River Deep Page 19

She was very surprised.

  “I wonder if I could call round again this evening. Don’t go to any trouble. Please. I just want a quick word.”

  “You’ll catch me at home in an hour.”

  “Fine.”

  After that she drained the contents of the glass and handed it back to Cley.

  21

  Mark was round a little earlier than ‘in an hour’ and he’d been drinking. She opened the door to see him leaning against the pillar and invited him in. He didn’t apologise for the intrusion, neither did he refuse the coffee Agnetha brought in on a tray with a sharp glance at him. Martha could read her mind. Agnetha exited the study, leaving the door ajar. It was a gesture of patent mistrust. Sukey and Sam were out with friends, at the pictures, so the house was quiet. Even Bobby hadn’t rushed to the front door to greet the visitor.

  Mark began without preamble. “I’ve been doing some research,” he said, passing his hand across his face to brush away some of the sweat.

  “What sort of research?” Her voice was sharp. She hated to see him like this. It was such a waste. She didn’t know what caused it or she might just have been able to help. As it was she simply felt angry with him. She wanted to tell him that, like all alcoholics, he was destroying himself. To witness a man of such talent, such knowledge and such intelligence pressing his self-destruct button was depressing.

  They were in Martin’s study and in spite of the half-open door the room seemed close and claustrophobic, their voices strangely muffled. Even from across the room she could smell the alcohol seeping out of every pore of Mark Sullivan’s body. He must have been on a bender.

  “Putrefaction,” he said, slurring the word only very slightly. “It’s taken me a while to put the facts together and work out what happened. The thing is that although the weather’s been cold Haddonfield’s body was well-insulated by the clothes which would have slowed down putrefaction. That means he probably died sooner after his disappearance than I’d previously thought. Maybe even the very night he was last seen. Possibly before.” His eyes fixed on her through the thick glasses.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, holding her hand up like a traffic cop. “That isn’t possible. He can’t have died before the 11th of February. He was seen alive on the Monday by the van driver and more importantly by the next door neighbour who obviously knew him. He rang his wife from home.”

  Mark stayed silent, looked down at the floor.

  “So have you told Randall this?”

  “Not yet.” A long pause. “I wanted to see -” Eyes lifted “-if it made sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t make sense,” she said. “It doesn’t make any sense. None of this does, Mark. And besides. You can’t be that sure. Time of death is notoriously difficult to pin down.”

  “I know that,” he said. “But I’ve really been thinking.”

  She poured him another coffee – black. Didn’t even consider offering him alcohol.

  “I don’t think his body’s been in the clothing store all the time but somewhere else. Somewhere cold.”

  The image of a cellar flashed through her mind, like a rocket, exploding into brilliant stars. However illogical. He couldn’t have been in the cellar. The cellar had been sealed off by the police.

  Mark Sullivan ploughed on, gaining in confidence. “So the real question is – where was his body kept?”

  She stared at him, speechless, unable to confide in him.

  The twins drew up just as Sullivan was leaving. Noise and chatter, music, feet tramping around the house, calls for supper, comments on the film. On the doorstep he gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Must be difficult for you, being on your own.”

  She answered as truthfully as she could. “Yes and no.”

  He glanced down. “Well, at least the dog brings you presents.” And held up a dead fieldmouse by its tail.

  “Oh, he’s always doing it,” she said. “However much I smack him. I suppose it’s his instinct. Throw it away. In the bushes. Please.” She shivered. “It upsets me. Poor little thing.”

  But Sullivan didn’t throw the tiny rodent into the bushes. He was studying it with cold, pathologist’s interest. “And does your dog always kill his prey by tying a ligature around its neck?”

  She gaped at him and watched while his finger stroked the animal’s furry back so she could see a shoe-lace or something similar, fine, strong and black, knotted around its neck.

  Her mouth was dry. She could not form an answer.

