Blood on the Cowley Road (DI Susan Holden 1)

‘Tut, tut!’ came the mocking voice. ‘That’s not a very nice greeting!’

Smith was swivelling around, left and right, to see if he could see the killer. Was he waiting there in the wood, or behind the hedge, a rifle in his hands, playing with him before he fired? There was no one visible. The labrador and his master had disappeared from view. Smith suddenly realized how vulnerable he was, standing there in a lonely car park with no other humans in sight. He must have been stark staring bonkers to imagine that the bastard would just turn up and fight, man to man.

‘You said five o’clock!’ he said.

‘Change of plan. Sorry!’

‘What do you mean? You made the arrangement.’

‘That’s right, I did. And now I’m making a different arrangement. Because I’m calling the shots, arsehole. So I’m telling you to drive to the Bullnose Morris and wait in the car park till I call again.’

‘How do I know you’re not just taking the piss?’

The man did not answer the question, unless an explosion of laughter can be called an answer. But it died as suddenly as it had started. The phone call was over.

Holden heard the footsteps in the corridor, and looked at her watch. It was barely twenty-five minutes since she had spoken to Don Alexander. She had asked him to bring over every photo he had on file from the inquest and funerals of those six people who had died on 5 May.

‘Use a messenger,’ Holden had said, ‘and we’ll pay. Just as long as it’s quick.’

‘I’ve got a motorbike,’ Alexander had replied with the smugness of a card-sharp who knows he’s got an unbeatable hand. ‘Saves me loads of time round the city. I’ll bring them myself. Then if you need any help with identification, or anything—’

‘Fine!’ Holden had agreed. Not that she had had any choice. It was as obvious as the dog-shit on the pavements of Oxford that Alexander wanted to be sure that no one got the inside story before he did, and she could hardly blame him for that. But if the photos were to confirm her darkest fears about Fox, if there was just one photo with his face lurking in the background, then she would be faced with the additional problem of stopping Alexander releasing the story before she was ready. ‘Bent cop is serial killer’ was not a headline she wanted appearing on the front page without the press office being fully briefed in advance. She had not, of course, told Alexander of her suspicions, but he would soon put two and two together, and then, whether she liked it or not, the cat would be out of the bag. She would have to prevail on his good nature. Hell, even journalists must have a good nature hidden somewhere deep down within them. Maybe a bit of flattery, or rather a lot flattery, would do the trick. He was probably vain enough. With this final uncharitable thought in her head, and with the tread of footsteps getting ever closer to the doorway, she stood up, ready to receive him.

‘Bloody hell!’ she said. Then there was silence. Her jaw dropped as low as any jaw has ever dropped in amazement.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit late Guv,’ came the reply. ‘Is something wrong?’

Holden stared at DS Fox until her jaw regained movement.

‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I told Wilson,’ he said defensively. ‘Didn’t he tell you? I went to the dentist.’

Smith pulled up in the car park of the Bullnose Morris in Garsington Road, and turned off the car. The light was fading fast. He looked around, but there was no one to be seen. Half a dozen cars and, as far as he could see, no one sitting in any of them. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here. He flipped open his mobile and rang Jake’s number. The voice answered: ‘Where are you?’

‘At the Bullnose. Where else?’

‘Set your milometer to zero.’

‘What?’

‘Drive one point one miles towards Garsington, then turn left. Drive zero point four miles down that road. You’ll see a farm track leading off to the right, and a sign saying “Private – Dingle Dell Cottage”. Follow the track till you reach a delapidated stone cottage. I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘What if I don’t?’ Smith asked. But there was no response. Only a dial tone.

‘Fuck!’ he said. He held the phone to his ear for several more seconds. Then he tried a redial, but it just cut straight into Jake’s message and his answering service. ‘Fuck!’ he said again.

When you’re faced by a man whom you suspect has committed three murders, and you are alone in a room with him, every word you utter and every move you make has to be weighed with the greatest of care. DI Holden looked across at her sergeant and smiled. It was, in the circumstances, a pretty convincing smile, and Fox, who wasn’t sure what he had walked into, gave a somewhat sheepish grin back.

‘What was it?’ she asked with apparent concern. ‘An abscess?’

‘Yeah,’ he said with shrug.

‘Hmm!’ she said neutrally, before she began what she hoped was unobtrusive probing. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to. It’s just that you’ve been out quite a time, and you’re with Mr Stewart just down the road, aren’t you? And of course,’ she added with a thin smile, ‘we are in the middle of a murder investigation!’

A helpless grin spread across Fox’s face. ‘Sorry, Guv. It’s a bit embarrassing, really,’ he said. And, as if to reinforce his words, Fox gave a pretty good impression of looking embarrassed too. ‘I fainted!’

‘You fainted?’ Holden echoed, trying to spin out the time available to her, only how much was available to her she really didn’t know. And Fox, she realized with a start, had pushed the door shut behind him.