Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

‘So, how are things?’ the flashing teeth said.

‘Things are fine, thank you, Sir.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

Holden looked at him. She could give him a load of flannel or she could be straight. And flannel wasn’t her style.

‘Well, actually, since you ask, things aren’t really fine.’

‘Oh?’ There was sudden interest in his voice. ‘You mean you’re finding it difficult to slot back in after your …’ He paused, struggling to find the words. She waited, unwilling to give him any help. ‘After your misfortune,’ he concluded finally.

‘Absolutely not,’ she snapped back. ‘I don’t know what gave you that idea! I’m fully recovered.’ The words came out automatically. She had rehearsed what she might say in such a circumstance, but she had failed to allow for the anger that arose in her like an avenging fury. Misfortune! What sort of word was that for describing the death of Karen, the woman she had loved above all others? Misfortune? The patronizing git! She tried hard to rein in her emotions. She was aware that his eyes had narrowed. He was watching her, sizing her up. She needed to be careful. ‘With respect, Sir, the fact is that I’m bored. I want to get back onto real detective work, not the Mickey Mouse stuff you’ve been funnelling my way. I didn’t sign up for that. I want to solve real crimes.’

His eyebrows twitched – or appeared to do so. Holden wondered if she’d said too much, but there was no taking it back now, and besides, she didn’t want to. He had summoned her, and this was her chance to say what she felt. She might not get another.

He leant back, steepled his fingers under his chin, and smiled. ‘That’s a very good sign, Susan, being bored. Just what I’d expect of a good officer. What you went through was make or break stuff. And the fact that you’re bored, well I’m not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure it’s a damned good sign.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Holden wasn’t

quite sure what she was thanking him for. It had only been words so far. Nice words, but even so.

Collins picked up an A4 folder in front of him and passed it across the desk. ‘This is for you. It’s a suspicious death. An old lady dies in a nursing home. On first appearance, it all looks very straightforward. The only problem is that the pathology guys have found something unexpected inside her. Looks like it could be an accidental overdose or even murder.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ This time she really meant it. The file in her hand was light, but her fingers were grasped tightly around it. This was her chance to get her career back on track.

‘You’re reporting directly to me on this, Inspector.’ He switched from first name to rank with chilling swiftness. ‘And Sergeant Fox will be working with you.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Now that she’d started thanking him, she couldn’t stop.

‘If you feel you need more help, whether it’s more people on the ground or.…’ He paused again, apparently uncertain of the words to choose. ‘Or if you need any other sort of help for yourself, then you ring me. Right?’

‘Sir.’

‘You do understand what I’m saying, Inspector?’

‘I think so, Sir.’

‘It’s just that, if you take any more sick leave or special leave, it wouldn’t be good for your prospects.’

‘I understand.’

‘I do hope so.’

For the second time that morning DI Holden found herself poised outside a rather unprepossessing wooden door. This time, at least, she had the comforting presence of Detective Sergeant Fox at her shoulder. Fox would never be the life and soul of any party, but as he had driven them over from Cowley station, he had been – for him – remarkably chatty. He had told her how pleased he was to be working with her again, and had waffled happily on about his sister’s new house in Portsmouth. He had even started to recite the plot of the film 2010. Holden could certainly have lived without that, but she had been content to let it run.

The pseudo-brass plate in front of her bore the name of Dr Charles Speight. She took a deep breath. Speight was Karen’s successor, and it was impossible to be here without memories coming back. She knocked, and pushed open the door. Dr Speight was a tall man, as quickly became apparent as he unfolded himself from his chair and rose in greeting. ‘Detective Inspector Holden, I presume,’ he purred, as he made his way round the desk and extended a hand. Holden took the handshake, firm and somewhat clammy.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Fox,’ she responded.

The two men locked hands. Fox himself was fractionally the shorter, but he carried more weight, and for a moment Holden had visions of them engaging in a trial of strength, each refusing to let go until the other was on his knees. But the handshake was brief, nothing more than the most perfunctory touching of flesh, the minimum the situation required.

At Speight’s suggestion they sat down, but Holden was not a person to waste unnecessary time on formalities. ‘I understand,’ she said, plunging in, ‘that there were irregularities in the death of Mrs Nanette Wright.’

‘Irregularities?’ Speight’s voice was soft, sardonic and public school. ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’

‘If you want to put it another way, Doctor, that’s your choice, but I’ll stick to calling it irregularities.’ Holden spoke assertively, thrusting her face forward as she did so. ‘And you can stick to telling me what those irregularities are.’ There was a short, impatient pause. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Of course!’ Speight had heard about Holden, about her relationship with his predecessor Karen Pickering, and about her extended period of sick leave following Karen’s death, so he was prepared for her to be a bit prickly, but not this combative. ‘At first sight, it looked like heart failure. Mrs Wright fell asleep early evening, or so it appeared, but when the nurse went in to tidy her up, she realized she was dead. The doctor who attended knew she had heart problems, but when he examined her he wasn’t entirely happy about her symptoms, and so he asked for an autopsy. So, we conducted one and found a high concentration of morphine in her bloodstream.’