  Questions. Mysteries. Things were spinning round her subconscious like a surrealist’s dream world. Nonsensical as Alice’s Wonderland, illogical and inexplicable. She could not begin to understand it. She only knew these odd occurrences were threats. Not even subtle. They lay, heavy and sticky as uncooked dough, at the back of her mind, to upset her, to frighten, menace her. She ran through all the people she had contact with and came up with not one name. She did not know who was sending occult messages to her. Neither did she know who might lay presents of dead animals on her doormat. Except that in her heart she had always known it was not the dog. Never had been.

  The next morning it was the lamb of March which was back in evidence. The brightest of skies shone innocently down on fresh, dewy grass. Buds were everywhere, on trees, on the end of daffodils’ long stems, bunches of crocuses, purple, yellow, cream. It was a beautiful day. An early morning mist wafted from the grass.

  Martha threw open her bedroom window and drew in a deep lungful of air. The scent of pine was rich and pungent. She flung open her wardrobe doors. Just for once she would wear what she wanted to wear and ignore the restrictions of her post. She wanted to wear something smart, something bright, something pretty. She found a beige suede skirt, brown shoes, a soft, creamy sweater and laid them carefully on the bed then stood underneath the shower for a full ten minutes, gasping and soaping herself vigorously, tilting her head up as though it was a waterfall in Bali, or somewhere equally exotic.

  The house was still silent. It was early yet. But she felt restless. Alex Randall was a good policeman. But he was barking up the wrong tree. Likewise Mark Sullivan was a very good pathologist. But he didn’t understand what the signs were telling him. She was a good coroner. Not exceptionally good – she had no solution to this puzzling set of events. But she reckoned she was nearer finding out the truth than either Randall or Sullivan.

  She slipped her clothes on, brown leather boots completing the ensemble. Sat and brushed her hair until it felt smooth. Not that it would stay like this. Then she applied the token amount of make-up she habitually wore. A smear of brown eyeshadow, mascara, foundation, blusher and lipstick. Now she was ready to face the world. She opened the bedroom door. Sam clomped past her to the bathroom, hardly sparing her a look. He was not a morning person. That was left to Sukey and Agnetha, already bouncing out of their bedrooms. Sam clomped back again and she went downstairs, ready for fruit juice and toast.

  Agnetha seemed to know that today was a special day. She eyed Martha’s clothes critically, then with approval. “Cool,” she said. Sukey shot her a swift, puzzled look. Mums aren’t supposed to be cool. Martha winked at her and gave her a hug. Today she felt confident and happy. Because she had a plan.

  She’d asked Agnetha to take Bobby for a walk while she dropped the children off at the school before driving to the Jaguar garage. If Randall and Aitken couldn’t winkle out the truth then she, Martha, was going to have a try herself.

  She recognised him as he moved towards her. Salesman shark to the kill. He was already assessing her outfit and wondering whether she could afford to buy a new Jag. She gave him a wide, open smile. Let him work for his money.

  Humphreys opened with a salesman’s, “Hi. Can I help you?”

  He didn’t recognise her.

  “I’m really just looking,” she said. Her eyes fell on an impressive red car with a price tag a little in excess of her annual salary. “This is nice.”

  She could almost sense his palms sweating w
ith anticipation. He rabbited on for a few minutes about the car and its talents while she studied him. He was nervous, sweating, eyes watchful, smart dark suit, flashy tie, coloured shirt. Twice he wiped his brow with a handkerchief though it wasn’t warm in here. When the door opened his head shot round, bullet-fast. Relaxed when he saw it was a young couple in his’n’hers fringed brown cowboy jackets.

  He took a deep breath in. Ready to launch into more spiel. She could read his mind. Couples are always a better bet to buy a car than a single person – especially a woman. He drifted off, murmuring something into the air. Martha watched him move across the room, her eyes half-closing. He had not known her from the encounter on the bridge. She watched him dealing with the couple, the smooth, salesman-act not quite coming off. His movements were jerky. He kept one eye constantly on the door. When a receptionist who could well have been Sheelagh Mandershall brought him a cup of coffee he seemed abstracted. Martha wandered around the cars, pretending to admire the lines of their bodies, their ccs, their complicated dashboards which belonged in a jumbo jet. Finally Humphreys saw the couple off and returned to Martha.

