Fran’s look of innocent amazement receded, and was replaced by an altogether tougher expression. ‘We aren’t running a concentration camp here. It’s a place for old people to live the last of their days peacefully. And as pleasantly as possible. If they like an occasional drink, and it doesn’t conflict with their medication, then what harm is there in that?’
‘So you knew she liked a drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that she had a hip flask?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that she died with it in her hand?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’ The answers were quick and decisive.
‘So where did she get her whisky from?’
Fran Sinclair shrugged. This was beyond her knowledge, she was implying, but she’d make an intelligent guess. ‘Nan would go home for lunch most Sundays. So presumably she got the flask filled up there. Why don’t you ask her son?’
‘We will,’ Holden replied, though her mind was already moving on, or rather picking up an earlier thought she hadn’t pursued. ‘When was Nanette last seen by a doctor?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘You don’t know?’ Holden said this as if she couldn’t believe that someone in Fran Sinclair’s position wouldn’t have this information immediately to hand.
‘Actually, I do,’ came the curt reply. ‘When she was dead! Dr Featherstone certified her dead for us. But I’m presuming you want to know when he last saw her alive, and that is a question I’d need to check her records for.’
‘I see,’ Holden said, but in a manner that indicated beyond all possible doubt that she didn’t see.
/> ‘Look!’ Fran Sinclair was irritated. If there was one way to get her roused, it was to doubt her professionalism. ‘The doctor comes in every Monday and Thursday as a matter of course. Obviously, if medical problems occur, he comes out when we call him. But when he’s here, I don’t monitor his every move. Dr Featherstone is popular with the residents. He’s an old-school GP, and a lot closer to their ages than he’d probably care to admit, so he likes to go round and say hello, not just dole out prescriptions for those who have obvious problems. So I can’t for sure say when he last saw Nanette. If he had prescribed any medicines for her, then that would be recorded. But I don’t have a photographic memory. So that’s why I’d need to check her file.’
‘So he’ll be here on Monday, will he?’
‘God willing.’
Holden nodded, apparently unperturbed by the forcefulness of the woman in front of her. ‘Well,’ she said, suddenly standing up. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing him then. Perhaps you can arrange it?’ And she smiled her best, synthetic smile.
Ten minutes later, Holden and Fox were outside again. It was dark, and cold, and there was a drizzle in the air, but neither of them showed any sign of getting into the car. Fox was on his mobile phone, and Holden was smoking. She had started again big-time during her six-month period of leave, but now she had managed to get it back under some sort of control. She always carried a packet with her, but there were never more than two cigarettes in it at a time. It was her insurance against binge smoking. When she got up in the morning, she put two cigarettes in the packet. She didn’t want to get hooked again, not that hooked anyway. She was hooked in a small way, she knew that, but this way she maintained control. Sort of. She took a final drag, then stamped it out in the gravel. She ought to pick it up and dispose of it tidily, but her mind had better things to worry about.
Fox clicked his mobile shut. ‘There’s only the daughter, Vickie, at home. Her parents are both out. She doesn’t know when they’ll be back, so I said to tell them we’d call round tomorrow morning about 8.30 a.m.’
Holden knew most of what he was telling her. Listening to one side of a phone call often tells you more than half the story. She’d like to have called round now, but tomorrow would have to do. At least it would give her time to think. Mind you, she wasn’t sure she wanted too much time to think. Since Karen’s death, she had found that thinking often led into dangerous areas.
‘Can you drop me off at my mother’s, Sergeant?’
‘Sure.’
They got in the car, and Fox started up. Holden got out her mobile, and then lay back in the seat with her eyes shut as it rang. It was late notice, but her mother could knock up supper at the drop of a hat. That was something she had always been good at.
CHAPTER 3
Mum is upset. She keeps bursting into tears. I feel sorry that Nan Nan is dead too, but I don’t feel like crying. I never do. I mean, what is the point? It won’t change anything. Nan Nan is dead. She died after supper in Sunnymede. But she was old. Life wasn’t much fun for her any more. So what’s wrong with her being dead?
She was my grandmother. Everyone called her Nan because her name was Nanette. That’s interesting, isn’t it? But she was my Nan Nan and Vickie’s Nan Nan and nobody else’s, and if I don’t feel the need to cry, why should Mum? The fact is Nan Nan is better off dead at her age.
She was nice to me most of the time. When I was little, she’d give me sweets every Sunday. She’d come over for lunch, and afterwards, when she was drinking a cup of tea in front of the TV, she’d call me over and open her handbag and pull out a tube of fruit pastilles, or a packet of Skittles. And Mum and Dad would tell her she was spoiling me, but she’d wink at me and say: ‘That’s Nan Nan’s prerogative, to spoil little David.’
She would come and babysit me every Wednesday. But there were no sweets then. She’d read me a story at bedtime, but only one, and then she’d put my light off. And that was it. I had to stay there. Once, I felt hungry, so I went downstairs and asked her if I could have a bowl of cereal. She was watching the TV and she was furious. She grabbed me by the arm, and slapped me really hard. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t because I was afraid she’d slap me again. ‘Go to bed, you wicked boy!’ she shouted, and I smelt this stinky smell coming from her mouth, and I ran as fast as I could upstairs again, and I slammed my door shut behind me and hid myself right under my duvet in case she chased after me. But she never did.
That was the way it was with Nan Nan. Nice if you behaved yourself; nasty if you didn’t. But I was her favourite – until Vickie was born.