Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

‘And did Jack Smith enlighten you on the subject of the painting. Because—’

But Geraldine Payne cut across her bows savagely. ‘You’re the detectives, aren’t you? That’s your problem. All he told me was that there were two women standing over a man who was lying on a bed.’

‘As a description, it’s not the most precise.’

‘Well, go and get a better description, then, Inspector. I’ve got a root canal to sort out. So I’ll go and do my job, and I suggest you do yours.’

Geraldine Payne turned and walked out, brushing past Sergeant Taylor, who shrank back before her despite the fact that he had at least 10 centimetres and 25 kilos advantage over her. He cast a final apologetic look at Holden, and then he retreated, hurriedly following the dental surgeon down the corridor.

As their footsteps receded, Wilson got up and shut the door, and then returned to his se

at. ‘Maybe she’s right,’ he volunteered.

‘And maybe she’s not!’ Holden said with brutal force.

Wilson flinched, but he had learnt from experience that ducking out never won any Brownie points with the inspector. ‘I merely meant,’ he continued, ‘that it seems like a good motive. I mean, if it was a really valuable painting. We know Maria Tull was an expert on Venetian art, so she would have known the difference between the real thing and a dud.’

‘It seems reasonable,’ Fox said, coming out in support of Wilson.

‘But shouldn’t we be looking a bit harder at the alibis?’ Lawson interjected. ‘What with a wife who was in the habit of sleeping with the tradesmen, rival siblings seeking the favour of their father, and a stepdaughter who may have hated her stepmother, there’s plenty of scope.’

‘Hated her stepmother?’ Fox countered. ‘Isn’t that just your guess?’

‘Based on the way she behaved when we interviewed them, it’s more than a guess. It’s a reasonable conclusion.’

‘All right, that’s enough.’ Holden stood up, conscious of the tensions in her team. ‘What we need to do is cover all the bases. I’ll check out Lucy Tull’s alibi. Dr Tull doesn’t have one, but if he knew about his wife’s infidelity, he’s got to be a prime suspect, so we need to test out his story as far as we can. Check with his neighbours. Maybe they saw him return home after work. Maybe they saw Maria leave for her evening class. Maybe he went out afterwards and isn’t telling us. I want you, Wilson, and you, Lawson, to deal with that. Sergeant Fox, you look into the son, Joseph. Find out a bit more about this party he went to. Who are his friends? Is he heavily into drugs, because he sure as heck looks like he uses. As for Jack Smith, let’s pay him a visit at the end of the day – when he’s home with his wife. That way, we’ll be able to apply some pressure. We need to know exactly what this missing painting looks like. All right?’

‘Yes, Guv,’ came the chorused reply. The session was over.

Marjorie Drabble smiled at her unexpected visitor. ‘Sit down, won’t you,’ she said softly, and with a wave of her hand.

‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Holden replied, sitting down in the proffered chair.

‘There’s not much else to do here, except to watch wretched daytime TV. Anyway, it’s not every day one is visited by a senior detective.’

The nurse had obviously briefed Marjorie Drabble in the five minutes during which Holden had had to wait in the reception area, as well as preparing her for her visitor. She was, Holden couldn’t help but notice, obviously very well cared for. As she noted the general smartness of the room, the brushed hair and spotless nightie, the side-table ordered with fresh water, cards, and a photo frame of a bride and groom, Holden felt her vaguely socialist principles wilting. If, God forbid, her own mother ever needed hospital care, this surely would be the quality she would deserve too.

‘Even so, I’ll try not to take too much of your time.’

‘Did they offer you a coffee?’ Marjorie replied, conscious that this was her room and that despite the circumstances she was the hostess.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Holden paused, and ran a hand through her hair. She knew of no set of protocols that had to be observed when interviewing a terminally ill hospital patient, except perhaps to keep it short and low-key. So she smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile, and said simply: ‘I am investigating the death of Mrs Maria Tull.’

Marjorie Drabble smiled back from the pile of plumped pillows against which she lay. ‘I thought you must be.’

‘We are required to follow up everything and double check statements, so all I need to do is ask you to confirm that Lucy visited you on Monday night.’

‘Lucy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘You surely don’t think she’s involved!’

‘No,’ Holden said firmly and quickly, conscious of the alarm apparent in Mrs Drabble’s voice. ‘Of course not. It’s just standard practice to establish the movements of all the family. Then we can rule them out. And Lucy told us she was visiting you.’

‘Yes, she was.’ The reply was controlled, and if Holden had had an emotional thermometer to check, she would have found it registering something close to normal. It suddenly occurred to Holden that there was more to Mrs Drabble than met the eye. Before she had been reduced to this bed-ridden state – a prisoner on a medical death row – she might have been a rather formidable woman.

‘Can you remember what time she left?’

‘I expect they keep a visitors’ book in reception.’ It was a fair point, Holden acknowledged silently, but she realized too that Mrs Drabble was not going to freely offer up information at the drop of her detective’s hat. Not that female detectives were prone to wear hats on duty.

‘Visiting hours end at eight o’clock, don’t they?’ Holden said.