Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘Can I go now?’

Holden pursed her lips and half closed her eyes, as if pondering – all at the same time – the meaning of life, the likely winner of the 4.30 at Kempton, and what on earth to wear to the police charity ball. Eventually she closed the file in front of her, looked across at Smith, and nodded. ‘You can go as soon as you have given my sergeant Mr and Mrs Knight’s details. But make sure you stay around.’

Tracking down and interviewing everyone who had attended Maria Tull’s first, and final, lecture on the art of Venice was not entirely straightforward for Detective Constables Wilson and Lawson. Maria had done her best to make their task easy: she had left inside her handbag a printed list of sixteen persons. Alongside each name had been written, in a variety of different biros and pens, phone numbers and, in the majority of cases, email addresses. No doubt, Maria had requested her students to do this in case she needed to contact them. In addition, a single hand-written name – Dominic – had been added at the bottom of the list, but with no surname and no contact number or email address.

There is no easy way to tell someone their tutor has been murdered, and telling someone this baldly over the phone is not ideal, but in the circumstances it seemed to the two of them the only way to proceed. They reasoned that few, if any, of her students would have met her before that lecture, so her death might be a shock, but hardly an emotional trauma. So the pair of them began the process of investigation by making eight phone calls each. In point of fact, they managed to contact only thirteen at this stage, but such was the willingness to help – or maybe the novelty of being asked ‘to come down to the station to help us with our enquiries’ – that within three hours ten of them had come and made a statement.

One thing the statements made c

lear was that the Dominic who had been added to the list was someone known to Maria. This Dominic, it transpired, was some sort of antiques and fine art dealer. He stayed only for the first half of the evening, and for the coffee and socializing in the interval when he seemed keen to introduce himself around and hand out his business cards. John Abrahams, the third witness to arrive, had one of these business cards in his wallet, and it confirmed that the Dominic was a Dominic Russell, the proprietor of D.R. Antiquities.

‘He was a nice enough chap,’ Abrahams confirmed, ‘if a little overdressed for the occasion – navy blue pin-striped suit, yellow shirt and bow tie. Mrs Tull obviously knew him, though I’m not sure she was entirely pleased that he had turned up.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Wilson’s interest was roused.

Abrahams pondered the question. ‘Just an impression,’ he conceded. ‘I can’t say they argued or anything like that, but there didn’t seem to be any warmth between them. Maybe she felt he was queering her pitch, if you know what I mean.’

Despite the patronizing comment and tone, Wilson nodded politely, and then moved the conversation on to the end of the evening. Abrahams stated that he had left at the same time as Maria, after all the others had gone. ‘I don’t believe in leaving a woman on her own at night, so I waited while she locked up, and then I headed for the bus stop. She had a car, she said. Maybe I should have accompanied her to it, but it was a terrible night, wasn’t it, and I’d have got wetter.’

When Wilson and Lawson compared notes, it was Abraham’s statement which stood out as being useful. Only one other student, a middle-aged woman called Dorothy, commented on what she termed a ‘frosty atmosphere’ between Maria Tull and Dominic Russell.

‘Could you elaborate on that?’ Lawson had queried. ‘What did they say to each other?’

But the flustered Dorothy couldn’t remember. ‘It was just that he kept talking about her as if she was a great friend, and she pretty well ignored him.’

‘So was there anyone else that Maria seemed to talk to in particular?’

‘I’m not sure. Just let me think.’

Lawson had let her think, patiently waiting for her to remember something, anything, but it was to no avail. ‘Oh dear!’ Dorothy had said finally. ‘I’m not sure I’m being much help.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lawson had replied politely. But she took it as her cue to terminate the interview.

Holden and Fox arrived at the pathology laboratory just after three o’clock. An officious receptionist whom Holden had not encountered before insisted they don white coats, and then shepherded them through to a large white-walled room, in the middle of which Dr Pointer was leaning over a naked female body.

‘Ah, talk of the devil,’ she exclaimed brightly.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor Pointer,’ Holden replied, unsmiling, conscious of the po-faced receptionist hovering at her shoulder.

‘Thank you, Maureen,’ Pointer said. She waited until her human guard dog had retreated from the room. ‘Nice of you to come, Susan.’ She spoke as if it was a social call, the pair of them popping round for tea and cake. ‘And you too, Derek,’ she added, looking at Fox. ‘We like to use first names here, in case you’ve forgotten, Susan.’

Holden acknowledged this rebuke with a slight upwards movement of her head. ‘Any progress on Mrs Tull?’

‘She’s as good as finished, Susan,’ came the reply. ‘Not that there’s a lot to be said. As you know, there were two stab wounds, one to the heart and one to the neck. The stab to the heart would have brought about almost instantaneous death.’

‘What about the weapon?’

‘The weapon? Ah, Susan, that is the one interesting thing about this case. It was a thin blade, and over 14 centimetres in length. Probably the killer plunged it as far as it would go.’ She paused, waiting for a reaction.

‘Karen,’ the detective inspector said, finally using her name, ‘what sort of knife should we be looking for. I presume from what you are saying that it’s not something snatched from a kitchen drawer?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said emphatically. ‘In my judgement, Maria Tull was killed with an Italian-style stiletto. A switchblade, perhaps, so that it could be easily and safely hidden in a pocket or handbag even. We’re looking at a thin blade, maybe as much as 15 centimetres in length, and a very strong one. A good-quality stiletto like this would generate very little resistance, and wouldn’t run the risk of bending. That’s what the killer would have needed. It pierced her coat and blouse, causing minimal damage – to the clothing that is. There is no sign that the killer had to twist the knife or force an entrance. One stab, straight in and then straight out. Instant oblivion. Not that the killer would have known for certain, especially not in those weather conditions. Hence, perhaps, the second stab to the neck. Just to make sure. Job done.’

‘Job done?’ Whether consciously or not, Holden used exactly the same words as Pointer had when she returned to the station, though whereas Pointer had used them as a statement, in Holden’s mouth they became a question. Both Lawson and Wilson swivelled to face her.

It was Wilson who responded first. ‘We’ve got as far as we’re likely to get. Ten statements so far, out of the sixteen students printed on Mrs Tull’s list. They all pretty much agree on detail. Nothing out of the ordinary happened except for the foul weather. Mrs Tull locked up round about 9.45 p.m., according to John Abrahams, that is. He insisted on staying behind. A rather chivalrous, military type. Mind you, his chivalry has its limits. He went to catch the bus while she went to the car park. Otherwise, the only interesting thing was Dominic; you may remember his name was hand-written at the bottom of Mrs Tull’s list—’

‘I do remember,’ Holden cut in testily. ‘I am not senile.’