Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘Who are they going to believe, Doctor? You, or the testimony of a dying or – by the time it comes to a head – dead woman? And does it matter, anyway, when rumour and gossip is so much more effective than the laboured progress of justice? If you don’t resign, and soon, your reputation will be ruined. The choice is yours, Doctor!’

‘Marjorie would never say I abused her,’ Tull insisted, his face now the colour of the palest parchment. ‘Never!’

‘First you abused her medically, and then you abused her sexually. That’s what her testimony will confirm.’

‘But she can’t say that. It’s not true,’ he said desperately.

‘Oh, but she will,’ Drabble said harshly, before he turned towards the door and wrenched it open. ‘I’ll give you a couple of days to think it over, Doctor,’ he snarled. ‘Then I’ll take action.’

At the same time as Graham Drabble was uttering his final threat, Sarah Russell was sitting – another world and half a continent away – in the café of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice. One of the perks she had established for herself as administrator of Cornforth was to be one of the staff who, each October, supervised a select group of students on a visit to Venice. Sometimes she wondered about the educational benefits of these trips, but they were valued by the parents and even more so by their offspring. No doubt both parties were glad of some time off from the other. Right now, she herself was off duty, while one of the museum staff took the students round some of the key paintings and sculptures in the collection. Opposite her sat Maria Tull, née Scarpa, whose fluency in Italian, family connections in Venice, and knowledge of art were three compelling reasons why she – despite not being a member of the college staff – was the other regular adult presence on these Venetian trips.

They had been sitting there, each with a cappuccino, in an uncompanionable silence for some ten minutes. Sarah was studying the menu, although they had already agreed to eat at a café they had identified as they walked to the museum from the Academia Vaporetto stop. Maria was leafing through a copy of Vogue magazine, and was enjoying reading the Italian language again as much as she was scouting out the upcoming styles. When she reached the end, she looked up and pushed it across the table.

‘You ought to take a look,’ she said.

Sarah abandoned her feigned interest in the menu and looked across at her companion.

‘Ought I?’ There was sharpness in her voice. ‘Why?’

‘Well, look at you!’ Maria said, waving her arm expansively. ‘You could still be an attractive woman if you tried. Of course, ideally you ought to lose some weight, but even so.’ She paused, allowing the jibe to sink in. ‘Have you not looked at the women of Venice, and the way they dress? They have style, they think a lot about their appearance, and the men appreciate it.’

‘I’ll dress the way I want,’ Sarah said firmly, conscious that they were in a public place, and conscious too that she could never compete with Maria in the style or figure stakes.

‘You need to try a bit harder, dear,’ she said leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘Take it from me.’

‘When I want your advice,’ Sarah hissed, ‘I’ll ask for it.’

Maria looked back, her smile and gaze unwavering. ‘Did Dominic ring you this morning?’

Sarah stiffened, and leant back, as if to put more space between the two of them. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because, my dear, he rang me. He wanted to know if I’d had any luck with finding a new source for him. He’s probably told you he’s fallen out with Carlo?’

Sarah winced. Dominic never told her anything about his business. So of course he hadn’t told her about Carlo. He had decided early on in their marriage that she wasn’t the asset he needed in the world of antiques, and so he had looked around for someone else to assist him. First it had been James, until he’d done a runner with his brother’s wife, leaving his own wife with three children under five, and then it had been Maria. The fashionable, antique loving, half-Italian bitch who sat opposite her now and dared to lecture her on how she should bloody well dress to keep that bastard of a husband interested. She knew only too well how to keep him interested, and it didn’t involve the latest Italian fashions.

‘Just remember,’ Sarah said icily, fighting back the fury inside, ‘Cornforth employs you to look after the students, not to go antique hunting round Venice.’

Maria smiled, conscious that she had got under Sarah’s skin, but conscious too that she needed her cooperation. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? But I would like some time off tonight or tomorrow. No doubt you do too?’ The smile got even broader. ‘Why don’t you choose? And I’ll fit in round you.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’ They were the words of surrender, reluctantly given.

Maria stood up, her mission accomplished. ‘Perfetto, mia cara!’ she gushed loudly. ‘I’ll go and find our students. You enjoy the magazine!’

Sarah watched her move across the floor. She moved smoothly. Despite her high heels, she seemed always to move smoothly, even up and down and across the many bridges and steps of Venice. Not for the first time, Sarah wondered about Maria and her own husband. Not that they were conducting an affair: she was pretty sure of that. If anyone was at risk from Dominic in that department, it was most likely Minette, that pretty little nineteen-year-old back in Oxford. But Maria and Dominic were up to something. She was damned sure of that.

Lucy Tull arrived home just before 5.30 p.m. Unlike her father, she locked and left her bike in the front garden before entering the house. Her mother was in Venice, and Joseph was rarely back at this hour, so when she heard noises from the study, she divined quite correctly that her father must be home.

‘Hello Daddy,’ she called cheerily, pushing the door open.

‘Hello, dear.’ The slurred reply and the half-empty bottle of whisky on the desk told its own story.

‘Daddy!’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

The alarm in her voice failed to register with him. He smiled goofily at her and raised his glass. ‘Just having a snifter,’ he burbled.

Lucy was used to dealing with challenging behaviour at the dental surgery. Patients who panicked just as they were about to be injected, and patients who turned up late and then got stroppy because they were told to come back another day. In such circumstances, she believed in decisive action. She moved swiftly forward, detaching the glass from her father with one hand, and picking up the bottle with the other.

‘That’s quite enough,’ she said, as if she was his mother and he was a naughty boy.