Fox scratched his head as he wondered whether to say what he felt he should say. Now that Lawson and Wilson were both gone, there was only him to say it. He cleared his throat. ‘Look Guv, where’s the evidence? Because the way I see it, what you’ve said is an interesting theory, but that’s all it is. In fact, not even a theory. As you said, it’s a guess, even if it is a best guess.’
Holden wished she had another cigarette in her packet. Damn Fox! Damn him for his common sense. Damn him for being so damned steady! From behind her, she felt a sudden breeze. She shivered, and looked round, and then felt several spots of rain on her face, cold and unrefreshing. What a bloody rotten day it had turned out to be!
‘Thank you, Fox,’ she said sarcastically. ‘In that case, we need to find some evidence, don’t we.’ And with that she started walking towards the front entrance.
At much the same time as Detective Inspector Susan Holden was irritably berating her sergeant, Mrs Jane Holden was stepping on a dog turd on the corner of Marlborough Road and Whitehouse Road.
Grandpont is an area that has seen something of a canine explosion since the late nineties. Perhaps because of its proximity to green spaces, or perhaps in response to the threat posed by burglars, or perhaps for other more complicated and ill-defined reasons, the narrow network of streets that make up the area immediately to the west of the Abingdon Road are home to a surprising number of dogs. From the ubiquitous collies and Labradors to dachshunds (short-haired and long), from unkempt rescued mongrels to aristocratically trimmed schnauzers, they are to be seen dragging their owners out in all kinds of weather and at all times of day and, indeed, night. Dylan, Monty, and even – believe it or not – Freud, it is the dogs that control the exercise regimes of many a Grandpont household. Mostly they behave at least as well as their owners – and mostly they wait until they have the grass of the nature park under their paws before answering the call of nature, but occasionally accidents do happen in the streets, and even more occasionally (though still too often) their owners fail to clean up after them.
And this is what had happened on that miserable Thursday, when Mrs Jane Holden got to the crossroads of Marlborough and Whitehouse. She didn’t see the turd. Of course she didn’t, or she wouldn’t have put her shoe in it. She had just been to see an ill friend from church. To find her sitting slumped and grey in her armchair, wheezing noisily as she fought for breath, had upset Mrs Holden. And now as she headed back towards her flat, it had started to rain too. As she huddled inside her coat and thrust her hands deeper into her pockets, her left foot made contact with a very fresh and slimy turd. At that very same moment she was twisting her not so flexible body in order to turn the corner into Whitehouse Road. She was not a particularly heavy woman, but her hands, being in her pockets, were in no position to break her fall. She plummeted sickeningly hard onto the pavement, and her head cracked against it with such force that she lost consciousness instantly.
If people really could turn in their graves, Nanette Wright would have been turning in hers. The only t
hing was, she hadn’t yet made it that far. Instead she was locked up in the mortuary, cold and stiff, while the pathologist waited for the coroner, and the coroner waited for the police, and the police got on with more important things. As far as Detective Constables Wilson and Lawson were concerned (not that it had been their call, but actually they agreed with their detective superintendent on this), the death of a single old woman in a care home was less important than a major drugs bust. As for Detective Inspector Holden, Nanette Wright’s death paled in significance compared to the damage that her own mother had sustained in Marlborough Road. So only Detective Sergeant Fox woke up on that Friday morning with Nanette Wright’s death on his mind. He had received a phone call from his boss about nine o’clock on the previous evening; she had given him the full details of her mother’s misfortune – her fall, her possibly cracked pelvis, how she was being kept in the John Radcliffe Hospital overnight, how she might need an operation, and, in that case, how was she going to cope? He had listened calmly, and assured her that he would manage on his own throughout Friday. Was he sure, she had asked? Yes, he was sure, he had replied. She would ring, maybe. No, really, there was no need. He would manage. And so they had left it. Fox would manage. And why not? For underlying their conversation – implied, but never stated – was the reality that Holden’s mother was alive and was therefore more important than Nanette Wright, who was dead, and would have died sooner rather than later even if her whisky hadn’t been spiked with morphine. And besides, was the accidental overdosing of an ill old woman really such a crime?