  “Would you like me to work out finance?” he offered.

  “Just roughly.”

  They sat opposite each other. Humphreys’ fingers skipped over a calculator and he scribbled some figures down on a piece of paper.

  Martha took the typical customers’ opt-out, “I’ll think about it,” and left.

  But sitting outside in her car she struggled to gather her thoughts. It was time she collected them into some semblance of order. Firstly – she believed Humphreys knew something about Bosworth’s murder. It had been no coincidence that the corpse had floated out of his own cellar. Secondly – she believed that there was a connection between Bosworth and Haddonfield whose body had been so unceremoniously dumped. Thirdly – she believed that Lindy Haddonfield had something to do with her husband’s murder. Fourthly – the time factor which Randall had touched on was significant.

  Then she began drawing lines. If Humphreys knew something about the murder in Marine Terrace there must be a connection between the two men. If Lindy Haddonfield had an alibi for the time her husband was last seen she could not have killed him. Sullivan thought it was possible Haddonfield had died before Monday the 11th but not after. But it was hardly a huge jump of logic to deduce that a man could not have died before he was last seen.

  Martha leaned forward and switched on her engine, revved it up a couple of times. Humphreys was watching her through the window, his forehead wrinkled up. Struggling. Maybe he did remember their encounter on the bridge. Oh, fool, Martha said to herself. Humphreys had been crossing the bridge as he had done before.

  Some other image was pushing to the fore. Superimposing lightly over Munch’s Scream. Humphreys crossing the bridge at another time? On the afternoon of Sunday, the tenth of February. Seeing someone else. Not her at all. Marine Terrace was clearly visible from the English Bridge. What if … She swallowed. What if he had seen someone emerging from his own house just after he had left it? Who? Someone he knew. So had he known Bosworth?

  She rang Alex Randall from her mobile and hardly waited for him to answer. “How sure are you that Gerald Bosworth didn’t know James Humphreys?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered testily. “What I’ve said – all along – is that we haven’t found any connection. As you well know, Martha, that isn’t to say that there isn’t one. It simply means that we haven’t found one. They come from different parts of the country, have – had – rather different professions. We haven’t found a common demoninator and we’ve looked hard. I think if there was a connection we would have found it.” A pause and when he came back his voice was more conciliatory. “Don’t suppose you’d fancy lunch, would you?”

  “What had you in mind?”

  “Nothing special. Pie and a pint at the Boathouse and a walk through the Quarry Park. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but it’s a lovely day out there.”

  “Sounds OK to me.” They arranged to meet at one.

  She was perfectly within her rights to ring Lindy Haddonfield and ask about funeral arrangements, also to speak to Freddie Bosworth – the two bereaved women. She rang Mrs Bosworth first – and this time the phone was picked up straightaway.

  “Freddie Bosworth here.” Spoken sharply.

  “It’s the Shrewsbury coroner, Doctor Gunn. I wondered how you were proceeding with plans for your husband’s funeral.”

  Freddie Bosworth breathed in hard. “Already done it,” she said. “There wasn’t much point delayin’ the funeral so we had it last Wednesday. Poor lamb. We got a nice plot in the municipal. I’ll get him a headstone sorted out too. Just can’t quite decide on the wording. Anyway, the funeral went very nicely, thanks. Apart from his brother making a bit of a scene. Never did get on, me and him.”

  Martha recalled the stocky man in the black puffer-jacket. “And how are you?”

  “Copin’, thanks. I’m grateful to you for everythin’. Don’t suppose you know when you’ll finally be done with the inquest?”

  Martha explained that she had to wait for the completion of the police investigation.

  “But that could be years.” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.

  “I’m sorry but it’s normal practice.”

  “I didn’t think things would go on so long.” Spoken quietly. “I thought it would be signed, sealed, delivered by now.”

  Martha sympathised with her but at the same time certain things had struck her during the conversation. As soon as she had put the phone down she dialled Lindy Haddonfield’s number – and got a jaunty, almost flirtatious answerphone message. “Hi, Lindy here. Was looking forward to your call. Unfortunately I’m otherwise engaged at the moment. When I’m through with that I’ll get right back to you, whoever you are.” It finished with a breathy, “Bye”, that Marilyn Monroe would have been proud of.

