Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

‘I’m curious.’ Detective Inspector Holden, supported by Detective Sergeant Fox on her right, was sitting opposite Jim Blunt in Interview Room 2. She was leaning forward, both elbows on the table, resting her chin on her linked hands and looking directly at the man before her. He was leaning back in his chair, as if to maintain a distance between himself and his questioner, and he had adopted an air of studied casualness, his hands cupped behind his neck.

‘Curious?’ Blunt uttered the word as if he was tasting wine, swilling it around in his mouth while he analyzed its blend of flavours. ‘You say curious,’ he said preparing to spit the mouthful out, ‘others might call it nosey.’

Holden ignored the remark. ‘I’m curious as to what technique you use to cause someone like Whiting to hate you so much.’

‘I hardly know him.’

‘In that case, I’m even more impressed!’

Blunt looked at Holden hard, assessing which way to play it. ‘Is that why you’ve dragged me here. Because of Whiting’s hyperactive rantings. ’

Holden shrugged, and changed tack. ‘Jake Arnold’s death is very convenient for you, isn’t it?’

‘Convenient? What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘If his allegations that you had bullied him had been upheld, you’d have been out of a job.’

‘It was his word against mine. The complaint was going nowhere.’

‘In fact, your whole career would have been at risk.’

‘Bollocks. There was absolutely no proof. Just a load of hysterical whining.’

‘Les Whiting didn’t think it was hysterical whining. You’ve got a bit of a reputation, haven’t you? A hard taskmaster. You took against Jake Arnold by all accounts. Decided he wasn’t right for the job. So you decided to force him out. Hard to prove, I agree. But easy enough lay the seeds of doubt. One or two more complaints, maybe an article in the local rag, and who knows, suddenly it might have been you that management decided to get rid of.’

If Blunt was worried by this line of questioning, he didn’t show it. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said with a grin across his face, ‘that you think I killed Jake Arnold because I was worried about my job?’ He began to laugh then, shaking his head as he did so.

‘You don’t have an alibi,’ Holden said firmly. ‘As I recall, you claim to have been in your flat, on your own, watching a DVD. Not exactly the most original story.’

‘Are you accusing me? Or merely speculating out loud? Because if it’s the former, I think it’s about time you got me a solicitor.’

‘Tell me about Danny,’ she replied, conscious that she had gone as far as she could down that particular avenue.

The grin returned to Blunt’s face. ‘I don’t discuss clients. It’s a question of confidentiality.’ He leant back and crossed his arms. ‘Sorry!’ he concluded, without, of course, meaning it.

‘Why did he come to the day centre and start waving a knife around?’

‘Maybe you should ask him.’

‘When you were trying to calm him down, you promised that if he put the knife down, you’d discuss it man to man. What exactly was it you were going to discuss?’

The grin, though becoming increasingly synthetic, was still plastered across his features. ‘When a man is threatening you with a knife,’ he said evenly, ‘you’ll say anything to calm him down.’

‘And why was Danny so uncalm?’ she pressed.

The smile finally faded. ‘Either you let me go, or you get me a solicitor. ’

Holden hesitated, but only briefly. She stood up, picked up the pile of papers, and moved towards the door. ‘Sergeant Fox will show you out,’ she said without looking back.

Al Smith watched as Sam Sexton’s van disappeared up the street. Sam had left his sandwiches at home, so even if he came straight back he’d be gone for twenty minutes at least. So he had plenty of time. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, unlocked it, and flicked to his messages. He read again the one from Jake’s phone. ‘You are next.’ He muttered something inaudible to himself, rang the number and waited. If he hoped or expected someone to answer, he was disappointed. It went straight to the answering service, in fact to Jake’s own voice, eerily telling him that right now he was busy, but that if he were to leave a message he would ring back as soon as possible.

‘It’s Smith here. Al Smith.’ As if it would be anyone else. He spoke calmly, though he wanted to shout and swear. He wanted to scream at the bastard at the top of his lungs, but he knew he had to keep calm. ‘It’s me you want. Just me. I was the driver. It was my fault. So let’s meet. Anywhere you want. Then we can sort it all out, one way or another.’ He paused, but only briefly because he had planned what he was going to say. He needed to provoke the guy into a meeting, and he could think of only one way of doing that. ‘And just so that you know, I’m not scared of you.’ He pressed the red button on his mobile and let out a sigh. God, he hoped that would do it. He wanted just one chance to get revenge for Martin. He had to keep Sam out of it. The bastard was after him anyway, and what were his options? To go to the cops? And admit what he’d done last May? Or try to get the bastard out into the open? Because if there was one thing he could do, he could handle himself in a fight.

It took Whiting over an hour to walk from the day centre to his gallery. This was not because of some physical restriction. He had banged himself on the right thigh when he had stumbled against the bench in full view of the detectives, but it was nothing more than a bruise. Much more painful, however, had been the emotional assault he had received from Jim Blunt. So rather than go straight back to the gallery, he entered a trendy little café which stood on the right-hand side of Cowley Road just short of the Plain roundabout. Once inside, he selected a peppermint tea, a piece of carrot cake generously topped with buttercream icing, and a copy of that day’s Guardian which the establishment provided gratis for its customers. Armed with these, he had sat in the corner, away from the window, and shut out the world.

Only a text, some half an hour later, from Ruth at the gallery asking when he would be back, woke him from his cocoon. He poured out the last few drops from his teapot, drained them, and reluctantly stood up. It was time to get on with his life.

When he got back to his gallery, Ruth met him at the door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she hissed. ‘This guy’s been waiting for ages. He says he had an appointment.’