Blood on the Cowley Road (16 page)

‘No,' her mother said defensively, before continuing untruthfully: ‘I have to economize somewhere.'

‘Did you watch the local news?'

‘No!'

‘Or listen to the Radio Oxford news?'

‘Did I miss something?'

‘A man called Martin Mace was murdered. He had been tied up and burnt to death in his allotment shed.'

Jane Holden gulped. ‘How horrible!' she said. But her horror would
not have registered high on any Richter Scale for such things. And indeed it was quickly engulfed by curiosity. ‘Is it connected to the other deaths?'

‘They knew each other. Mace was a lorry driver, but he had been attending anger management sessions at the day centre. Arnold was one of the facilitators.'

‘Gosh!' Jane Holden said, as she tried to weigh up all this new information. ‘And I take it from your less than ecstatic mood that you haven't arrested anyone yet?'

Susan responded by getting up from her armchair and walking over to the window where she looked out into the fading light. Grandpont Grange had been built with a deferential nod to the quadrangles beloved by Oxford colleges. Her mother's flat was on the first floor of the southern side, near the eastern corner, and as she stood there looking diagonally across to the opposite corner, she pretended briefly that she was a student in college. Two old men were walking uncertainly towards her along the path that diagonally traversed the grass square, like two senior dons stumbling back towards their rooms after a large dinner and several glasses of port from the cellar.

‘No prime suspect even?' Like her daughter, Jane Holden was not someone who gave up a line of questioning until she had exhausted it.

Her daughter turned and faced her, but stayed silhouetted against the window as she began to answer the question obliquely. She made no mention of the fruitless interviews with Ratcliffe and Anne Johnson, preferring instead to talk about what had happened since, for it was these more recent events that were dominating her thought processes as she struggled to derive some clear sense of direction out of them.

‘We went to visit Martin Mace's house. In Bedford Street. A rather nice three-bedroomed terraced house. Well, that's how an estate agent would describe it, though the third bedroom was very small and had been turned into an office-cum-shrine.'

‘A shrine?' her mother said.

‘To Oxford United. Photos of players all over the walls. And scarves and football shirts displayed as if they were pieces of art. Or at least they had been. Only someone had been in and ripped a lot of it down from the walls, and the drawers of the desk had been tipped upside down, and paper was scattered everywhere. Whoever it was had been
round the whole house. Clothes were all over the bedroom floor, and the living-room was a right mess.'

‘Do you know what the intruder was looking for?'

Susan Holden uttered a sound that was somewhere between a screech and a laugh. ‘For God's sake, Mother, if I knew that then the chances are that I would know who the killer was and I'd have arrested him – or her – and I bloody well wouldn't be prowling round here like a cat on a hot tin roof.'

Jane Holden, untypically, went silent, stunned by the ferocity of her daughter's onslaught. Susan, perhaps embarrassed by her own tirade, turned away and again looked out of the window.

‘Stupid question,' her mother said apologetically. ‘Stupid, stupid question.'

‘Anyway,' Susan said emphatically, now in control again, ‘after that we went round to Jake Arnold's flat. I guess we should have done that before, but there always seemed to be more pressing matters to attend to, and of course it too had been turned over. Only the kitchen had survived largely unscathed, but elsewhere the floors were covered with clothes, papers and God know's what. So, as you can see, it's been a pretty bloody day.'

Mrs Holden smiled in sympathy at her daughter, and racked her brain for something positive and practical she could say. ‘Well,' she said cautiously, ‘I suppose that does at least prove one thing.'

Her daughter looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

‘The two men's homes have been searched. That as good as proves that their death's are connected, in fact that they were killed by the same person.'

‘Or persons,' Susan corrected.

‘Quite,' she replied meekly, and waited for her daughter to say something else.

Susan turned back to the window and pulled the curtains across. ‘I need a whisky,' she said, and began to walk over to the kitchen without waiting for permission.

It was only when they were both settled down to their drinks – Susan had poured herself a double on the rocks, while for her mother she had poured a bare single and then drowned it with soda – that Susan returned to the subject that was preoccupying all their thoughts.

