By the gleam in Jericho’s eyes he was getting this completely. ‘I’ll keep you informed if I hear anything, ma’am,’ he said.
‘And Jericho.’
He turned. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Thank you for the biscuits.’
He gave a watery smile and left.
She had work to do, other troubling cases. She needed to prepare her statements and format for the morning’s inquest. Her hand brushed on the two sets of notes which she had been reluctant to file.
Patrick Elson and his jump from the A5 bridge. He had died instantly but in the resulting mayhem and pile-up four other people had been injured, none seriously, and taken to hospital. All four had been discharged later that day. It had been an unexpected consequence of the suicide, unlike Gina Marconi’s death, which had only had a physical impact on Graham Skander’s wall.
What, she wondered, had led this boy to commit such a violent act? Was it sexual assault?
Her hand found the second set. Gina Marconi.
Like Patrick, another violent suicide, certainly not the overused cliché of a cry for help. Rather it had been a determined scream for death, at sixty miles per hour and with her seat belt unbuckled driving straight into a wall. Neither Gina nor Patrick had had any intention of surviving. Unless Gina had simply missed the corner? Leaving her bed, her mobile phone and asking her mother to look after Terence should anything happen to her? Unlikely but not impossible. She made a mental note to visit the scene of the crash.
She drank her coffee, munched abstractedly on the chocolate biscuits and flicked on to the website of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, searching through suicides.
There were numerous papers published on the subject, lots of theories, talk about signs of depression, of the leaving of the note, of the mode and time, of the feelings of guilt in those left behind, of the denial of any knowledge that anything was wrong. Then there were anecdotes of the health care professionals who had had earlier contact with the deceased. The bottom line was that in most cases there were signs that something was wrong but both professionals and family had not realized the severity of the condition. In very few was there no hint that something was building up. Interestingly this applied in particular to violent and determined suicides which both Patrick’s and Gina’s were. They had both left behind a cluster of bewildered family and friends who had thought nothing was wrong.
In Gina’s case this had extended to her fiancée. But, Martha reasoned, something had been wrong. Something must have been.
And Erica Randall?
Plenty of signs there that something had been wrong. But in Erica’s case suicide was unlikely. People who really want to die do not throw themselves down a staircase. Far too unreliable. Besides, Erica’s mental collapse had always been blamed on the birth of Christopher Randall, their little boy born without a head, without a chance of life.
She worried now. Who knew what evidence Mark Sullivan’s post-mortem would expose – drugs, alcohol, medication? Statements from family, friends, GP, psychiatrist? What would David Steadman unearth, now she’d passed the baton over to him? What facts would he bury deep and lay to rest and what would he expose? How much would Alex have to go through? What would the final verdict be?
She tried to guess …
Homicide? Martha shook her head. Unlikely without proof. A little like a suicide attempt, pushing someone down a flight of stairs is equally unreliable as a form of murder. But nevertheless, a push, a shove, in the heat of an argument can result in manslaughter. Alex was surely not capable of deliberate violent assault. But a push? In a moment of frustration? She had glimpsed his feeling of powerlessness against his circumstances, witnessed his frustration with life, his wife, his marriage, his envy for her own children, her precious twins. People would gossip. The gossip would smoulder. For a moment she allowed herself to dream. If or when Alex Randall had another relationship the flames of gossip would be fanned. Particularly if that person (that lucky person) was the coroner who had tried the case of his wife. No, no that would never do. Whatever happened in the future she had done the right thing in handing the case over to Steadman.
So without corroborative evidence, what would be his final verdict?
Probably ‘unexplained’, the verdict that leaves the door wide open for endless accusations and gossip. And a verdict which covers a few more scenarios, a fall, a trip, a push, a dive?
And then her mind took an unexpected turn. Was it possible that Erica’s death was, in reality, another suicide?
She spent a minute or two considering this option from a coroner’s point of view and shook her head. Given the documented state of Erica’s mind a suicide verdict was very unlikely. No, her instinct was that it would be the worst verdict of all, for everyone concerned – the woolly, unsatisfactory unexplained. A permanent question mark, sands that would shift like the tide, ebbing and flowing as rumour found a voice and died or proliferated. Martha knew how it was. You stick a label on someone. She could hear the voice. Oh, him? The one who most likely (said behind a fluttering hand) killed his wife and went on to …
And would the post-mortem prove anything? Probably not. No. There would be no happy ending for her and Alex. Neither of them could afford for their names to be linked in anything but a professional scenario.
NINETEEN
Monday, 3 April. 3 p.m.
She looked at her watch. At this very moment Mark Sullivan would be performing the post-mortem on Erica Randall.
At 3.15 she dialled the police station, telling herself that she was ringing to inform the Shrewsbury force that she would not be dealing with the death of Mrs Randall. Any reports, queries or arrangements should be directed at her colleague. Luckily the call was answered by PC Gary Coleman, whose head was so full of thoughts of his upcoming wedding that he was hardly likely to wonder why the coroner was taking an interest in this case if she had handed it over to a colleague.
‘Gary,’ she said brightly, ‘how are the wedding plans going?’
