Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  She stood there as the traffic, cautioned by the police signs, crept past, drivers peering nosily out of windscreens now rain-soaked, wiper blades trying to swoosh the water away and give clear visibility. Sometimes the weather matched the mood so perfectly it intensified the emotion. But, in spite of the rain, Martha stood still, trying to transport her mind backwards, trying to insert herself into Gina Marconi’s desperate state, and from there to imagine the scene moments later when the owner of the house and the wall – Mr Graham Skander, retired civil servant – had peered through his curtains, rung the emergency services and, with typical propriety, put his dressing gown on and run outside. So he had been the first to see the scene of devastation, the car crushed and embedded into the wall, the woman collapsed at the wheel, the radiator steaming into the night air. According to his statement the woman had been unresponsive when he had shouted, with dreadful hindsight and cruel irony, ‘Are you all right?’

  And yet, Martha realized, it is what we all do. She had once been first on the scene of a fatal accident where an elderly lady had suffered a traumatic amputation of her leg. Her question had been the same: Are you all right? Knowing, hoping, that the woman was already dead rather than suffering.

  She’d read Skander’s statement. The police with typical pedantic stoicism had asked Mr Skander whether Gina had made any response, recording his answer with the same stolid literalism. ‘Not a flicker,’ he’d said. And so any explanation Gina might have given had died with her.

  But something of the civil servant remained. Graham Skander had not abandoned the dead woman or the crash scene but had waited stoically, not leaving her side for eight long minutes, while police, ambulance and fire engines sliced through the night with flashing blue lights and muted sirens.

  Over an hour later, finally freed from the wreckage, Gina had finally been pronounced dead at the scene. Under recent legislation the SIO, quick on the scene even at that unearthly hour, had authorized her removal to the mortuary and on Monday morning Martha had been informed and it had been arranged for the car to be removed on a low loader ready for a forensic inspection. End of story and the beginning of the investigation.

  But however hard she focused, closed her eyes and tried to absorb the scene, Martha was no nearer the truth.

  She would not find answers here, at this bleak roadside, where bright, beautiful and clever Gina Marconi had died. ‘Come on, Roberts,’ she said, tempted to pat his big, unhappy shoulder, ‘let’s go back to Shrewsbury.’

  She headed back to the car, Roberts in her wake. What had she expected anyway, she thought dejectedly. All she had achieved was that every time she travelled along this stretch of road she would remember. And then she stopped in her tracks.

  She glanced across at Roberts, who looked, if anything, even more dejected. She had the feeling that he too was glad to abandon the scene. He certainly marched very smartly, holding the car door open for her with a grin that didn’t fool her for a moment. Just before she climbed into the passenger seat she paused, again tempted to ask him what the problem was but, held back by protocol, she climbed in with no more than a nod. Once or twice during the journey home Roberts did glance across, even opening his mouth as though to ask her something or confide in her, but it was only as they turned into the car park of her office that he asked his one and only question.

  ‘Mrs Gunn,’ he said hesitantly, turning to face her, ‘do you have to be a doctor as well as a lawyer to be a coroner?’

  ‘These days it’s preferable,’ she responded gently, wondering whether – heavens above – this was the boy’s ambition? If so he had a long way to climb. A levels, medical school, pre-registration trial by sleeplessness.

  ‘When I started you could be either.’

  ‘So you’re a doctor?’

  ‘I am.’

  At that he shot out of the car, whisked around and opened the door for her with surprising grace for PC Roberts. Without banging his knees, arms or head.

  She thanked him.

  Back in her office, a message from DS Paul Talith was waiting for her on her answerphone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Just to let you know, ma’am – I thought you’d want to know – DI Randall’s just left. We don’t need to hold him. We know where he lives.’ That sounded sinister, almost a threat.

  He’d hesitated, unsure how far to go. ‘According to his statement his wife was …’ another pause. ‘Upset.’

