Blood in Grandpont Read Online Free Page A
Author: Peter Tickler
whisper. ‘I’ve done something stupid.’ She paused, and looked up, checking that there was no one who could possibly overhear her. ‘Something really stupid.’
‘What are you talking about?’ There was still irritation obvious in Geraldine’s voice, but she too had dropped several decibels.
‘I’m being blackmailed.’
CHAPTER 2
Maria Tull died shortly before 10.00 p.m. on the Monday following her return from Venice. No one – with one possible exception – knew the precise time, though later the general consensus of her shocked students was that she had left the St Aidan’s Hall in St Clement’s round about 9.45 p.m., give or take five minutes. She had been giving the first of six planned lectures on the history of Venetian art, and it had gone well. Those who knew her modus operandi would have expected her to join her students in a local pub or bar at the end of the evening. Socializing was part of her make-up, and she was shrewd enough to know that if she established a personal bond on that first night, then her students were much more likely to stay the course. In the event, the weather put paid to any such plans on that particular Monday night. Round about 9.15 p.m., it had begun to rain. Not the soft refreshing rain celebrated in the old hymn, but a driving, torrential downpour of such primeval fury that it caused the flood-conscious residents of the lower-lying parts of Oxford to twitch curtains, peer nervously out of windows, and wonder if sandbags would need to be drafted into action again.
These were the weather conditions that greeted Maria’s students as they prepared to leave, and it was therefore inevitable that they left at a run, in ones and twos, heading for the bus stop, the car or the pub. Maria was the last to leave. John Abrahams, a tall, old-fashioned man in his late sixties, later confirmed this to the police.He had waited for her to lock up, and then he had walked hurriedly to the bus stop twenty metres to the east, while she scurried off in the other direction, towards town. After some seventy metres, she very likely turned right, down a passageway that led into the St Clement’s car park. That, at least, would have been her most direct route to her car, which was parked in the corner at the back of the car park. And it was by the car, as she was scrabbling around in her handbag trying to locate her keys, that she felt a sudden and unutterable pain in her side, before collapsing on to the tarmac. The knife which had caused this searing agony struck again, this time into the neck area, but she felt nothing, for she was already dead – or as good as.
Despite the fact that this untoward event occurred in a public and well-used car park, it was not until shortly after 10.30 that evening that a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Martin Barnes, who had been enjoying a leisurely anniversary supper at the nearby Thai restaurant, returned to their car and almost literally stumbled over her body.
It took an ambulance approximately six minutes to arrive. Martin Barnes had reported the prone woman as a possible heart attack victim, for the darkness in that area of the car park had hidden the telltale blood, and the intensity of the rain had discouraged him from any close inspection. Mr Barnes knew he needed to ring 999, and that was enough. But when the paramedics arrived they quickly realized (a) that the woman was irredeemably dead, and (b) that she had been stabbed. Within another six minutes, three other vehicles had arrived, out of which emerged two uniformed policemen in the first case, then two plain clothes detectives (both female), and finally another non-uniformed woman who was obviously well known to all four members of the police.
‘Sorry to spoil your evening, Karen,’ DI Susan Holden shouted, as the latest arrival clambered down from her four-by-four.
Dr Karen Pointer flashed a grim smile through the darkness. ‘What’s there to spoil on a Monday night?’ she called
‘What are you talking about?’ There was still irritation obvious in Geraldine’s voice, but she too had dropped several decibels.
‘I’m being blackmailed.’
CHAPTER 2
Maria Tull died shortly before 10.00 p.m. on the Monday following her return from Venice. No one – with one possible exception – knew the precise time, though later the general consensus of her shocked students was that she had left the St Aidan’s Hall in St Clement’s round about 9.45 p.m., give or take five minutes. She had been giving the first of six planned lectures on the history of Venetian art, and it had gone well. Those who knew her modus operandi would have expected her to join her students in a local pub or bar at the end of the evening. Socializing was part of her make-up, and she was shrewd enough to know that if she established a personal bond on that first night, then her students were much more likely to stay the course. In the event, the weather put paid to any such plans on that particular Monday night. Round about 9.15 p.m., it had begun to rain. Not the soft refreshing rain celebrated in the old hymn, but a driving, torrential downpour of such primeval fury that it caused the flood-conscious residents of the lower-lying parts of Oxford to twitch curtains, peer nervously out of windows, and wonder if sandbags would need to be drafted into action again.
These were the weather conditions that greeted Maria’s students as they prepared to leave, and it was therefore inevitable that they left at a run, in ones and twos, heading for the bus stop, the car or the pub. Maria was the last to leave. John Abrahams, a tall, old-fashioned man in his late sixties, later confirmed this to the police.He had waited for her to lock up, and then he had walked hurriedly to the bus stop twenty metres to the east, while she scurried off in the other direction, towards town. After some seventy metres, she very likely turned right, down a passageway that led into the St Clement’s car park. That, at least, would have been her most direct route to her car, which was parked in the corner at the back of the car park. And it was by the car, as she was scrabbling around in her handbag trying to locate her keys, that she felt a sudden and unutterable pain in her side, before collapsing on to the tarmac. The knife which had caused this searing agony struck again, this time into the neck area, but she felt nothing, for she was already dead – or as good as.
Despite the fact that this untoward event occurred in a public and well-used car park, it was not until shortly after 10.30 that evening that a middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Martin Barnes, who had been enjoying a leisurely anniversary supper at the nearby Thai restaurant, returned to their car and almost literally stumbled over her body.
It took an ambulance approximately six minutes to arrive. Martin Barnes had reported the prone woman as a possible heart attack victim, for the darkness in that area of the car park had hidden the telltale blood, and the intensity of the rain had discouraged him from any close inspection. Mr Barnes knew he needed to ring 999, and that was enough. But when the paramedics arrived they quickly realized (a) that the woman was irredeemably dead, and (b) that she had been stabbed. Within another six minutes, three other vehicles had arrived, out of which emerged two uniformed policemen in the first case, then two plain clothes detectives (both female), and finally another non-uniformed woman who was obviously well known to all four members of the police.
‘Sorry to spoil your evening, Karen,’ DI Susan Holden shouted, as the latest arrival clambered down from her four-by-four.
Dr Karen Pointer flashed a grim smile through the darkness. ‘What’s there to spoil on a Monday night?’ she called
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