‘The intruder, the killer in fact, must have been concerned that Mace and Arnold might have had something in their possession that would have linked them to him or her.'

‘You mean like a diary, or an appointments calendar?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you didn't find one?'

‘No, but we're pretty damn sure that there had been a calendar in Jake Arnold's kitchen. There's a nail there with nothing hanging on it.'

‘Let me guess!' her mother said eagerly. ‘There was a square of lighter paint, and around it the wall was darker, from dust.'

‘Hey, you've missed you vocation!' Susan said, genuinely impressed.

‘Well, I'm not a moron, you know,' she replied firmly. ‘I've done enough cleaning in my time to know that!'

‘Of course you have,' Susan replied, somewhat chastened.

‘But there was no such patch on any of Mace's walls?'

‘No.'

‘Maybe he had a diary?'

‘Almost certainly, I'd say,' her daughter agreed. ‘He was a self-employed lorry-driver, so he must have kept some record of what jobs he had when, but there was no sign of one so we are assuming it was found and taken by the intruder.'

‘Unless he kept it in his lorry?'

‘Unfortunately not. We found his lorry, parked in its usual place just off Meadow Lane, but there was no sign of a diary there. And there was no sign of one in his charred pockets either. So it looks like the killer found it.'

The two women relapsed into silence. The older woman sipped daintily at her still three-quarters-full glass. ‘Maybe everything will be clearer in the morning,' she said optimistically. ‘I bloody well hope so!' the younger woman said vehemently. And with that she drained the rest of her whisky and got up to leave.

 

‘They're playing tonight.' Detective Constable Wilson and WPC Lawson were about to drive out of the Cowley Police Station car park again, only this time Wilson was signalling right. ‘I think I might go.'

Lawson yawned theatrically, and pumped her hand in front of her
mouth like a five-year-old auditioning for the role of Native American Indian in a multi-ethnic, non-nativity, Christmas show.

‘More of a rugby girl are you?' Wilson continued cheerfully, his mood lifted by the prospect of visiting the Kassam Stadium in work time.

‘I prefer tennis actually,' Lawson replied tartly. ‘And, in case you hadn't noticed, I am a woman, not a girl!'

‘Sorry!' said Wilson, the apology rising instantly to his lips.

An awkard silence fell. Wilson pretended it hadn't by concentrating extra hard on the traffic lights in front of him. Nevertheless, he was relieved when Lawson broke it.

‘The thing I most like about tennis is serving.' She paused. ‘You get a pair of balls that you can squeeze and bounce as much as you like, and then you get to whack them over the net as hard as possible. I find that very satisfying.'

Wilson looked across, expecting to see a grin on her face, but she was facing forward, apparently oblivious of him, her mouth and eyes (or at least the one eye he could see) expressionless. Not for the first time in his acquaintanceship with Lawson, he found himself at a loss to know what the hell to think.

Silence descended again, and this time Wilson was happy that it had. It continued while he drove up the Watlington Road, then swung right along the Grenoble Road, which separates Greater Lees from a countryside whose most obvious features are a proliferation of power lines and the stench of the sewage works. At the fourth roundabout he took the second exit, which led into the car park that served the complex constructed by Firoz Kassam. To the left stood the barely complete Bowlplex and Ozone Cinema, and to the right the three-sided Kassam Stadium, home of Oxford United, a team who had once in the heady days of Robert Maxwell and Jim Smith risen to the very top league, but which now languished in the bottom one. For a few seconds, as he drove round to the front of the stadium and parked his car, Wilson was no longer a policeman, but only a wide-eyed boy at one with his football team.

‘Well, let's get on with it!' WPC Lawson was outside the car looking in, waiting for Wilson to emerge from his dream. ‘You're the blooming football expert, not me.'

Wilson smiled and clambered out. ‘I bet you know much more than you're letting on. I can see you mixing it with the boys in the playground, sliding in with two-footed tackles just to show them who was boss.'

She grinned back. ‘Maybe you're smarter than you look, Wilson.'

‘I guess that wouldn't be difficult,' he replied.

