Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

Holden was watching her closely. Only DNA comparison could prove it beyond all doubt, but as far as she was concerned the victim had to be Jim Wright. The poor woman was clutching at straws – or possibly she was a very cool woman playing a very calculating game. If Maureen Wright had had even an inkling of what her husband and Greenleaf had been getting up to, then she had one hell of a good motive for murder. Genuine shock or crocodile tears? Holden needed to know. ‘What size are your husband’s feet?’

‘His feet?’ The surprise in her voice seemed genuine. ‘Size ten.’

Holden turned slightly towards DS Fox, who was sitting to her right, an A4 envelope in his hands. He pulled out a photo and slipped it onto the coffee table around which they were all perched. It was a photo of a single brown boot. Holden opened her mouth to ask the question, but there was no need. Maureen Wright stood up from the table, staggered towards the kitchen door, and vomited.

Less than five hundred metres away, Wilson had, for the first time that day, a look on his face that denoted pleasure. Not intense pleasure, admittedly, and certainly not the pleasure of someone who has, maybe, just won the lottery. Rather it was a look of quiet satisfaction, one which his mother would have recognized, a look which indicated that Detective Constable Colin Wilson was on to something.

When he had finally recovered his equilibrium that morning, Wilson had started with a sheet of blank paper, pushing the yellow one with its terse message from Holden to the side. On the white sheet, he had written the names of Nanette Wright, Paul Greenleaf, and finally Jim Wright. He had then added a question mark next to Jim’s name, conscious that the identity was not certain.

His own initial theory, fuelled by his interviews of Nanette’s solicitor and accountant had been that it was all about money, and that Jim Wright had slipped the morphine into the flask to bring about her early demise. But if it was Jim Wright who had been hit by the train, where did that leave his theory? Had Jim Wright committed suicide? After he had killed Greenleaf? But that didn’t make sense. After all, Greenleaf had been paying him way over the odds for minor building work on his Otmoor house, and it was Greenleaf who had hired him to do some jobs at Sunnymede. So why on earth would Jim have killed Greenleaf? Was it something to do with the photos of Ania and his daughter, taken after that Hayes and Yeading game? He frowned, wrote ‘Photos?’ on the right hand side of the white sheet of paper, and tried to think.

And it was while he was thinking that Holden’s text had arrived, as blunt and to the point as ever: ‘Hayes and Yeading – who was in the box? Complete list. Pronto.’

So her thoughts were going along the same lines as his. He felt a sudden glow of pleasure, and picked up the phone.

The guy at Oxford United was helpful, and yet not helpful. There had been ten people in the box. At least he assumed there had been because they were designed for ten people and no more. But no, he couldn’t give a complete list of who the ten people were because that wasn’t how it worked. He could, however, confirm that it was Paul Greenleaf who had hired the box.

‘He paid for it himself?’

‘He paid with a business card – Sunnymede Care Home.’

‘Right. But you can’t tell me who actually came?’

‘No.’

‘What about CCTV?’

‘What about it?’

‘Was there any in the room?’

‘No.’

‘Outside the room?’

‘No. Look, let me explain.’ There was more than a tinge of irritation in the man’s voice. ‘We’ve got CCTV, of course we have, but we use it to spot troublemakers in the crowd, not spy on our corporate clients. Right? The boxes are for watching the football. They aren’t part of the Big Brother studio.’

‘Thank you,’ Wilson said quickly, conscious that he was in danger of losing the guy’s co-operation. ‘It’s just that my boss wants a complete list of everyone in the box that day and—’

‘So get your boss to ask Mr Greenleaf. He’ll know, won’t he?’

There was an obvious answer to that, but Wilson had had enough. He thanked the guy for his time and rang off.

It was Greenleaf who had hired the box, using money donated by some grateful son or daughter. And it was clear from Ania’s evidence that she, Greenleaf, Jim Wright, and Vickie Wright had been there. So who were the other six? And who could he find out from? Vickie maybe. But he couldn’t just ring her up. So how…?

And then a thought occurred to him: Greenleaf’s laptop. Maybe there was something on it. Mind you he’d already given it a pretty good once over. But Holden would want only answers, not excuses. He extricated the laptop from its case, and powered it up again. Then he logged on and opened up the email. The only problem with the email was that Greenleaf had been very careful when using it. Wilson had already discovered that. When he had cracked the password at Greenleaf’s house in Charlton-on-Otmoor, he had discovered nothing in the deleted items folder, nothing in the sent items, and only three in the inbox, and they had all been marketing ones. But maybe, just maybe, there might be some new ones that might give a clue about something.

As he waited for Microsoft Outlook to do its check for new emails, he did a search for any file on the computer with the word ‘Hayes’ in it. Maybe, just maybe, Greenleaf had kept a file for the game. But the search revealed nothing. He flicked back to Outlook. Six emails had come in: two from Expedia with details of cheap flights to Minneapolis; one about parking at Heathrow; special offers from two supermarkets; and one from a money advice website. And then, as he looked at the screen in frustration, another one came in, from Facebook.

‘God!’ It wasn’t a prayer. Wilson didn’t pray. But it should have been, at the very least, a word of thanks to a higher being. ‘Roy Hillerby wants to be your friend’ the email said. Wilson clicked, confirming that he – or rather the dead Paul Greenleaf – would be happy to be a friend. So did that mean that Roy Hillerby didn’t know about Greenleaf’s death? But Wilson didn’t dwell on the thought, because he was staring at Roy Hillerby’s Facebook page, and a photograph. He clicked on it. It was one of only two in Hillerby’s album. They weren’t going to win any photographic awards, but they were clear enough. Nine people sitting round a table, each with a drink in his or her hand, and the same nine people sitting down in two rows of seats. Excitement flooded through Wilson: It was the Hayes and Yeading game. It was a resul

t.

‘What happened to you, then?’ Wilson looked up to see Lawson standing smugly in the doorway.

‘I overslept.’ He had no intention of going into detail, not to her anyway.

‘It looks like Jim Wright was tied to the railway.’