Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘So who else have we got in the frame? Jack Smith? Maybe he thought he was being cheated out of this painting.’

‘Maybe. If you ask me, his alibi sounds a bit thin. He said he was pricing up a job earlier in the evening, but how long would that take? And his wife was working the night shift, so there’s no saying when he got home.’

‘What about the family?’

‘The husband was at home, supposedly asleep, but Lucy didn’t get in until 10.30, so he doesn’t have a real alibi. She says she was at the hospital till 8.45 – that should be easy enough to check – and then she claims she had an ice cream and a coffee in Little Clarendon Street, before catching a cab home. I guess that all needs checking out. Joseph was at a party, but how easy would it be to slip out of that. What with drink and drugs, who would have noticed?’

Holden didn’t reply at first. Her mind had skipped to the weapon. A very sharp, thin-bladed knife, Karen had said. Maybe a stiletto switchblade. Easy to carry, and as easy to use for a woman as a man. Which meant no one was ruled out.

‘What do you think, Lawson? And you, Wilson?’ Holden was aware that she had been leaving them out of the discussion. But they never got the chance to join in because at that moment the door opened and through it burst an angry woman, behind whom there trailed the despairing desk sergeant, John Taylor.

The woman was tall and slim, with short black hair, dangling earrings, and oval, rimmed glasses. Her white blouse, dark slacks, and neat jacket would in normal circumstances have conveyed a message of smart professionalism, but the anger that seemed to rise from her, like steam from a geyser, sent out other signals, as did her first words, emitted as they were in harsh strident tones. ‘Are you Detective Inspector Holden?’ she demanded.

Wilson, Lawson and Fox had all risen to their feet, but Holden remained in her chair, apparently calm. She nodded. ‘Yes. And who are you?’

‘I’m Geraldine Payne. I want to know what you’re doing to find my bloody painting. That scumbag Jack Smith has told me all about it and how he gave it to that Italian bitch, and I want it back. It was found on my property and so it belongs to me.’

Holden stood up slowly, conscious she needed to get the situation under control. ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ Holden said firmly. ‘That is our priority. Obviously, the painting may be relevant.’

‘Well, of course it’s relevant!’ Geraldine’s face was flushed and her right arm was waving angrily in the air. ‘The woman stole a valuable painting, and now it’s gone. Obviously someone killed her to get their hands on it.’

‘Nothing is obvious at this stage.’ Holden too had raised her voice, though she was still speaking less noisily than her opposite number. ‘We have several lines of enquiry ongoing, and that is one of them.’

‘Christ, did you learn that answer on some media communications course?’ Her voice changed into an uncannily accurate copy of Holden’s: ‘We have several lines of enquiry ongoing.’ She laughed aggressively. ‘It sounds like a load of bloody flannel to me. The sort of official shit you spout when you’re getting nowhere.’

If Geraldine was trying to provoke an angry reaction from Holden, she failed. In fact, Holden’s response was to laugh loudly back, as if she found the other woman’s words ridiculous. This had the desired effect of temporarily silencing the intruder, and in that interlude Holden stood up. She rested her hands lightly on the desktop and leant forward. ‘Tell me, Ms Payne,’ she said softly, so softly that the furious woman was forced to concentrate to hear her. ‘Did you know Mrs Tull?’ The question threw Geraldine metaphorically off balance, as it was meant to. For a moment or three, she said nothing.

‘Well, yes. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You called her an Italian bitch.’

‘Would you rather I called her an Italian cow?’

‘How do you know her?’

‘I’m a dentist. I used to do her teeth.’

‘Used to?’

‘Well, she’s not going to need dental surgery now, is she?’

‘But you didn’t like her?’

‘Those are your words, not mine, Inspector. We were different from each other. But as long as she was prepared to pay, I was prepared to look after her teeth.’

‘And what do you know about the painting? You say it’s valuable. But for all I know, it might be worthless.’

‘If that Italian bitch wanted it so much she was prepared to be fucked by that bloody plumber, then you can be sure it wasn’t worthless.’

‘It seems a bit unlikely, finding a valuable painting under the floorboards,’ Holden continued with a smile.

‘Do you know who owned the house before me?’ the other woman snapped. ‘Miss Eliza Johnson. Ring any bells, Inspector?’

Holden nodded, for the name did ring bells. Eliza Johnson was an eccentric recluse who had leapt to prominence after her death the previous August, when it hit the news-starved media that she had left her house and her collection of fine art to a cats’ home, much to the disapproval of her only remaining relation, a niece. Which meant, Holden admitted silently, that any painting found there was likely to be a genuine and valuable work.

‘It does ring bells, Ms Payne.’

‘Well, find the painting, and you’ll find the killer.’