  Randall was waiting for her outside The Boathouse, a pub which stood on the river, right by the footbridge over the Severn, today deceptively tamed and peaceful, the only movement the V of ripples behind the swans taking their constitutional. They ordered a meal and sat, overlooking the view and making small talk until they’d eaten.

  “Did you attend Gerald Bosworth’s funeral?”

  Alex’s sharp eyes met hers. “Still at the Private Investigator stuff?”

  She blushed. “Just asking – that’s all.”

  “We did, as it happened.” Randall’s face relaxed. “I always have this Godfather superstition that anyone who lingers over the coffin is the killer.”

  “And did you have any such instincts this time round?”

  “No-o,” he said carefully.

  “And how is the Oswestry case progressing?”

  “Equally slowly.”

  “Have they found out anything about the man who accompanied Mrs Haddonfield to her husband’s inquest?”

  “David Khan, Indian from Leicester, part owner of Lilac Clouds and as far as we can find out perfectly legitimate. She’s practically living there with him now. He might be exploiting her but there’s nothing illegal in that and Khan doesn’t have a criminal record. He’s hard-working, ambitious and rich. He also gives Mrs Haddonfield a perfect alibi.”

  Martha shot Randall a sharp glance but his face was impassive. She paused to give him an opportunity to add something but there was nothing. “Do you know the bit I find surprising?”

  “No.” He was listening.

  “That Lindy Haddonfield was ever married to a window cleaner.”

  Randall frowned. “I think he was a bit more than that, Martha. He was a bit of a jack the lad. Bit of a Del Boy. Always fancied himself just about to make it big. Maybe she was swept along with his dreams.”

  “Maybe.”

  He was grinning at her. “You’re not convinced, are you?”

  “Tell me about Mrs Humphreys. Cressida Humphreys. What’s she like? I never met her, remember.”

&nb
sp; “Why on earth do you want to know about her?”

  “Humour me.”

  But Randall was regarding her with frank suspicion.

  So she tried to explain. “I’m very much on the edge of your investigations,” she said. “Sometimes it’s where I want to be. At other times it’s tantalising. I almost know what’s going on but sometimes, as in cases like this, I hardly get to meet the main characters. Cressida Humphreys is one of those.”

  “OK,” he said steadily. “She’s a big woman. I should say five-feet-ten – something like that. Well-built too, with a deep, booming voice. She’s a strong personality. And when she took a swipe at Humphreys … well -” he was sniggering – “she could have really hurt him.”

  She recalled Humphreys’ swollen, blackened nose. “She did.”

  “Exactly.”

  She moved on. “So, what’s your impression of Frederica Bosworth?”

  Randall flushed.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Oh, Alex,” she said. “Are all men so susceptible?”

  “There’s something about -”

  “So I have my answer. And yet her husband cheated on her.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Why else would he lay a trail – that he was off to Germany on a business trip – and turn up in Shropshire?”

  Her mind was suddenly busy. Buzzing like a honey bee on a hot day. She could smell nectar. Sweet reward.

  “And your conclusions, Alex?” Different from hers.

  Randall’s was the pedantic one-foot-in-front-of-another policeman’s answer. “We need a lucky break. It’ll turn out all right. Some routine enquiry will unearth some facts and from there we’ll move to another one.”

  Her mind was tracking along a quite different path. He stood up. “Mind if we walk? I’m getting restless legs.”

  They crossed the Porthill footbridge then turned right to stroll along the river together with half the population of Shrewsbury, it seemed. Lovers and mothers, aged couples and loners, friends and business acquaintances. The spring sunshine had tempted them all out of doors to take the river path, forgiving the Severn its bad behaviour at the beginning of the year. So the people of Shrewsbury ate their sandwiches sitting on the benches that were provided every few yards, licked their ice creams, zipped the ring-pulls on their cans of Coke and Fanta. It looked a peaceful scene, one that smacked of tranquil, beautiful England.