Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

Less than fifteen minutes later, Fran Sinclair stormed along the short stretch of corridor that separated her tiny office from the much less tiny office of Paul Greenleaf. He was the manager of the Sunnymede Care Home; she was the assistant manager, and she was steaming. She banged loudly on his door and pushed it wide open without waiting for a response.

Greenleaf was sitting at his desk, and his head resolutely refused to lift. He knew instinctively who it was, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly why she was there. He tensed himself for the onslaught.

‘What the hell is going on?’ She had advanced to the desk, placed both hands on its surface, and was leaning forward so as to get as close to him as her 158 centimetres would allow. Her body was stocky, her hair was short, dark and more than tinged with grey, and she was nobody’s fool. ‘Well?’ she demanded, when there was no instant response.

Greenleaf lifted his head. His hair was longer than hers, falling almost to his shoulders. It framed a strikingly round face, but if his chin failed to jut aggressively, his eyes were hard and uncompromising. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I can only assume from your manner that you have just heard the news about Bella.’

‘Too right I have. She’s just rung me and told me she’s been suspended because of you.’

‘Actually, she’s been suspended because of herself.’

‘You complained about her, you bastard! And now head office has gone and suspended her indefinitely.’

‘We have to run a professional service. The fact that she is your sister does not put her outside the rules.’

Fran Sinclair’s eyes had been locked on to his throughout this exchange, but now she dropped her gaze to the desk, as if unable to tolerate looking at him anymore. It was then that she noticed the paperweight. She didn’t recall having seen it before – a semi-globe of glass with some twisting greens and reds inside – but then she didn’t make a habit of visiting Paul Greenleaf in his lair, not if she could avoid it. Her left hand shot forward and grabbed it, and almost in the same movement she stepped backwards, well out of his reach.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Put it down.’

‘When you’ve answered my questions.’ She smiled at him, tossed the paperweight casually in the air and caught it, and then repeated the action, again and again. The feel of the object, satisfyingly heavy and smooth and so full of possibility, calmed her down. Raw anger gave way to something more calculating. ‘What exactly has Bella done?’ She spoke slowly and precisely. ‘What did you say to head office? And why the hell didn’t you discuss it with me first?’

‘I didn’t discuss it with you, firstly because you, as Bella’s sister, have a clear conflict of interest, and secondly because I am the manager of Sunnymede and therefore the buck stops with me.’

‘So what is Bella supposed to have done?’

‘Some money has gone missing from Mrs Wright’s room.’

‘You mean Nanette Wright, who died?’

‘Her son and daughter-in-law have complained that the fifty pounds that they gave her the day before her death was missing from her effects.’

‘Are you saying Bella stole it? And what proof have you got anyway?’

‘No absolute proof. But I have to take complaints seriously. Furthermore Mr Day’s family are also unhappy about some bruising on his arms, and they too have complained to me and threatened to take it further. As you know, Bella cares for both these persons.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s responsible. There are plenty of others who go in and out of their rooms. Hell,’ she sneered, ‘even you visit patients occasionally!’

But Greenleaf was not to be distracted. ‘Obviously, there will be an investigation, and that will determine Bella’s guilt or otherwise, but for now she remains suspended from work, on full pay. However you, Fran, as my assistant manager, should be concerning yourself with this.’ He pushed across the desk a ring-bound A4 booklet. ‘It’s the report on Sunnymede. As you will see, it’s not entirely favourable, and—’

She cut across him as anger began to rise like an erupting geyser again. ‘When did this come in?’

‘Last week.’

‘So why have you waited until now to let me see it?’

‘I needed to read it, and reflect on it myself. And consider what steps we might take.’

‘Ah! Of course. I see.’ It was as if a light bulb had been turned on in Fran’s brain. ‘And the reporting of Bella is one of those steps, is it? She’s the scapegoat to get you off the hook?’

‘I’m not the only one in danger of dangling from a hook.’ There was a note of menace in his voice, and he thrust his forefinger towards her. ‘May I draw your attention to the criticism of our drugs regime and the quality of our food in the report. These are both areas that come specifically within your remit.’

He stopped talking and waited for her reaction. Initially there was none, for she too had fallen silent as she considered what he had said. Then she again tossed the paperweight in the air with her left hand and caught it with her right, before lobbing it suddenly at his head. Taken by surprise, he ducked and held up his hands to catch it at the same time. It hit his right hand, and then thudded onto the desk. ‘Butterfingers!’ she said scornfully, before picking up the report and marching out of his office.

Bella woke at 6.30 a.m. the following day. That was the time she always woke in order to get to work for 8.00, but there was, of course, no need today. Nevertheless, she swung herself out of bed, padded barefoot through to the kitchen, and turned on the kettle. She had plans for the day, plans to make the most of her enforced rest. In fact, her suspension could just turn out to be the best thing that had happened to her for a long time. And so it was that Bella Sinclair showered, dressed, breakfasted, brushed her teeth, and put on her make-up in just forty minutes, and left her flat even earlier than usual. And she did all of this with a feeling of expectation so powerful that it blotted from her consciousness the distress of the previous day. Look forward, not back. That was her motto. She had been given an extraordinary opportunity, a second opportunity, and she had no intention of letting it slip. Paul Greenleaf could wait till later.

Detective Inspector Susan Holden paused in front of the door, took a deep breath, and knocked. She heard a muffled voice from inside, assumed it was an invitation to come in, and opened the door.

‘Ah, Susan! How nice to see you.’ Detective Superintendent Collins stood up. The tension inside Holden eased a fraction. First names and manners; it couldn’t be a dressing down, then. ‘Do be seated.’ He waved towards the chair opposite his desk. She sat down, but her mind was slipping into panic mode. Maybe he was being nice because what he had to tell her was nasty. Ever since she had returned to work, she had had the feeling she was on probation, that after her six-month leave of absence, no one was quite sure if she could cut it any more. And now here she was, being summoned by the big cheese, with his big Cheshire cat grin and an unseen agenda.