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The door opened almost immediately in response to Holden’s ringing of the bell. Sarah Russell must have seen them arrive.
‘May we come in?’ Holden asked quickly, skipping the pleasantries. This wasn’t something to be discussed on the doorstep.
Sarah Russell said nothing, retreating into her house and allowing Holden and Fox to follow her. Wilson and Lawson, who had followed them along the A40 and into this residential side street not far north of the Summertown shops, had been detailed to go and knock on some neighbours’ doors. Sarah led her guests through to the living room and gestured towards the armchairs and sofa, offering them a choice of comfort. She, however, walked over to the fireplace and stood in front of it, legs astride, her left hand on her hip, while with her right one she rubbed intently on the side of her neck.
‘Have you found him?’ she said. Her tone was matter of fact, almost disinterested, as if she was asking visitors if they had a good trip and hoping they wouldn’t go into any detail in their reply.
‘We have.’
‘And?’
It was a funny way to ask if your husband was dead, Fox reckoned. ‘And?’ Mind you, she was a pretty funny woman, was Mrs Russell. And a tough one.
‘I’m afraid your husband is dead,’ Holden said. It was a blunt statement, though she hoped it didn’t sound too bluntly put. But how else do you say the unspeakable?
Sarah let out a gasp, and then turned away towards the fireplace, with the consequence that neither Holden nor Fox could see her face, or the emotion on it – whether fake or real.
‘How?’ she said, through what appeared to be a muffled sob.
‘We found him in an old barn on the way to Witney.’
Sarah Russell turned back, and the only emotion visible was anger. ‘Christ, I said how, not where. For fuck’s sake, tell me straight. Was he stabbed like the others?!’
‘Sorry,’ Holden said involuntarily. Apologizing wasn’t exactly second nature to her, but the ferocity of Sarah Russell’s response had thrown her right off balance. ‘He was shot,’ she continued hastily, ‘in the head at close range. Until the pathologist has had a chance to look more closely, we can’t be sure if it was suicide or … or murder.’
‘Do you want me to identify him?’
‘At some stage, but there’s no doubt, I’m afraid.’
‘The stupid bastard,’ she said. ‘The stupid, stupid bastard!’ And then, quite unexpectedly, her legs folded under her and she collapsed on to the floor with a whimpering cry.
The rest of Sunday was a write-off as far as Holden was concerned. As well as falling dramatically to the floor, Sarah Russell managed to crack her forehead on the edge of the marble hearth. Her blood had flowed red and messily on to the white rug – why the hell do people have white rugs, Holden asked herself irritably – and Holden and Fox had found themselves driving her up to the John Radcliffe Hospital at speed. Their rank at least ensured that they jumped the queue, but a diagnosis of concussion and shock for Sarah ensured there could be no further questioning that day.
While they were still waiting at the hospital, Holden had received a call on her mobile from Lawson, ringing in to report the results of Wilson’s and her house to house. ‘There’s one interesting piece of information that you might want to follow up, Guv,’ she had said, in a tone of voice that suggested that she was feeling rather pleased with herself. ‘A Mrs Leighton, from just across the road, insists that Sarah left home yesterday morning shortly after Dominic. She saw her car leave round about 7.45 a.m. So no lying in that Saturday morning for Sarah. Despite what she implied when we talked to her yesterday.’
Lawson, Holden was fast coming to realize, had a very impressive head for detail. ‘OK, Lawson, I think that’s as much as we need do for now. We’ll be taking Mrs Russell home shortly, but can you just call in on Dr Bennett on your way home? Wilson knows where she lives. If she’s not there, leave a note. We need to get her to look at the damaged painting tomorrow. In the morning, if possible. Offer to pick her up in a car. After that, you can have the rest of today off.’
‘Oh, thanks, Guv,’ came the reply. There was, Holden reckoned, an unusual note of sarcasm in Lawson’s voice, but that was hardly a surprise. It was already mid afternoon, and it was Sunday.
‘My pleasure, Lawson,’ she replied, but only when she heard the line go dead.
‘So, was it suicide or murder?’
It was Sunday evening, and Mrs Jane Holden asked the question just after swallowing the last spoonful of fruit salad in her bowl. Both her daughter and Karen Pointer had already finished, and had gone into what Mr Holden would have called conversational reserve, had he been alive and sitting at the table with them.
Susan had been staring at her three-quarters empty wine glass since she had finished eating. She had insisted she didn’t want to talk shop during the meal, but her mother had no intention of allowing that embargo to extend beyond the final mouthful of food. Susan suddenly raised the glass to her lips and drained the rest of its contents, before placing it down on the table with a clump. She leant forward, grasped the bottle of red wine, and refilled her glass. ‘Anyone else?’ she asked waving the bottle in the air.
‘I’ve had enough,’ her mother said pointedly.
‘Just a little,’ Karen said, stretching across and taking the bottle gently from her. She poured herself about a third of a glass, and then placed the bottle to her right, out of her friend’s reach.
‘Well?’ Mrs Holden said firmly, looking at Karen. ‘Which is it?’
‘Well,’ said Karen slowly, ‘I’m not sure that’s for me to say.’ She turned to her left. ‘Susan?’
‘My daughter,’ said Mrs Holden, as she wiped her mouth on her napkin, ‘is not in a chatty mood. As you will discover, Karen, it is one of her enduring characteristics, learnt, I fear, from her father.’
‘I don’t mind silence,’ Karen responded, and immediately realized she was defending Susan.
