Blood in Grandpont (DI Susan Holden 2)

sful, grabbing and twisting Lucy’s right arm, and forcing her round and down so that Lucy’s chest was pressed against the top of the balcony railing, while she leant with all her own weight on top of her, willing her into submission.

‘It’s over, Lucy,’ she said loudly. And then even more loudly she shouted the words again, as if merely by words she could compel her struggling opponent to surrender. ‘It’s over!’

But it wasn’t over. For perhaps two or three seconds, the pair of them remained there, like a tableau frozen in time, for all the world like two spectators looking over a balcony to get a better view, or two friends locked in a romantic embrace as they shouted down to friends below. And that was when Holden finally saw Karen Pointer, her body spreadeagled across the black railings. There was an explosion of red across her white blouse, and her arms and legs were stretched out in gruesome symmetry. Holden shuddered and emitted a wail of agony.

Then Lucy Tull spoke, as if in response, her voice less shrill than before, but full of excited glee. ‘And when she hit the railings, wow! She didn’t half squeal! Just like a pig!’

Later, as she rolled every moment of those frantic events over and over in her head, Susan came to the conclusion that Lucy must have invented this, and had said it to throw her off her guard or maybe to provoke her into an uncontrolled reaction. She did hope so, for any other thought was too much to bear. But in those impossible moments, the only way she could hold on to reality was to ask the key question ‘Why?’ she bawled, bending her head low over Lucy’s right ear. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘Why?’ Lucy had giggled, as if in embarrassment, like a girl hearing a rude joke for the first time in her life. Then she stopped giggling. ‘Why don’t you ask Marjorie?’ she replied. Holden momentarily released some of the pressure she was exerting as she took this in, and Lucy, sensing it, made a final effort to break free. But to no avail.

‘Guv!’ It was a man’s voice behind her. ‘I’m here. Hang on.’ Susan Holden knew it was Fox’s voice, and she cursed inwardly. She had heard and felt and suffered enough, and she wanted no help, and no interference. Not now. With an enormous grunt she tightened her grip on her struggling victim, and heaved. She felt the weight of Lucy’s body begin to lift, and she heard a sharp crack as Lucy’s wrist fractured under the pressure, but she pushed all the harder, until quite suddenly all resistance evaporated, and Lucy Tull hurtled over the balcony’s edge and out into oblivion.

CHAPTER 11

The following Friday, at approximately 10.45 a.m. Susan Holden pulled into the car park in front of the Raglan Hospital, brought her vehicle to a halt in the furthest empty bay, and switched off her engine. She did not get out. For some ten minutes, she sat there, unmoving, with eyes tightly closed and arms folded across her body, as if immersed in meditation. But meditation requires an emptying of the mind, something she could not have begun to do in her present circumstances. Inside her head there were thoughts, images and emotions which whirled wildly around in such a maelstrom that she felt that sooner or later her brain must explode.

Eventually she uncrossed her arms, and put her right hand on the door handle. She knew she had to do it – to open the door and climb out and walk into the hospital and confront Marjorie Drabble – but the act of so doing seemed beyond her will and strength. But it was the least she could do for Karen, she told herself – to find out the truth, to find out what had driven Lucy Tull to kill. She cared not for Maria Tull and Jack Smith and Dominic Russell. Only professional pride would have driven her to root out the reason behind Lucy’s killing of them. But professional pride had ceased to matter now, and not just because she had been suspended while the circumstances of Lucy Tull’s death were fully investigated. Everything had ceased to matter except the reason for Karen’s death. If only she had worked it out sooner, she could have saved her. Her left hand was thumping the dashboard, once, twice, and again. If only, if only, if only! She raised her head, and found herself looking into the eyes of a short, bald-headed man in a suit. He was staring at her, and he looked disconcertingly like her dead father. A surge of nausea swept up through her stomach, so that she felt she would vomit then and there. She pulled viciously at the door handle on which her right hand was still resting, desperate to escape the nightmare that was engulfing her. It swung open and banged hard against the silver BMW parked next to her, and the man scurried off towards the main door of the hospital, afraid of confrontation, maybe to report her. She didn’t care. Holden gulped in the fresh air, as she fought to regain control of her body, and she noted with surprise – and relief – that the man moved, despite his shape, with remarkable nimbleness, and in that respect he was quite unlike her father. She sucked in another deep breath of air. He was no ghost. It was no nightmare.

As she entered the reception area of the Raglan Hospital, she felt a curious sense of déjà vu. There was the same sense of entering a rather smart hotel, elegant but restrained, where people move purposefully but quietly, and conversations are held in hushed tones. The receptionist, whom she thought was different from her last visit, looked up and peered over her glasses, as if daring her to proceed without first checking in personally with her. Holden moved dutifully towards her.

‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist spoke briskly, but with a cut-glass accent that suggested that even the receptionists in the Raglan Hospital were recruited from the choicest inhabitants of North Oxford.

‘I’ve come to see Marjorie Drabble.’

‘Are you a relative?’ There was a tone of puzzled disbelief in her question, as if the woman standing in front of her did not match her idea of what a relative of Mrs Marjorie Drabble would look like.

‘A friend,’ she lied. ‘I’m Susan Holden.’

The woman frowned. ‘I see!’ Two words that can mean so much, depending on how they are spoken. ‘Well, sit down. I’ll put a call through.’ And she turned dismissively away.

Holden walked over to the seating area and sank into a large cream-coloured leather armchair so soft that for a moment it threatened to swallow her. There was a coffee maker on the table across the room, and the flask was half full, but the effort of getting up felt enormous, so she shut her eyes and tried to make do with the aroma.

‘Excuse me!’

Holden jumped. Ms Reception was standing over her, and was prodding her lightly on the upper arm. ‘Mrs Drabble will see you now.’

Holden stood up quickly, or as quickly as the depth of the chair would allow.

‘Have you been before? Do you know where her room is?’

‘Yes.’ She reached down and picked up her shoulder bag. She wondered if she’d been asleep for ten seconds or ten minutes. Not that it mattered, but the receptionist remained standing there, as if reluctant to allow this rather dubious visitor to move unchaperoned around her hospital. ‘Thank you,’ Holden said firmly, ‘I’ll find my own way, I’m sure.’

‘Oh!’ came the disapproving reply. ‘Well, it’s room 203.’ And with that the woman turned abruptly round, withdrawing towards her reception desk, where she would, Holden had no doubt, lie in wait for the next unwary arrival.

Holden made her way to room 203 with rather less difficulty than she had expected. The door was shut, so she tapped softly on it and let herself in. Marjorie Drabble was lying in her bed, but was propped up on three or four plumped pillows, apparently asleep. Holden closed the door quietly behind her and walked over towards her.

‘Sit down where I can see you,’ Marjorie Drabble said, gesturing with her hand. If her eyes were open, they were only just so.

Holden sat down. ‘Can I get you anything?’ It seemed a better thing to say than to ask how she was.

Finally Marjorie Drabble’s eyes opened fully. ‘I understood you were off the case?’

Holden nodded. Her suspension wasn’t exactly a secret, not since Don Alexander had revealed it to his Oxford Mail readers the previous day. ‘This isn’t an official visit,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just hoping that we could have a chat.

Off the record.’

‘What if I say “No”?’