Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

‘So what is it you want? I like to have a lie in on Saturdays.’ Maureen Wright had been dressed when she answered the door just after 8.30 that morning, but she had already made it crystal clear that it was only because her daughter had warned her.

Holden slipped into appeasement mode: ‘We’ll try to keep this very brief. We are truly sorry to spoil your Saturday morning.’

‘Yeah, right!’ came the truculent response.

‘Is your husband in?’

‘He’s out all morning.’ There was no further explanation.

‘No matter. I’m sure you’ll do just as well.’

‘Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, and then let me be?’ Maureen Wright was growing more confident and stroppy with every passing moment. Not that Holden cared.

‘Where’s your mother-in-law’s hip flask?’

The sneer on Maureen’s lips vanished, and there was – for a flickeringly brief moment – a pause. ‘Her hip flask?’ She was playing for time. Holden had absolutely no doubt about it. Maureen Wright was trying to work out what to say.

But Fox had already had enough. If he was giving up even part of his Saturday, it wasn’t so that this woman could piss them about. ‘It was amongst the bag of your mother-in-law’s possessions that you took from Sunnymede following her death. We want it now. It’s evidence.’

‘What do you mean – evidence?’

Fox stepped forward, so that he was just in front of Holden. He raised his voice. ‘Where is it?’

Maureen licked her lips. She felt a familiar fear, the fear of male aggression, fear of a sudden fist in the stomach. Not that the hulking detective would do that to her, here. But that’s what Jim had done, plenty of times, and fear was hard-wired into her gut. She bowed her head in auto-submission. ‘I’ll get it.’

She brought it to them in a large carrier bag, which she placed on the round pine coffee table as if it was an explosive device. ‘It’s all there. All her stuff. I couldn’t face going through it.’

Fox put plastic gloves on, and looked into the bag. He fished into it and pulled out the hip flask. He shook it, unscrewed the top and then sniffed it. He offered it to Holden. She too sniffed. Then they both looked at Maureen Wright.

At 8.05 on the following Monday morning Fox picked up Holden from Chilswell Road, in South Oxford. Some fifteen minutes later they pulled into the car park of the Cowley police station. Holden had been tempted to go straight to Sunnymede, but there were things that had to be done first. Inevitably, emails had to be checked, before they built up to a ridiculous degree. But even as her computer was kicking itself into life, the phone rang. It was Detective Superintendent Collins.

‘How are things going, Inspector?’

The very sound of his voice caused a ripple of anxiety down her spine. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Sir.’

‘I meant what’s the progress on the Nanette Wright case?’

‘Oh!’ She was momentarily flustered, an unusual sensation for her.

‘It’s just that I’ve had the press on the phone.’

‘There’s nothing new for them.’

There was a snort from the other end of the phone. ‘And is there anything new for me?’

‘She was killed by a large dose of morphine. Possibly medical negligence, possibly murder.’ She spoke briskly, and with a scarcely concealed impatience at having to waste time humouring her boss. ‘Mrs Wright was holding a hip flask when she died. We’ve been waiting for forensics to come back to us over that.’

‘Was she now?’ There was a pause. ‘Well, I suggest you keep behind them, because I’d like to put out a statement a.s.a.p.’

She fought the temptation to be bloody rude. Of course she’d keep behind them, but not so that he could keep the press happy. ‘Actually, Sir,’ she said with a huge effort, ‘that was going to be my first job. I’ve literally just sat down at my desk.’

‘Ah, I’m delaying you, Inspector, am I?’

Holden had the sense not to be as blunt as she felt. ‘Sir, I assure you that I’ll keep you informed of any significant developments, and as soon as they happen.’ That wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough.

‘Good,’ he replied.

Holden put the phone down. The logon screen had appeared on her monitor, and she entered her username and password and hit the ‘Enter’ key. Then she got up and wandered down the corridor, got herself a black coffee and returned to her desk. Only then did she pick up the phone to ring forensics. The delaying of the call by a couple of minutes was, she knew, a pathetically pointless act of defiance, but it made her feel better. A woman called Doreen answered, listened, talked to someone in the background, and assured her that the hip flask was receiving their top priority. Holden thanked her and rang off, both pleased and irritated that the phone call had achieved nothing.