Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)
PROLOGUE
‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’
Nanette Wright was teetering on the edge. If there had been a Richter scale for temper, hers would have been right up there at the top end – 9.5 pushing 10. Not that a close observer of her behaviour would have been surprised – and there had been several of those recently. For the truth of the matter was that ever since she had arrived at the Sunnymede Care Home some six months previously, the tectonic plates which kept her nature under control had come under increasing pressure. And today they were on the verge of collapsing altogether.
‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’
She clasped her hands to her head, and screamed inside. God! First there had been that wretched nurse, Bella. She thought she was the bee’s knees, that one did, but she was nothing more than a jumped-up skivvy, an auxiliary. It was common knowledge that she’d only got the job because of her sister. Half the time she flounced around pretending she was Florence Nightingale reincarnated. That was bad enough. But recently she had become a complete cow, slagging her off something terrible just because she’d had the slightest accident. Well, wasn’t that what she was paid to do? To clear up after accidents?
As for Bella’s sister, Fran, she was no better, lecturing her about not leaving her food. Well, she’d eat it if it wasn’t so inedible half the time! Maybe the disgusting dyke should sort out the kitchen staff, and leave old ladies like herself alone.
Nanette leant over to her side table, pulled open the middle drawer and fumbled around until she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out, leant back against her pillows, and grimaced. She didn’t feel too good. She hadn’t done so for a while. Not that anyone here seemed that bothered. They all pretended, of course, but she could see through that. Only Dr Featherstone seemed genuinely concerned. But then he was no spring chicken himself, and he could appreciate that old age is no fun. Still, life had its compensations, and she was holding one of them in her hands – a hip flask. Her husband Ronnie had bought it in Brighton years ago, but he was dead so now it was hers. And what a lifeline it had become, stuck as she was in this miserable nursing home, with her aching bones and decaying flesh. Old age! What she’d give to be young again! But at least she could have a drink to keep her spirits up. She unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. It stung the back of her throat, and she instantly felt better. She took another, and then another.
Well, she’d show them. She’d show them all. She’d put in a formal complaint. That’d serve them right.
And she took another swig.
‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’
They were the last words of Nanette Wright. Or rather, they weren’t, because words are either written or spoken, and these were neither.
Admittedly, they appeared as thoughts in her raddled brain, but only milliseconds before a tsunami of nausea engulfed her body. They rose nevertheless to her lips which pursed and twitched and contorted in a vain attempt to bring them into uttered life. But they never became words. And even if they had, and even if someone had been at her bedside to hear them, to whom would they have referred? To Bella the negligent nurse? Or Fran? Or maybe to a member of her family (her son, if the truth be told, was a front runner in the stupidity stakes)? Or even, perhaps, to herself?
‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’
The last words she never spoke.
CHAPTER 1
It is Tuesday 1 December in the year 2009, about 8.50 in the evening. Oxford United are losing at Crawley, and our main rivals Stevenage Borough are beating Ebbsfleet, and my world is falling apart.
And my mobile is ringing. S H I T!
I ignore it at first, turning up the radio in the hope that this will somehow shut the caller up, and that whoever it is will get the idea and go away. But it refuses to stop. So I pick it up to see who it is. It’s Mum! What is she doing ringing me now, today, at this time? She knows I’ll be listening to the football. I saw her on Sunday, and I’ll see her tomorrow, like I always do on Wednesdays. So why the hell is she ringing me now?
The phone stops eventually. After eight rings. That’s how I’ve set it, to switch to the answering system after eight rings. Not that I am counting the rings, because I am too busy listening to the commentary, and … ‘Yes!’ I begin to yell and scream. Max, who lives in the flat below me, won’t like it, but who cares? Ebbsfleet have equalized against Stevenage. The tide is turning. ‘Come on you Yellows!’ I go to the fridge, pull out another can and sit down again. I can feel the adrenalin fizzing round my system like cherryade.
Then, wonder of wonders, Ebbsfleet score again, so Stevenage are losing. ‘Yes!’ I shout and swig and jump up and down all at pretty much the same time. Some of my drink ends up on the floor, but who the hell cares?
The commentator on Radio Oxford is getting excited. Oxford are applying the pressure, but time is slip-sliding past. We’ve got to get the ball into the net. And fast. And then, unbelievably, we score. Goal! Get in there! Oxford 1, Crawley 1. The commentator is screaming, and he, I and every Yellows fan worthy of the name unite in celebration. Take that, you Crawley bastards!
But the mobile is ringing again. Would you believe it? Ther
e are only ten minutes to go and it’s Mum again. Should I or shouldn’t I? What on earth is she ringing again for? I am tempted to press the red button, but I can’t do that, not to her. So I answer it. I’ll keep it short, and then I’ll be able to listen to the rest of the game in peace.
‘David Wright here,’ I say. I always say that when I answer my phone. Even when it’s my mum ringing.
‘David.’ Her voice is faint and somehow odd. ‘Something has happened.’
‘What?’
‘Something very sad has happened.’