Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

It was at that very moment that Blunt, adrenalin pulsating through his veins, pushed forward off his left foot. One, two paces, and he was within touching distance of Flynn. He made a sudden lunge towards his right wrist, but Flynn reacted faster, twisting away and then bringing the knife flashing down with such force that it cut deep into his own left wrist. A diagonal line of red sprayed through the air and across Blunt’s white T-shirt.

‘Damn it!’ Blunt swore, though whether in horror at the spoiling of his clothes or disgust at his own failure to stop Flynn, Holden never knew. Not that she was thinking about that just then.

‘Drop it, Danny!’ she demanded. Like Blunt she had closed in on Flynn. With her left hand she grabbed his right wrist and twisted hard. There was no resistance. The knife slipped with a clatter onto the floor, and Flynn himself followed, falling limply onto his knees and emitting a terrible despairing howl. Then he fell silent and collapsed forward onto the floor.

‘I’ll call for an ambulance,’ Fox said quietly.

CHAPTER 12

Receiving a text message from a dead person is, one might reasonably suppose, an unnerving experience. Even Al Smith, a man who prided himself on being frightened of nothing and no one – and had the scars to prove it – felt a sudden rush of emotion that others would have described as fear. But it lasted only a few seconds. He shook himself, much as a dog does after it has been doused in water, and then another more familiar emotion – anger – took hold. For anyone close enough to hear (and there was just one such person), the evidence was obvious and incontrovertible: a string of swear words emitted at a volume and tone that told its own story.

Smith looked at his mobile. There it was at the top of his messages inbox. That four-letter word. Jake. There was no mistaking it. A message from the dead. Only, dead men don’t send text messages. Which meant? Smith didn’t wait to ponder what it might mean. He pressed his thumb hard on the central button on his mobile and swore again as his eyes and brain took in the

three words that were displayed. ‘You are next’.

‘Is everything all right?’ Sam Sexton was standing in the doorway of the kitchen extension, a screwdriver in his hand. He was anxious about the speed of progress on the job and the last thing he wanted was a disgruntled Smith not pulling his weight. They were being paid a fixed fee to fit out the kitchen, not by the hour, and the sooner they could get it finished, the sooner they could get on with the next and bigger job he had lined up, in Kineton Road.

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Smith snapped, staring aggressively at Sexton.

Sexton looked down at his feet. ‘Well, when you’ve finished, I need your help in here.’ And he withdrew into the shelter of the four walls.

Smith looked again at the message, then turned the mobile off and thrust it into his back pocket. The last thing he wanted was Sexton to know about this. He’d be straight off to the police, and then they’d be up to their eyes in shit. But he wasn’t going to let that bastard killer call the shots. He was going to get him – not for bloody Jake, but for Martin. If there was one thing that Martin deserved, it was justice. Just let him get his hands on the killer and he’d show him. He’d be fucking next. Oh yes, he’d be bloody next. And once he was dead, there’d be nothing to worry about.

‘Hey, what’s going on here?’ Wilson was concentrating on reversing the car into a narrow space in the car park at the back of the police station. He pulled on the handbrake, turned off the ignition and looked to see what had prompted Lawson to say what she said. ‘It’s Fox and the Guv,’ she continued, ‘and they’ve got someone with them.’

‘Blunt,’ Wilson said, feeling somewhat smug. ‘Jim Blunt, head of the Evergreen Day Centre.’

‘Have they arrested him?’ Lawson said with a hint of alarm in her voice. The last thing she wanted was to miss out on the climax of the investigation.

Wilson shared her unspoken alarm. ‘Well, he’s not cuffed.’

Holden, who had seen the two of them arrive, gestured Fox to take Blunt inside, and began walking briskly over towards them.

‘We’ve brought Blunt in for questioning,’ she said, anticipating their thoughts. ‘We’ve had an incident down at the day centre.’ She proceeded to bring them up to date, about both Flynn and Blunt, and also the conversation she had had with Les Whiting. ‘Danny was very distressed, and in view of what he said, we need to talk to him. He may just be paranoid, but he spoke as if he really did know something about Blunt. Whether it’s relevant to the case, I don’t know, but I want you both to visit the hospital and find out what you can. Wilson, I want you to concentrate on the staff, chat up the nurses, see what you can learn from them. But you stay away from Flynn. Lawson, you’re female, and I want you to get Flynn talking. Be his friend, be his mother, be whatever. Just get him to talk about Blunt.’

‘Yes, Guv,’ Lawson said brightly, her face revealing all too well her delight at being given this task.

Wilson said nothing, and turned abruptly back towards the car.

‘Are you all right with that, Wilson?’ Holden spoke sharply, irritated by his all too obvious change of mood.

He stopped and turned back towards her, though his eyes avoided hers. ‘Yes, Guv, you’re the boss.’

‘You’re spot on there, Constable, and just you remember it. Because if you can’t take orders, you’re no use to me.’

Wilson felt a tremor of humiliation running up his back. Memories of being bawled out by the PE master at school jumped into the forefront of his mind. He tried, but failed, to look her full in the face. ‘I always try to follow orders, Guv,’ he said defensively.

‘Well that’s good, then, Constable. We’ll get along fine. But try one thing for me. Try not to sulk. That’s the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a teenager.’

‘Sorry, Guv,’ he said, this time almost looking her in the eye.

‘One more order before you go. Drive the scenic route to the hospital.’

‘Scenic route?’ Both Wilson and Lawson stared at her, faces blank with incomprehension.

‘The scenic route via wherever it is that Lawson lives. Then, Wilson, you can give her no more than ten minutes to get out of that bloody uniform and into something more casual. The last thing we want is Danny knowing she’s a cop as soon as she walks into the room. Or indeed thinking she’s a shrink. So no white blouse, and no knee-length black skirt. The sloppier and more low key, the better. Right?’

‘Right!’ they replied in unison.