‘Hi there, I'm Alan Wright.' The greeting came from a man who had appeared from a door to the left of the ticket office windows. He was short, wore glasses and was dressed in jogging bottoms and a bright yellow open-neck shirt which said more about his football allegiance than his sense of sartorial style. They exchanged introductions, and then he took them inside.

‘Coffee?'

‘No thanks. We just need some information. As I mentioned on the phone, we need to get a handle on the habits of two men. We know they are both fans. We want to know if they had a habit of sitting together. One is Jake Arnold and the other Martin Mace.'

‘Well, if they booked by phone, or used a card to pay, we'll have a record. What sort of time frame are we looking at?'

‘Last season and this,' Wilson replied.

Wright's fingers flew confidently across the computer keyboard on his desk. ‘Yes!' he said triumphantly. ‘Here we are. Jake Arnold. Been to a couple of home games this season. Rochdale and Rushden. Sat in the South Stand Upper the first time, and the South Stand Lower the second time. Do you want me to print the details?'

‘Yes,' Wilson said. ‘But what about last season?'

Again the fingers got to work. ‘Hm! Interesting. Only four games. The first was in January, against Wrexham, then one in February, none in March, and two in April.'

‘How many tickets did he buy?' Lawson said, her first words since they had entered the building.

‘Just one in the first two games, then two in the next two.'

‘Really?' Wilson said.

‘And always in the South Stand,' Wright added. ‘Though not in the same place. He obviously didn't have a favourite seat.'

Lawson had moved over to the printer and was scrutinizing the sheet of paper she had picked up from it. ‘He bought two tickets for the
Rochdale and Rushden games too.'

‘So the question is: who was the other person?'

Wright looked up. ‘Sorry, who was the other person you were interested in?'

‘Martin Mace.'

Again the fingers tapped into the keyboard. ‘Sorry. No sign of him. Not this season or last.'

‘Are you sure?' Wilson said in surprise.

‘Of course I'm sure. Maybe he paid by cash. Turned up on the day.'

Lawson produced a photograph and placed it next to the keyboard. ‘Ring any bells?'

Wright looked briefly at the picture and looked up with a grin. ‘Oh him. Oh yes, I know him. He nearly always cycles here, usually late in the afternoon, and pays cash. He nearly always buys three tickets. And always for the Oxford Mail Stand. Always on his bike no matter what the weather. I asked him about it once and he told me he needed the exercise. Well he sits in a lorry most of the day, so I guess he didn't want to put on too much weight.' Wright paused, and then laughed. ‘Not that he was entirely successful. He obviously liked his beer.'

‘Can I ask a stupid question?' Lawson said, flashing her dumb-blonde smile at Alan Wright.

Inevitably the approach worked. Wright smiled eagerly back, a puppy dog eager to please. ‘Of course!'

‘We're just talking home games aren't we? What about away games?'

‘Yes, home games. Away games is different. Often people just buy them at the gate on the day. Unless it's a local derby and they make it all ticket. Then they have to buy them here in advance.'

The dumb-blonde smile flashed again, followed by a look of puzzlement. ‘And when they are away, can they sit anywhere they like?'

‘No,' he explained benevolently, ‘all the away fans are put in one place. To avoid trouble. You're police. You must know that?'

Lawson smiled again her smile. ‘I suppose I must. But I am only a woman.'

Wright looked at her suspiciously, suddenly aware that perhaps she wasn't being straight with him. ‘Is that all?' he said tersely.

Lawson appeared not to be aware of this change of attitude. ‘You've
been so kind,' she purred, her smile even wider. ‘Some men' – and as she said this she glanced pointedly across towards Wilson – ‘some men just don't want to talk about football to women. They behave as if we can't possibly understand it. But anyway, we'll leave you to it. But if anything occurs to you, perhaps you could give me a ring?'

She looked across at Wilson, and he nodded and they turned as one to go. They had hardly taken two steps, however, before Wilson stopped and spun round. ‘One more thing!' he said, in a tone of such abruptness that both Lawson and Wright looked at him like horses startled by a backfiring car. ‘Did he buy tickets for tonight's game?'