Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

‘We’ve already spoken to Anne,’ Wilson said firmly.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Ratcliffe exclaimed, ‘instead of letting me rabbit on. Anyway, if you have spoken to her, why are you ringing me up?’

‘When investigating, sir, it is important that we get corroboration where we can. The coroner prefers it.’

‘Ah, ha!’ Down the other end of the telephone call, in the office of the head teacher of St Gregory’s, it seemed that the penny had suddenly dropped. ‘No wonder you were so pleased for me to rabbit on.’

Wilson was feeling very pleased with how things were going, but of course he wasn’t going to say so. ‘Actually, sir, we just want to firm up on the details of the day of Sarah Johnson’s death.’

He paused, and, in the city of Reading, Ratcliffe paused too. Two men silently taking stock. Waiting for the other to make the next move.

‘Such as?’ said Ratcliffe, back in terse mode.

Wilson tried to sound off hand. ‘Well, for the sake of completeness, sir, can you just confirm that Anne was at St Gregory’s on the morning of 21 September.’

‘One moment.’ Again the terse reponse, followed this time by nearly a minute’s silence before Ratcliffe spoke again: ‘Anne has a first lesson on a Friday. Then two periods off, then lessons before and after lunch. And she runs a gymnastics club after school, in the sports hall.’

‘I appreciate that that is her timetable, sir,’ Wilson said firmly, ‘but that isn’t what I asked for.’ Wilson now had a definite sense that Ratcliffe was being less than straightforward. ‘What I wanted to confirm whether Anne was in school as per her timetable. And if so, what time did she arrive at school?’

‘Well,’ said Ratcliffe with a sneer in his voice, ‘I am not sure I am going to be able to give you precise details about when she arrived and so forth. We aren’t a police state here you know.’

‘Wouldn’t she have taken a register of her class, first thing?’ Wilson retorted. ‘And if so, wouldn’t she have signed it? As far as I am concerned, and as far as the coroner is concerned, that would be more than adequate evidence.’

‘Just wait,’ Ratcliffe said. ‘I’ll check.’ Wilson smiled. No doubt Ratcliffe would take his time over the checking process, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest. The head bloody teacher was rattled. The supercilious git! The wait turned out to be almost two minutes, though Wilson wasn’t counting. In fact, his attention was focused again on the picture displayed on the PC monitor, picture number two of Sarah Johnson. The idea which had slipped into his mind while he was first waiting to speak to Ratcliffe was now making its presence felt. Could it ... could it possibly be?

‘Sorry for the delay.’ It was Ratcliffe, and the tone of voice was suddenly breezy. ‘You were right! I checked the register and I’ve had a word with the school secretary. The details of that terrible day are very fresh in her mind. Apparently Anne didn’t make it to her first lesson. She had problems starting her car. Mr Ford took her place, as he had a free period, and she was in school in time for her lesson before lunch. So that would have been by 11.30 a.m. Of course, it was during that lesson we got the phone call about her sister. Now, does that about cover it, Detective?’

‘Thank you,’ said Wilson. ‘That covers it very well. For now.’

‘You look bloody pleased with yourself.’ It was only five minutes later, and DS Fox had returned from the chemist and had sat down at his desk to see his young colleague smiling almost beatifically into space. ‘Don’t tell me the Queen has gone and invited you to her next garden party!’

Wilson laughed. ‘I’ve just had an idea, that all.’

‘An idea!’ said Fox dramatically. ‘Well knock me down with a feather. Detective Constable Wilson has had an idea. Are you going to share it with me, then?’

‘No,’ said Wilson, more firmly than he meant to. ‘At least, sir, I’d rather not do so yet, until I have checked out a few things. It might be nothing.’

‘Ah, the detective constable’s idea may be nothing!’ Fox laughed, but his heart was not in it. He got up and walked over to the corner of the room, where he switched on the kettle. ‘I hope these bloody painkillers do the trick.’

Meanwhile, some 30 miles away at St Gregory’s School, Reading, Dr Adrian Ratcliffe sipped at the cup of coffee that Miss Hegarty had brought in. For several seconds, he frowned. Then he picked up the telephone receiver and began to punch in a familiar set of numbers. He waited for the call to connect, and for someone, after two rings, to answer.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ came a rather irritated reply.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’

CHAPTER 7

Martin Mace brought his lorry abruptly to a halt, pulled the handbrake on, and switched the engine off. Then he leant back in his seat, shut his eyes, and blew a deep breath of air through his nostrils. He stayed there several seconds, eyes shut, and motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of his upper frame. The 6.15 start hadn’t been especially early by his standards, but he felt remarkably tired. If he’d had a heavy weekend, he could have understood it, but following the goalless draw on Saturday he hadn’t felt like going out and getting hammered with Al and Sam, and on Sunday he’d slept in a bit, watched the football highlights on Sky, met up with Sam for a single pint and a roast dinner at the Cricketers, and then spent the afternoon tidying up the shed on his allotment. OK, he hadn’t slept that well on Saturday night or Sunday night, what with thinking about Jake, but he ought to be feeling brighter than this. Maybe a coffee would wake him up. The dirty white caravan some thirty metres in front of him didn’t exactly sell itself very eloquently, but he knew from past experience that the coffee here was one of the best. He turned to pick up the Daily Mirror off the bench seat to his left when his mobile rang. He picked it up, looked at the display panel, and wondered who it might be. No one his phone recognized, that was for sure.

‘Hello, Martin Mace here,’ he said, trying to sound perky and professional. ‘How may I help you?’

No one replied. Mace listened intently, but beyond the crackling interference that denoted a poor connection, he could hear only silence.

He spoke more loudly. ‘Hello! Who is that?’

Again there was crackling, then a second or two of real silence, then a voice. ‘Is that Mace? Martin Mace?’