Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

When I got off the bus, she got off too. I pretended not to notice, but it was hard not to stare at her red hair. And then, just after Jaz had gone to Tesco, she walked into the shop.

‘Can I help you?’ I said.

‘Do you make frames here?’

It seemed a silly question to me. Wasn’t it obvious we make frames? But Jaz says it is important to be polite to everyone, so I said ‘Yes’.

‘Good,’ she said.

‘Do you have the picture with you?’ Now it was my turn to ask a silly question, because she wasn’t carrying anything except a brown handbag that was slung over her shoulder. But maybe it was a very small picture.

‘It’s at home. I saw your shop, and I thought I’d drop in and ask.’

‘I make the frames.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but it is important to keep conversations with customers going. ‘Whatever size you want.’

‘Perhaps I can bring it in another day.’

I nodded. I really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She nodded too, and smiled. ‘Do you have a business card?’

‘No.’ People didn’t usually ask me for a business card. I wished Jaz would come back. I had three pictures I had to get framed, and I didn’t want to be asked any more questions.

‘What is your name?’ she said.

‘David Wright,’ I said. That was an easy one to answer.

‘And are you open on Monday?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case, maybe I’ll bring my picture in then, and you can frame it for me.’

Jim and Maureen Wright lived in an unprepossessing semi-detached house in Lytton Road. Built in the 1920s, it had been adapted more recently to the modern age: the front garden had been concreted over to provide a parking space for Jim’s white van, and the windows were PVC and double-glazed. The only sign of nature was a pot of chrysanthemums by the front door. Holden pressed the bell, and heard from inside the eight-note call of the door chime. She winced. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a man barely an inch taller than she herself was. That was as far as the similarities went. He was considerably rounder than her in face and body, and he had a head from which every trace of hair had been ruthlessly removed.

Holden displayed her ID card. ‘Detective Inspector Holden, and my colleague is Detective Sergeant Fox.’

He took the card, studied it as if it was a distinctly unconvincing fifty pound note, and then handed it back. ‘I’m Jim Wright.’

‘Can we come in?’

He led them along the short hall corridor, and through a door on the left that opened into the front room. ‘Sit down if you want,’ he said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll give the wife a call.’

But his wife needed no calling. She had materialized at the door behind them. ‘God, you’re quick, aren’t you?’

Holden was thrown off balance by this greeting. As far as she was concerned, their visit ought to be a complete surprise, but it clearly wasn’t.

‘Are you Mrs Maureen Wright?’

‘Yeah. That’s me. And have you found the money?’

This time, the surprise showed on Holden’s face. ‘What money?’

‘The money that was stolen from our Nan. Fifty pounds. We gave it to her on Sunday, but she died on Tuesday, and when we collected her possessions on Wednesday, there was no money. So we reported it. Isn’t that what you’ve come about?’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Holden sat down in the armchair, and waited for the others to follow suit. She didn’t want anyone fainting on her.

‘We have come about Nanette Wright, however. You are aware that the doctor asked for a post-mortem to be carried out on her body?’