Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

‘Martin Mace.’

Again the fingers tapped into the keyboard. ‘Sorry. No sign of him. Not this season or last.’

‘Are you sure?’ Wilson said in surprise.

‘Of course I’m sure. Maybe he paid by cash. Turned up on the day.’

Lawson produced a photograph and placed it next to the keyboard. ‘Ring any bells?’

Wright looked briefly at the picture and looked up with a grin. ‘Oh him. Oh yes, I know him. He nearly always cycles here, usually late in the afternoon, and pays cash. He nearly always buys three tickets. And always for the Oxford Mail Stand. Always on his bike no matter what the weather. I asked him about it once and he told me he needed the exercise. Well he sits in a lorry most of the day, so I guess he didn’t want to put on too much weight.’ Wright paused, and then laughed. ‘Not that he was entirely successful. He obviously liked his beer.’

‘Can I ask a stupid question?’ Lawson said, flashing her dumb-blonde smile at Alan Wright.

Inevitably the approach worked. Wright smiled eagerly back, a puppy dog eager to please. ‘Of course!’

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‘We’re just talking home games aren’t we? What about away games?’

‘Yes, home games. Away games is different. Often people just buy them at the gate on the day. Unless it’s a local derby and they make it all ticket. Then they have to buy them here in advance.’

The dumb-blonde smile flashed again, followed by a look of puzzlement. ‘And when they are away, can they sit anywhere they like?’

‘No,’ he explained benevolently, ‘all the away fans are put in one place. To avoid trouble. You’re police. You must know that?’

Lawson smiled again her smile. ‘I suppose I must. But I am only a woman.’

Wright looked at her suspiciously, suddenly aware that perhaps she wasn’t being straight with him. ‘Is that all?’ he said tersely.

Lawson appeared not to be aware of this change of attitude. ‘You’ve been so kind,’ she purred, her smile even wider. ‘Some men’ – and as she said this she glanced pointedly across towards Wilson – ‘some men just don’t want to talk about football to women. They behave as if we can’t possibly understand it. But anyway, we’ll leave you to it. But if anything occurs to you, perhaps you could give me a ring?’

She looked across at Wilson, and he nodded and they turned as one to go. They had hardly taken two steps, however, before Wilson stopped and spun round. ‘One more thing!’ he said, in a tone of such abruptness that both Lawson and Wright looked at him like horses startled by a backfiring car. ‘Did he buy tickets for tonight’s game?’

Wright dragged his hand through his hair as he tried to recall. ‘I think so,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I seem to remember his coming over Thursday or Friday.’

‘You wouldn’t know which seats?’ Wilson said.

Wright shrugged. ‘Sorry. If he paid cash—’ His voice trailed away. Wilson stood there unmoving, reluctant to bring the meeting to an end. ‘Still,’ said Wright, ‘I guess you’ll recognize him now, if you want to arrest him.’

‘He won’t be coming tonight’ Wilson said brutally. ‘Didn’t we mention it? He’s dead. Burnt to a cinder. It’s his friends we are interested in.’

‘Oh!’ Wright said. ‘Well, if we can be of any help—’

‘You’ve already been a great help,’ Lawson said, intervening. Wilson’s boorish aggression was beginning to irritate her. Couldn’t he bloody see that a bit of flattery and thanks was going to work a lot better with Wright than his we’re-in-bloody-charge approach? ‘But I was wondering if there wasn’t another area in which you could help us even more? I know you must be very busy, but—’

‘Just ask’ he said, anxious again to please the really rather attractive WPC.

Lawson smile again. She could almost see his tail wagging like a windmill. ‘Well, I was thinking about how we might identify these friends of Martin Mace, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you must have got closed circuit TV. So if you could help us locate Mace from a previous game, we should be able to identify his friends.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Wright said.

It took Fox three prolonged rings on the bell before he and Holden were rewarded by the sound of something falling, and then by the appearance of a figure at the back of the gallery. As Les Whiting walked towards them and then fiddled at the locks and bolts which secured Bare Canvas from the outer world, Holden looked again at her watch. ‘How does he make any money if he’s not open at this hour?’

‘How does he make any money at all,’ Fox responded sourly. ‘Who the hell wants to pay hard earned cash for rubbish like this,’ and his hand gestured towards the stark primary-coloured canvases which hung on his walls.

The door opened. ‘Not come to buy something to cheer your living spaces up, have you?’ If Les Whiting had heard Fox’s comments, he wasn’t showing it. Holden briefly thanked God that she didn’t have to be perpetually cheerful in order to do her job.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘But perhaps another time.’