Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

‘Yeah,’ said Jim. If they had come about Nanette, then it was his business – she was his mother. ‘He said to us it was just a precaution. He was ninety-five per cent certain it was a heart attack.’

‘I am sorry to have to tell you this, but the post-mortem has revealed that Nanette had a significant amount of morphine in her system.’

‘Morphine?’ The surprise in Jim Wright’s voice appeared genuine. ‘What are you talking about? She wasn’t on morphine.’

‘So I have been told.’ Holden had switched into robot mode. It was easier to deliver the information like that. ‘But the fact is she died as a result of a high concentration of morphine in her body, and for that reason I have to tell you that we are treating her death as suspicious.’

‘What do you mean?’ This time it was Maureen speaking. ‘Do you mean they were trying to keep her quiet by dosing her up with morphine? Are you saying that bloody woman Fran did that and killed her?’

‘No, absolutely not!’ Holden spoke firmly, conscious that this conversation was in danger of running out of control. ‘We have, at this stage, no idea how the morphine got into her body. And we have no reason to believe that Sunnymede staff were using morphine to sedate her. However, clearly the morphine got into her body somehow, and that is going to be at the centre of our inquiries.’

‘Just because they weren’t meant to give her morphine doesn’t mean they didn’t.’ Maureen Wright was leaning forward, and wagging her forefinger to reinforce her point. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that dyke Fran Sinclair and that sleazeball Paul Greenleaf. Absolutely nothing!’

Holden could feel the woman’s anger and prejudice. It flew from her mouth with every word, like spittle, and Holden felt only revulsion. And yet, of course, the same thought had already occurred to her, that someone in Sunnymede had resorted to morphine just to quieten down a difficult old lady. That had to be the most likely scenario, one in which an overdose had led to death. But that thought wasn’t something she was going to admit to in front of these two. Not until she had more evidence. Instead, she glanced at Fox and stood up. She had broken the news. She had done what she had come here to do. It was time to make their excuses and go.

Despite lying deep within the boundaries of the city of Oxford, Sunnymede Care Home occupies an almost rural location. It is tucked away discreetly at the end of a no-through road, between the Oxford Golf Club and the sports fields of the Oxford School. It is most easily accessed via the Cowley Road, yet unless you work there, live there, or know someone there who needs visiting, Sunnymede Care Home might as well not exist. That had been the case for DI Holden until that very morning. Fox, however – who had spent the whole of his life in Oxford – had had no difficulty in negotiating his way to it.

‘This would be a nice place for your mother if she ever gets to that stage,’ Fox said as he pulled up in the gravelled, tree-fringed car park.

‘She’ll have to be dead before she leaves her flat in Grandpont Grange.’

Fox chuckled. He had met Mrs Holden a couple of times. She was, like her daughter, a woman of spirit, a woman who would fight to the end to keep her independence.

A man emerged from the main entrance and strode across towards them. He was of medium height, with wide shoulders and tan-coloured hair that flopped down almost to his shoulders. He was, Holden judged, in his late forties, yet with an appearance that harked back to more youthful days, an ageing surfer perhaps, stranded now in a city that could barely be further from the sea.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said with an overzealous smile. ‘I’m Paul Greenleaf.’

Holden displayed her ID, and Fox followed suit. Greenleaf had obviously been watching out for them. Holden doubted he rushed out to greet every visitor, but when you’re being investigated because of the unexpected death of a patient, the last thing you’d want is the police wandering around unsupervised, asking awkward questions of all and sundry. Greenleaf ushered them inside, along a corridor, and into a small office in which a woman was already ensconced. Fran Sinclair made no attempt to rise from her chair, merely nodding as Greenleaf made the introductions. She thought maybe she had met the inspector somewhere, socially, but she had no intention of saying as much. Besides, the inspector had already started speaking.

‘You are both aware of the results of the post-mortem.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Can you confirm for me that morphine had not been prescribed for Mrs Nanette Wright?’

‘I can confirm that.’ It was Fran Sinclair who spoke. The medical side was her overall responsibility, and she knew she had no chance of help on this from Greenleaf.

‘But you do keep morphine here?’

‘Some.’

‘I see.’ Holden nodded slowly, apparently deep in thought as she pondered the implications of this response. Then she looked across at Fran again. ‘Would you describe Mrs Wright as a difficult patient?’

This time it was Fran who paused. She had expected a grilling about procedures and practices. Were all medicines kept locked up? Who had access to them? How many keys were there? That sort of thing, but not this question. She tried to look Holden in the eye. ‘No, I wouldn’t. She had her moments, but then most old people do.’

‘That’s an interesting expression: “She had her moments”. What do you mean? Was she cantankerous, and bad tempered? Did she swear at the nurses? Throw her food on the floor? Shit in the bed?’

Fran Sinclair’s face was square and expressionless under the fringe of hair. ‘I would say she was one of our better-behaved patients, actually.’

‘E

xcept when she had her moments.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

Holden smiled innocently. ‘I have an elderly mother. Sometimes, I could strangle her. Not literally, but you know what I mean. And I’ve seen it on TV. You know, documentaries about old people being abused – sometimes by families at home, sometimes by staff in nursing homes.’

‘What the hell are you insinuating?’ Paul Greenleaf had risen to his feet.

Holden didn’t flinch. She continued to look across at Fran Sinclair, as if Greenleaf didn’t even exist. ‘I am not suggesting that there has been any abuse in Sunnymede. But I just wanted to underline how old people sometimes drive their carers to distraction. If Mrs Wright drove someone here to distraction, then maybe that person might have been tempted to administer morphine to quieten her down, and maybe if that person wasn’t too experienced, well I am sure you can see how an overdose might have occurred, with fatal results.’

Greenleaf reluctantly sat down, but his face was still flushed, and he thrust a finger at Holden. ‘Shouldn’t you concentrate on finding evidence rather than fabricating wild theories?’