,’ she said, signalling the end of the session, ‘I’d like you to go and get me Bella’s contact details. In fact, while you’re about it, print me off a list of contact details of all your staff. My sergeant will come with you. Also, he needs to know which of those staff were in the building for any reason on Monday and Tuesday of last week.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Greenleaf turned quickly away and left with Fox, chuckling, in his wake.

  Ania appeared two minutes later. Holden had placed a chair in the centre of the room, and she waited for her to sit down on it.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ Holden smiled, hoping to set the woman at ease. ‘I just have one or two details to clarify. On Friday, you told us that after you found Mrs Nanette Wright dead in her chair, you put her flask in her cupboard. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you at that time or later wash out the flask?’

  A frown crossed the nurse’s face. ‘No.’

  ‘You are sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. But I do not understand. Should I have washed it out? It was a great shock to me, and I had other patients to look after and—’

  Holden cut across her. ‘I understand that the following morning, Mrs Wright’s son and daughter-in-law came here and collected Mrs Wright’s possessions, including her hip flask. Did you help with this?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No. I am on nights last week. They come in the daytime.’

  Holden nodded. She was inclined to believe the Polish woman. There was no doubt that she was nervous, but who wouldn’t be, being interviewed by the police in a foreign country far from home? That Ania might now consider Oxford home did not occur to Holden. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her tone softening. ‘You can go now.’

  Dr Alexander Featherstone was busy with a patient. That was what Fran Sinclair had told Holden when she had appeared at the door and offered her another coffee. Holden had thanked her, not because she needed or even wanted another coffee, but because it was either that or have a cigarette, and it really was too early to be smoking the first of her two. She stood up and waited, looking through the window at the cars parked out the front. What was it Yeats had written in his poem about the Lake Isle of Innisfree? ‘I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.’ At school Mr Malone had insisted they all learn it, and now she had forgotten it all except that bit. Peace comes dropping slow. Not in her life it didn’t! Peace had always been elusive for her, and it felt like it always would be.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a voice said behind her. ‘I’m looking for Inspector Holden. You don’t happen to know where he is?’

  ‘Jesus!’ she said out loud, and immediately felt guilty. Her mother would be horrified if she heard her, especially with her renewed zeal for church. But it was anger she felt more than guilt. ‘I’m Inspector Holden, and in case you’ve not noticed I’m a she.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said, covering his error with a grin. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’

  Holden did not grin back. ‘I expect you make it all the time.’

  The smile disappeared deep within a choleric-looking face. ‘I’m Dr Featherstone,’ he said, his voice now stripped bare of bonhomie. ‘I understand you want to see me.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, surveying the man in front of her. He was short, with a flourishing moustache, largely bald pate, and a lazy left eye. He was dressed in a dull grey suit, white shirt, heavily patterned tie and black shoes. And he couldn’t, she thought, be far off retirement age.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ she said, though it wasn’t politeness that made her say it. Fran Sinclair was hovering at the door with coffee. Holden moved towards her, heading her off and ushering her out as she took control of the tray. She put it down, poured coffee into a cup, added milk, and then thrust it in front of the doctor. ‘Here you are,’ she said brusquely. She hoped he hated milk and liked three spoons of sugar.

  She remained there, standing over him, so that he was forced to crane his neck upwards to look at her. ‘When did you last see Nanette Sinclair alive?’ she demanded.

  ‘Monday, the day before she died. I think.’ His furrowed brow furrowed even more. ‘Yes, definitely, it was Monday. It’s just that when you’re seeing so many people …’

  ‘Quite,’ Holden said sharply. She turned, went and poured herself a coffee, and sat on the sofa opposite. She had made her point. Besides, she wanted to be sure she could see his face.

  ‘So why did you go and see her?’

  ‘I was doing my rounds. I’m a doctor. That’s what I do. I go round and check on my patients.’ There was irritation in his voice.

  ‘Did she have a lot wrong with her apart from being old and feeble?’

  He took a sip of coffee, made a face, put it down on the table, and leant forward as if finally getting down to business. ‘Old and feeble. That covers a lot. Do you not have a mother?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ she replied. ‘I alwa
ys have had a mother, as a matter of fact, and she is still alive.’

  ‘Well, ask her what it’s like being old and feeble. She’ll tell you better than I can.’

  ‘She does, regularly.’

  ‘Well, good for her.’ He picked up his cup again and drained it. ‘Delicious,’ he said.

  Holden felt herself warming to him despite her innate suspicion of anyone who reminded her of her father. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Nanette?’

  ‘She was a nice old lady.’

  ‘I’m more interested in her health.’

  ‘Are you?’ The smile flickered briefly again across his face and then was gone. ‘I take a broader view. Anyway, as I was saying, she was a nice old lady. She came here about six months ago. There was nothing that was immediately terminal with her, no tumours, no cancer, just the onset of heart failure that would have eventually ended in death.’

  ‘Did you give her any morphine?’

  ‘No.’ His reply was emphatic. Perhaps too much so.

  ‘A significant level of morphine was found in her system.’

  ‘I do know that,’ he said sharply. ‘I’ve read the autopsy report, and I know the significance of the level found.’

  ‘So how did it get there?’

  ‘How on earth should I know?’

  ‘So you didn’t prescribe her any morphine?’

  ‘There would be a record if I had.’

  Holden changed tack. ‘What was the quality of her life, would you say?’

  ‘Not as good as it should have been.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Quality of life isn’t just about physical health. It’s about emotional and mental health too. She wasn’t loved, Inspector, not by her son and not by her daughter-in-law. If they had loved her …’ He paused, and scratched at his ear, from which, Holden had already noticed, there grew a substantial amount of hair. ‘There was no real need for her to come here when she did. Not in my view. With the right level of support from her family, she would have been fine outside, but they couldn’t be bothered.’