Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

But Maureen never answered the question. ‘There’s someone at the door.’ And then, in a loud whisper, ‘God! It’s that bloody detective woman again and her sidekick. I’ll have to go.’

‘Ring me when they’ve gone,’ Jaz said, but the line was already dead.

Back at the police station, Wilson was feeling very sorry for himself. Sometimes life – not to mention DI Holden – could be such a bitch. He’d only been a few minutes late that morning, and it wasn’t as if it was his fault anyway. He’d been up half the night with his mother. She’d woken up feeling sick just after one o’clock, and she hadn’t made it to the loo. His dad was in Manchester on business, so he’d had to clean up after her. Thick carpet impregnated with vomit – it had been disgusting. Sitting there at his desk, Wilson sniffed at the back of his hand. He reckoned he could still smell it, rank and rancid.

Eventually, he had got to bed, but he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep for ages, and then he’d gone and slept right through the alarm. So all in all, what with speed shaving, and speed showering, and grabbing a banana on the run, he reckoned he’d done well to get to the station only twenty minutes late. But as he had pulled into the car park on his bike, he had almost collided with Holden, Fox, and Lawson coming out. He had skidded to a halt, expecting Fox to stop, but he didn’t. Through the glass, he had seen Holden exaggeratedly tapping her forefinger on her wrist, and then they were past him.

Inside the station, he had soon discovered what he was missing – a death on the railway line – and he had sworn loudly. Wilson was not normally a man who swore. But inside the office that he shared with Lawson and two others, there had been no one to hear anyway.

There was a bright yellow sheet of A4 paper on his desk. It was Holden’s writing. ‘Find yourself something useful to do. We’re working.’ Terse, brusque and totally without sympathy.

For maybe half an hour, Wilson had seethed. At the injustice of it all. At his mum for not making it to the loo. At the ferocity of Holden. What a cow she could be! It just wasn’t fair.

And then his mobile had rung. It was his mother. She never rang him at work. Never. And for a couple of moments, he was scared to answer.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said quickly, ‘but I just wanted to say thank you.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Much better, thanks. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m just sorry you had to clear up the mess.’

‘That’s OK, Mum.’

‘Bye, then,’ and she was gone.

For maybe half a minute he sat there, staring into nothing. A single short phone call, and his self-pity had evaporated like the early morning mist. What a bastard he was to have thought like that. He had helped his mother, but who wouldn’t have in the circumstances? And then he had blamed her, just because he had overslept. How was that her fault?

He looked down at the desk, at the yellow paper which stared up at him. ‘Find yourself something useful to do.’ He made a face. He’d show Holden. He’d bloody well show her.

Holden was sitting on the same sofa as when she had first visited Maureen Wright, and she was feeling even more uncomfortable than the last occasion. This wasn’t the sofa’s fault; it was just that the impact of the morning was only now starting to kick in. She hadn’t anticipated the emotional shock of walking along those railway tracks, imagining what might have happened, and she certainly hadn’t been prepared for finding what they had found. And now she had to break the news.

‘So are you going to tell me something?’ Maureen had sat down in the armchair immediately opposite, and her hands were clenched tight together. ‘I presume you’re here because you know something?’

‘Last night someone was hit by a train. It was travelling to London, between Oxford and Didcot, and it hit and killed someone on the line.’

‘Someone?’

‘We believe it may be your husband.’

‘My husband?’

‘We believe

so. It’s hard.…’ Holden paused. How do you say this to someone? ‘In that sort of accident, identification is never easy.’

She was expecting Maureen to break down, to burst into tears or hysterics. But the woman’s face was blank. ‘It can’t be him. What would he be doing on a railway line?’

‘We don’t know. Not yet. And maybe you’re right.’ Holden didn’t feel this was going to plan, whatever that plan might be. But she had to carry on. ‘It was on the line near Radley Village. We were wondering if he had any clients down there. Or potential clients.’

‘Maybe.’ Maureen shook her head, as it trying to clear it. ‘I don’t know. He sure as hell needed some more work.’ She paused. ‘He did say he was going to see someone about a job, but to be honest I wasn’t really listening.’

‘You mean he was going to see someone yesterday?’

‘I think so.’ She grimaced, trying to assemble her scrambled thoughts. ‘Look, I don’t—’ She stopped, took a deep breath, and then started again. ‘I didn’t always believe Jim. When he said he was going to do this or do that, that he’d met someone who was going to put work his way, well I took it with a large pinch of salt. He was a bit of a bullshitter.’ She paused again, looked down at her fingers, and then up again until her eyes met Holden’s. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘We found his wallet. With a bank debit card, two credit cards, and driving licence.’

‘Someone could have stolen it from him!’ Maureen’s voice had intensified. ‘Then done a runner and got knocked down by the train. You can’t be certain it was him. He could still be alive.’