Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

Wilson blinked, blushed and looked across to Fox, who was sitting casually in the chair to the right of Holden’s desk.

‘I’m not sure what you mean, Guv,’ he said, turning back to Holden. But her face was hard and uncompromising, as were her words. ‘We are a team, Wilson. You, me and Detective Sergeant Fox here, we are a team. We may be three separate individuals, each with our own strengths, weaknesses and idiosyncracies, but we are first and foremost a team. We work together. We share. As far as an investigation is concerned, we share everything. Right, Wilson.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he said quickly.

‘So, Wilson, when your colleague asks you about an idea you have had, you bloody well tell him.’

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Wilson said again.

‘I prefer “Yes Guv”, Wilson, if it’s alright by you. But that’s beside the point. The point is that you will now share with both of us the idea that you refused to share with DS Fox this morning.’

Wilson was now a picture of abject embarrassment, face flushed, hands twisting uncomfortably at his tie. ‘Sorry Guv,’ he mumbled. Then, more firmly, and looking across at Fox. ‘Sorry Sergeant. It’s just that ...’ He paused, trying to find the right words, ‘the fact is it may be a pretty stupid idea and—’

‘Spit it out, Wilson,’ Holden interrupted, though in a tone less sharp than previously.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was wondering if the woman in Bicknell’s pictures really was Sarah. I mean the two sisters are very alike, aren’t they, and I just wondered if maybe the woman in the photo was Anne.’ He stopped, and waited to see Holden’s response.

Fox leaning further back in his chair gave a low whistle. Holden leant forward, her attention fully gained.

‘Can you fill in the detail a bit, Wilson? What makes you think Anne was even in Oxford? Doesn’t she work in Reading.’

‘At St Gregory’s,’ Wilson confirmed. ‘But she was in late that day. Missed her first lesson. Rang in and said she couldn’t get her car started.’

‘You don’t believe her?’

‘When I questioned her about it, and asked her if she had used the AA or RAC, she admitted she had lied to the head master. That’s Dr Adrian Ratcliffe, with whom she also has some sort of sexual relationship. She says she merely overslept. She said Ratcliffe had come round the previous evening and, erm ... and fucked her. That was what she said.’

‘What time did she get to school then?’

‘She was definitely in by 11.30, when she took a lesson, but there’s no written record of when she arrived. I suppose if we asked around the staff we might be able to tie it down.’

‘But the key thing,’ Holden said, ‘if I understand it correctly, is that Anne could have been in Oxford at the time of Sarah’s death.’

‘Yes.’

For a moment the three of them were silent. Fox, still leaning back in his chair as if in one of his beloved multiplex cinemas, began to hum the first few bars of a half-forgotten song from his childhood, then suddenly stopped. ‘Sorry to be the wet blanket here, but the fact that Anne lied to her school doesn’t mean anything unless we’ve some evidence that she was in Oxford. Or have you something else you’re not telling us, Wilson?’

The sharpness of his comment caused Holden to swivel in her chair and direct a glare hard at Fox, but she said nothing. Instead she turned back towards Wilson: ‘Well, Wilson? The sergeant may not have been to charm school, but he is essentially right.’

Wilson swallowed. ‘No hard evidence, Guv,’ he admitted, ‘but I just got the feeling that Anne Johnson was lying. She was evasive, if you know what I mean.’

‘That’s not enough, Wilson,’ Holden said, leaning forward to make her point. ‘You need evidence which puts her in Oxford that morning. Let’s assume that she was in Oxford and let’s assume that she drove over and had some sort of row with her sister. Where did she park her car? Not much room in the street if she arrived early in the morning, or even the night before. More likely she used the car park. Have you checked the CCTV? There’s one on the entrance to the car park.’

‘No Guv, I haven’t,’ Wilson admitted.

‘Ideas are good, but evidence is better, Wilson. And then there’s motive. Plenty of motives between family members. Have you contacted Sarah’s solicitor about the will.’

‘No, Guv.’

‘Not to worry. I’ll deal with that. You concentrate on the CCTV. And Fox,’ she said swivelling again towards him, ‘maybe you’d go and visit the local shops with the photos Bicknell took, and see if they recall seeing her call in for a paper or anything that morning. In fact, give the Mail a ring and get a list of anyone they interviewed in connection with the suicide. Maybe one of them will remember something.’

She paused, and Wilson started to get up to go. ‘Why were you suspicious of the photo?’ she cut in. ‘You never said.’

Wilson pursed his lips. ‘It’s the coat she was wearing, Guv. A long fawn mackintosh. I just thought it was a bit odd. I checked the weather. There hadn’t been any rain, and there wasn’t any rain later. It was a warm night too. So why was she wearing it? And why had she buttoned and belted it up. Then I got thinking that if it was Anne pretending to be Sarah, a long coat was just what she needed to hide the fact that she was wearing different clothes underneath from what Sarah was wearing.’

Holden leant back in her chair and surveyed Wilson coolly. Her right hand began to drum a pattern of notes on the desktop. ‘Hmm!’ she said finally, her eyes still fixed on her young constable. ‘You really have been holding out on us, Wilson. But in the circumstances, we’ll put it down to inexperience. Now, I suggest you chase up that CCTV.’

CHAPTER 8