Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

But he didn’t stop and I wasn’t stopping. I wasn’t going to listen to his lies any more. I jumped up and ran out of the room. I ran to the front door, and then I ran all the way to my flat. And I locked myself in, and I turned off my phone.

When DS Fox arrived at Cowley police station on Monday morning, and found a yellow sticker on his monitor with the words ‘Ring Holden’ on it, his immediate assumption was that there had been complications with her mother. That was his first thought, and it proved to be an accurate one.

‘They kept her in all weekend,’ Holden confirmed, ‘and now I’ve got to wait and see the consultant whenever it is that he does his rounds. But hopefully they’ll be letting her out later today.’

‘So you’ll be in tomorrow?’

‘I hope so.’

After the tedium of Friday, when he had uncovered nothing of interest at Oxford Waste Ltd, Fox felt an unaccustomed sense of disappointment. The investigation was slowing down, and he realized, with sudden insight, that it might not be going anywhere. An old woman who would have died soon enough has died from a morphine overdose, and the chances of them finding out who was responsible are reducing with every passing day. And in the greater scheme of things, did it really matter? In any case, one day very soon the chief super would ring up, mutter about budgetary constraints, and move them on to other things.

Fox went to the loo, got himself a coffee, and returned to his desk. His mobile, which he had left on his desk, was apparently able to detect his approach, for it beeped politely as he walked in. It was a text message, from Holden: ‘Check out Featherstone!!!’ A smile crept across Fox’s face. Three exclamation marks! He liked that. He liked the fact that Holden was getting bored with sitting in the hospital and so was resorting to sending him texts and telling him what to do. Others might have resented it, but he grinned as he replied with three of his own exclamation marks: ‘Will do, Guv!!!’

Three was also the number of hours that passed before he actually followed up her orders. The first was taken up with emails, the second with a fire alarm which went off and then proved to have been a false alarm with no obvious cause, and the third drifted by as he read right through several sheets of paperwork relating to an adjustment in his pension arrangements. He then he went to get another coffee via the loo (again). He is, he knows, putting things off. He checks his mobile. There are no new messages. Fox is not a man to encourage messages, but he rereads Holden’s again. What does she mean by ‘Check out Featherstone’? He isn’t psychic. Check out his history? His personal life? His movements on the day of Nanette’s death? Could Feathertsone have wanted Nanette dead? Or is he an incompetent doctor covering his

tracks?

Well the place to start is Sunnymede. He gets up and instantly feels better. He will spend the rest of the day snooping round Sunnymede, asking question and checking records. And he will start in reception.

Twenty minutes later, he is chatting to Mary. Mary likes to chat. It was one of the qualities that got her the job as receptionist. After he has signed himself in, he answers her questions, about where he lives, what he does when he’s not being a policeman, and whether he prefers the football or the dogs. He answers happily, until she asks him what his star sign is. Only then does he bring himself back to the job in hand.

‘Mary,’ he says, ‘does everyone who comes in here have to sign in?’

‘Of course,’ she smiles. ‘In case there’s a fire.’

‘Does that include the postman, for example?’

‘No. There’s no need. He comes in, leaves the mail, and goes.’

‘Suppose he needs to use the loo?’

‘Then I write him on a yellow Post-it note, and when he comes out I throw it away. I am very organized.’ She smiles as she says this last thing. But it is not the cheery welcoming smile she had employed when he arrived, but one that challenges him to prove her wrong.

‘Can I see the list for Tuesday 1 December?’

She has a large folder open in front of her. She turns back through several pages and then turns it round.

‘There you are.’

There are names, times in and out, car registration numbers, and the name of the person being visited. He runs his finger methodically down the list, and stops near the bottom. Dr Featherstone had come in that day at 4.05 p.m. and had left at 5.35 p.m. But there was no car registration number recorded, and no person visited.

‘We know which his car is,’ Mary says quickly when he remarks on this. ‘There’s no need for him to write it down every time.’

‘It’s not his usual visiting day.’

‘No, it was probably a minor crisis with one of the patients.’

‘So why is the patient’s name not written down?’

‘Because it’s not necessary!’ The remorseless cheerfulness for which Mary is known is temporarily suspended. ‘When someone comes to visit a patient, we record it because we don’t necessarily know who they are. So we like to keep tabs. But everyone knows Dr Featherstone.’

Fox nods. ‘Thank you.’ He is aware he has upset her. ‘It’s all perfectly logical. But I do need a photocopy of this page.’

‘Of course.’ She stands up. ‘If you can stand guard for me, I’ll pop into the office and do it.’ She is cheerful again.

In the middle of the afternoon, Fox’s mobile rings again. It is Holden.

‘How’s it going?’ she asks.