‘Wonderful.’ His voice was bright with enthusiasm. ‘All set for the summer.’ He couldn’t resist adding in some detail. ‘We’ve even chosen the wine.’
Martha smiled. This was one of the things she liked about PC Coleman. Most men’s responses when you ask them how their wedding plans are going is ignorance or boredom. They’re leaving it all to the wife and/or the impending mother-in-law. Guests, dress, wine, food, church. The groom just does his duty, turns up sober and on time on the day wearing the specified cravat, waistcoat and morning suit, makes nothing but complimentary comments in his speech and pays for the honeymoon.
But not Gary Coleman. He was full of it. The venue, the cake, the dress (not that he’d seen it of course, Mrs Gunn!). And then halfway through he remembered who he was speaking to. ‘Mrs Gunn, I’m so sorry. Who did you want to speak to?’
She made a stab at who would be the SIO now that Alex was out of the running. ‘DS Talith?’
‘He’s, ummm …’ Acute embarrassment. She could almost feel the warmth of his blush over the wire and guess at its cause.
Gary Coleman confirmed her suspicions. ‘He’s just with the inspector at the moment. Can I get him to call you back?’
‘No.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘Just tell him I’ve arranged for David Steadman, the coroner for South Shropshire, to hold the inquest for Mrs Randall.’
‘Right.’ The awkwardness was still there.
She couldn’t resist it. ‘That isn’t to say,’ she added crisply, ‘that I wouldn’t want to be kept informed.’
‘Oh. Right you are. All right, Mrs Gunn.’
‘Do you have the result of the post-mortem?’
‘Not yet, Mrs Gunn.’
‘Right. I’ll be interested in the result.’
‘Of course.’
‘I may not be handling the case, PC Coleman, but I would like to be kept in the loop.’ It was as far as she dared go.
His response was politely predictable. ‘Yes, of course
, Mrs Gunn.’
And that was that. She’d shot her bolt, done what she ought. Now it was up to Alex’s colleagues to investigate, Mark Sullivan for the medical forensic evidence, the scene-of-crime analysers and, of course, David Steadman, her appointed deputy as coroner.
They said their goodbyes and hung up.
3.30 p.m.
In the mortuary, Mark Sullivan was conducting the post-mortem on Erica Randall.
Peter, the mortician, had begun with the basic measurements.
Weight: 10 stone – 63 kilograms.
Height: 167 centimetres – 5 feet, 6 inches.
In good health. Erica’s body was stripped naked and scrutinized for external injuries. There were a few bruises on her limbs consistent with the fall. Sullivan ran his hands down her arms and legs searching for distorted limbs which would warrant an X-ray. There were none. He was being videoed as he worked and took his own notes. Some observations he kept to himself. Ragged nails, unkempt hair, grey and undyed. The clothes that had been taken off were shapeless cheap garments. Erica had patently not been a woman who had taken pride in her appearance. Her hands were roughened. But once … Mark Sullivan studied her face in true repose. Once she might have been a beauty. Or she might not. She had a good complexion but her face was scored with lines of unhappiness.
He and the mortician used the Stryker saw to open her cranium and he worked for over an hour on her head and neck searching for answers.
Martha had been waiting for a call but at four thirty she was too fidgety to remain in her office.
She stood up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. We are all at our best when faced with a challenge, and the gleam in her eyes plus a certain alertness in her stance told her everything. She would do her bit for her friend. She slipped her jacket on, determined now. Whatever it cost, if the truth was out there she would find it. She owed it to him.
She left her office and went over to Jericho’s desk. ‘Do you know DI Randall’s home address?’
TWENTY
She already knew that Alex lived in Church Stretton, a small town at the foothills of the Long Mynd and Stiperstones, large lumpy hills in the Shropshire countryside. Church Stretton itself was a quaint town with a large antiques centre, the ubiquitous Co-op and some individual shops. Full of legend and folklore, the Stretton hills were a popular destination for mountain bikers, hikers and people wanting wide open spaces and views that did, literally, take your breath away. To get to the top was a stiff climb.
The town itself nestled in the foothills. And Alex’s house sat on the southern edge of the main street. At the end of a cluster of ex-council houses was a small, tucked-away estate consisting largely of 1940s semis, sturdily stone built, with generous double garages, small front gardens and space for parking. She turned into the road and parked, looked up and down. There was no one around. The estate looked quietly deserted, the street sunny, backing on to fields, and between two of the properties there was a narrow footpath whose sign promised a park and ultimately a duck pond. It all looked quiet and innocent. No one would believe the drama that had taken place here a few nights ago, but she could picture it. Blue lights strafing the sky, open doors, panic and consultation. It had all melted away now as though it had never been.
Martha locked her car and walked up the street looking for signs of life – anyone who might have witnessed something – but the houses were all neat and quiet with parking space for two cars at the front, most of which were currently empty. Everyone was out at work or inside having their tea, watching TV. It looked deserted.