Fox spent Friday treading water. After reading through all of Wilson’s notes, he drove to Oxford Waste Ltd and spoke to Dennis Adkins, a rather podgy, moustachioed, petty functionnaire, who took relentless delight in explaining his system, and in showing, item by item, how he had a matching receipt for each of Sunnymede’s disposal records. Fox retreated as soon he was able, and spent the rest of the day back at the station, where administration and reviewing the detail of the case came as a blessed relief. And after that, of course, came the weekend.
CHAPTER 7
She was there at the game today. Hayes and Yeading in the FA Trophy. It was a rubbish game, but we won 1–0. I saw her with my binoculars. I always take them to a game. That way if there’s an incident I can get a good close look. Like if someone is injured, or if I think the ref is going to send someone off. And especially if we get a penalty. If they get a penalty, I always shut my eyes, but when we get one I use my binoculars to watch. So I used my binoculars to look at Dad and Vickie in the executive box. I wish it had been Dad and David up there, but he said there were only two tickets. And, of course, Vickie is his real daughter, whereas I am just his pretend son. He didn’t say that, but that’s what he thinks. I know.
But guess who else was there? It’s unbelievable. Mother! Not Mum, but Mother. My real mother. Why was she there? I don’t understand. Dad said it was a special treat organized by someone at Sunnymede where Nan Nan was. They had hired a whole executive box for the game. He was given two tickets because he has been working there. So how come Mother was there? Has Mother told them? She said we shouldn’t, not yet. So how come she was there? Are they plotting something? Maybe Mother isn’t my real mother at all. Maybe she’s been lying to me all along. I need to be careful, really careful. None of them love me. They only pretend.
‘G … G … God!’ Roy Hillerby was excited. He stammered when he was under stress and he stammered when he was excited. And right now he sure as heck wasn’t under stress. ‘D … d … did you see his face? Of c … course you did. It was an absolute cl … cl … cl … classic!’
‘Calm down, Roy.’ Bella Sinclair spoke firmly, as if trying to control a hyperactive kid. ‘Just take a moment and calm down.’
Hillerby took not a moment, but a swig from his can of lager. It was only a small one, out of Bella’s fridge, but he’d had a couple of pints before the game, and then one at half time, and it was all starting to have an effect. He couldn’t hold his alcohol as well as he liked to pretend.
He could see it all, as clear as day. It had been priceless – the look on Greenleaf’s face when he walked into the executive box with Bella as his guest. He was glad she had been up for it. Why the hell shouldn’t she come with him? The fact that she’d been suspended meant nothing. Innocent until proven guilty, wasn’t it? He smiled to himself, his eyes still shut. Not that Bella Sinclair was a little Miss Innocent. God no! Maybe she’d let him stay tonight. She’d better. God she’d better, after everything he’d done for her.
Greenleaf had followed him to the loo at half time, and they’d stood there side by side, pissing the beer away. ‘What the hell are you playing at, bringing Bella?’ he’d hissed. ‘She’s suspended from work.’
And he’d grinned back. ‘This ain’t work! And she’s my guest anyway. I’m entitled, as much as anyone.’
‘You’ll regret this!’ he’d hissed again.
‘I think you’ve got a bit of splashback there, my friend.’ And he’d laughed because Greenleaf’s pale chinos were speckled with urine.
Jim had been there too. He was a good laugh. Brought his daughter along too. Twelve going on eighteen. Legs up to her arse. She wouldn’t be a little Miss Innocent either for long. Played the shy one, kept looking down, but that only made look her look like a tease.
‘What are you grinning about, Roy?’ The words were real, not the product of his memory and imagination. Hillerby opened his eyes and saw Bella watching him.
‘Just reliving every little detail. Reliving and savouring it.’
‘Greenleaf won’t forget, you know. You want to watch your back.’
Hillerby nodded, and took another swig. ‘I know.’ His voice was suddenly serious. ‘You need to watch yours too, Bella.’
‘Thank you, Einstein, for your words of wisdom.’ Her tone was sarcastic, belittling, designed to keep him at a distance.
They both fell silent. Hillerby downed the last of his pint. She sipped at her ginless tonic, her eyes on him, but her thoughts elsewhere.
‘Can I stay over?’ he said, grasping at the straws of opportunity.
She frowned as she considered this. And then her mobile rang, saving her the need to answer.
‘David!’ She was genuinely surprised. She had given him her number, but she hadn’t expected him to call. She had hoped he would, of course, hoped that he would choose to make contact, but she hadn’t really thought he would. Not yet.