Blood on the Cowley Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

she had trouble even walking in high heels, running away was patently not a realistic option. A second complication would have been the extravagantly large bouquet of flowers she held in her arms. It had seemed such a good idea when it had first occurred to her. It would be some weeks before she could lay poor Sarah’s body to rest, so to place a wreath of flowers at the site of her death had seemed an ideal temporary tribute. But now, standing on the dirty grey strip of paving stones at the base of the car park, it all seemed banal, pointless and even tasteless. The stunning bouquet seemed ridiculously over the
top for this tawdry setting. Who was to say that by tomorrow morning someone wouldn’t have nicked it for their lover or elderly mother, or that a drunk wouldn’t have urinated all over it? And what was she trying to achieve with this bouquet anyway. To commemorate her sister’s wonderful and fulfilled life? To celebrate the sensitive, supportive and joyful relationship that she and her sister had enjoyed? Without warning, her body shivered. Who the heck was she trying to fool? Her sister’s life had been punctuated with mental health problems and mangled relationships, and she, Anne, had been only too ready to wash her hands of Sarah when things got difficult. And when she’d told the detective that she rang her sister every three weeks, well that hadn’t actually been the truth, had it? God, what a selfish cow she was! These thoughts were followed by a wave of self-loathing that hit her with such physical intensity that she thought she was going to be sick. She bent over, propping herself against the wall with one hand while the other clung on to the flowers. She waited, willing herself to retch, but nothing came up, and gradually the feelings of nausea receded, until she was able to straighten herself up and breathe in a gulp of air.
    But, although the nausea had gone, the sense of futility she had felt earlier was flooding back. Looking round, she realized that she didn’t actually know where the body had fallen and lain. She’d studied the photos in the paper, and she had tried to listen to what the police had to say, but now that she was here, none of that was much help. Somehow she had assumed that there would be marks of some sort on the pavement, maybe a dark circle of something that she could identify as blood. Didn’t the police use chalk to mark the positions of dead bodies, or was that only on television? Or maybe you had to be the victim of murder, not just a suicide, to attain that level of importance? But the only markings on the pavement were bird droppings – pigeons she guessed – and what looked like spatterings of yellow paint. (How did they get there?)
    It was at this point that Anne Johnson became aware that she was being watched. She looked up to see a young man staring at her. He must have just come out of the car park, for he was standing two steps from the bottom of the concrete stairs that led down from the first storey of the car park to the pavement, some five metres from where she was. To her astonishment, she recognized him.

    Her first words were softly spoken, addressed more to herself than to anyone else. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re him!’ The young man must have heard – or possibly lip-read – her words, for he remained still, frozen to his step. Only his eyes betrayed agitation.
    â€˜You’re him!’ she said again, this time more loudly, and with the index finger of her right hand pointing directly at his head. ‘You’re the art student in the paper? The bastard who pushed her over the edge.’
    If Bicknell was startled by the violence of her words, he was not showing it. He looked at her for three or four seconds, before thrusting his hands into the pockets of his zipped jacket in a studied act of defiance. He then stepped forward down the last two steps, spun round and started to walk