Alex’s house was at the top, much as she would have expected it, as tucked away as it could manage. It looked uninviting, innocent, anonymous and also soulless. There was no sign of individuality or personality. Nothing. If a house could manage to look sad then this one did. It looked as unloved as a stray animal. He had told her it was not a happy home, but nothing could have prepared her for this blank sheet or the feeling of depression that seemed to emanate from its walls. No love had been poured into it or seeped out of it. No little touches, draped curtains in the bedroom windows or rose bushes in the front patch. It was in a good state of repair but there were no flowerpots, no house name, no sign of affection. The downstairs curtains were drawn, shielding the interior from curious stares or the paparazzi. There was no sign of the recent drama either – no forensic van parked outside, no officer on guard, no police tape. No notice on the door. Nothing. That was a good sign. It meant the investigation had not been escalated and was still currently low key. Waiting for the post-mortem results, at a guess. But that was where things could change. One bruise in the wrong place, an injury or sign of other assault and the police vans would soon come chasing, DI or not. But the post-mortem would almost certainly prove nothing. Seeing a Ford in the drive – Alex’s, Erica’s? – Martha did not dare linger but walked back down the road and returned to her office. So that was chez Alex. She felt a bit sad. What had she hoped to achieve by driving down here? To speak to him? Find out the true story behind his wife’s death? She didn’t even know that. How had her being there helped?
Well, she had other work to do. Jericho handed her a couple of sets of notes. People are dying all the time. So she forced herself to do the job she was paid to do.
And now that included two files. Two suicides, and Erica who was not her responsibility. Her instincts, as coroner, were telling her that there was something different about two of the deaths, and she couldn’t work out why she bracketed Erica Randall’s sad little accident in with two violent suicides. On the surface and beneath the surface there was nothing to link them. Maybe, she decided, it was only that they had all happened in the last few weeks and all were unusual for one reason or another. Somewhere behind these tragedies there would be explanations, but she might never learn them.
Erica Randall might not be her responsibility but she was of personal interest.
It was the other two cases, the boy Patrick Elson and the woman Gina Marconi, which were her responsibility, and she shouldn’t be diverted from doing her job. She was the one who should speak for them. But how could she when she did not know their stories? Her years of experience as a coroner had taught her much. If she was unhappy about a case, at some point, maybe far into the future, there would be an explanation. Events happen for a reason. It is the way of life. Experience builds up instinct. And her instincts were screaming and crying at the same time. Something was pulling at her. Trouble was she didn’t know in what direction.
But she knew children. Twelve-year-old boys don’t just hurl themselves off bridges into the path of oncoming traffic and an inevitably ugly, terrifying, painful death; neither do successful professional women with a fiancé and young son kill themselves.
The two cases were linked somehow by an invisible thread. Both were violent, determined and successful suicide bids.
And Erica Randall? Probably an accident. At the same time two things burrowed into her mind. The first: why was her mind stubbornly linking Erica’s death with the two suicides?
Had she picked up on something that made her believe Erica Randall had deliberately hurled herself down the stairs? Was that why she was bracketing them together? She knew Alex’s wife had been unhappy. He had described her as ‘tortured’. Tortured was one way to describe a pre-suicidal mental state. Throwing oneself downstairs could be accidental, a trip, or it could have been an act of desperation. David Steadman would be the one to unravel Erica’s story. And it was up to her to do the same for Patrick and Gina. She had studied their photographs, willing them to speak to her. Patrick a slim, earnest-looking boy who wore thick glasses and had what her mother would have called buck teeth. Maybe they would have been straightened when he was older. Gina was a confident, radiant-looking beauty with a dazzling smile, thick dark hair, big eyes and a wide mouth. And Erica? She did not know what Erica looked like. Alex had never described his wife and she had never met her or seen a photograph. So what had she looked like? And now Marth
a was curious. Had Alex’s wife been a beauty or plain? Was she fat or thin? Did she habitually hold an anxious, haunted look? That was how Martha had always pictured her. Or had she smothered her anxieties with a pleasant smile and polite expression? And so … Had this faceless woman hurled herself down the stairs just as Patrick had sky-dived off the A5 bridge and Gina had pressed her foot down on the accelerator having released her seat belt? If she had it on in the first place.
Did that link them – a desire for death? Just that?
Riding on these thoughts was a worry. What exactly was Alex Randall saying down at the station?
Or – and this was the worry that gnawed at her – was he saying nothing and yet not at liberty to leave? Were they keeping him there? Were they considering charging him?
TWENTY-ONE
Monday, 3 April, 6 p.m.
Two and a half miles away, at Monkmoor Police Station, the interview was ongoing but DS Talith was going easy on his boss. He knew the DI had made every attempt to keep his home life a closed zone. The pain this exposure was causing him was just as bad as being blatantly accused of murdering his wife.
Which Talith had no intention of doing.
‘Just give me the events, sir.’ Talith was determined for his boss to maintain his position and dignity, something which DI Randall picked up on. He flashed his sergeant a look of gratitude.
He cleared his throat and prepared to lay bare his private life. ‘Erica, as you know, was not a well woman. She was extremely unpredictable.’ Randall’s eyes flicked across the room to the recording light. Off.
Bridge of Sighs Page 10