  ‘The post-mortem,’ he began again, having trouble finding the words. ‘Post-mortem,’ he repeated slowly, ‘… Doctor Sullivan. He’s waiting for results before he’ll commit himself.’ This last sentence came out in a rush.

  Had he been there on the end of the line she would have questioned him sharply: What results?

  After a noisy clearing of the throat he finished with, ‘Thank you, Mrs Gunn.’

  After absorbing the message she rang him back. ‘Thank you for keeping me informed, Sergeant Talith. It must have been difficult for you, interviewing a colleague.’

  ‘Yes, but … I knew he couldn’t have done anything. He can’t have, surely?’ His very tone suggested that he was not sure.

  She too wished she could be certain. ‘I take it you’ve let Mr Steadman know as he’s the coroner in charge?’ She realized as the words came out that she hadn’t quite erased a tacit criticism from the slight emphasis to the word. As though she wanted to distance herself.

  Talith was quick to respond. ‘Yes, ma’am. Of course we have. He just wants to wait for a few other tests and the post-mortem results and then he’ll set a date for the inquest. He said it was almost certainly accidental and once he’s got the results back …’

  Ah, yes – the results. She waited but Talith wasn’t sharing.

  ‘Once he’s got the results back he’ll be absolutely sure.’

  ‘Good.’ This was good news. But as she put the phone down she acknowledged it wasn’t – not really. The truth may not be quite as clear cut as the optimistic DS and her colleague from South Shropshire might imply – and probably wanted to believe. It was that one word that had alerted her – almost.

  In the end curiosity got the better of her and she picked up the phone again, this time to connect with Mark Sullivan’s mobile. At least she had a bona fide reason for wanting to speak to the pathologist.

  ‘I understand the post-mortem on Alex’s wife has now taken place?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, suspecting nothing. ‘And I understand he’s been brought in for questioning.’

  ‘Yes. And released, I believe …’ But she worried now that she had shown her hand, defended him a little too quickly while knowing exactly what she was up to. Trying to influence outcomes. Strictly forbidden – if not downright illegal. It could cost her her job. Coroners are expected to be impartial. How do you do that, she challenged, when a friend and colleague is involved?

  She couldn’t continue doing this, skipping across boundaries, in and out of a case. Getting involved was too risky and ultimately would not help Alex anyway. Mark Sullivan was far too intelligent a man and doctor not to know exactly what she was doing – and guess the reason why. And Steadman would not be bought or influenced, but …

  Sullivan gave a long sigh. ‘I don’t really want to say anything, Martha, not until I’m sure.’

  ‘Was the PM conclusive?’ She just couldn’t stop fishing.

  Sullivan chuckled. ‘When are they?’

  She didn’t even try to answer this one. It would be skipping through a minefield.

  ‘But in this case I think I’ve a pretty good idea. It could answer questions. Just be patient and I’ll be in touch with Mr Steadman.’

  It was a rebuke and she wriggled out.

  ‘Well,’ she continued briskly, ‘I didn’t really ring you about Mrs Randall anyway. I wondered if you’d had any further thoughts about the Gina Marconi case?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, my role was simply to connect her injuries with the impact. I don’t step outside the box,
Martha, you know that. You’ve seen my full report?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  He paused but, if she had moved on, he hadn’t.

  ‘Do you want a full report on the results of the PM on Erica Randall?’

  ‘Umm. I don’t know, Mark.’ Lucky he was a friend. ‘I’m in a difficult position. That’s why I asked David to manage the case.’

  ‘I’ll give Jericho a call,’ he said gently. ‘Let him know. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Mark. I appreciate it.’

  As she put the phone down she was already working through her own list of people who might be able to answer questions. Erica Randall aside, she could not rid herself of the feeling that there was a link between the two suicides she was dealing with. She might be able to deflect Gina’s death, even explain it, but she was aware that there was nothing to connect two such disparate people. They could not possibly have met. Different ages, different social class. Only the determination behind their final acts connected them. Was there something more? Something she was missing?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Martha didn’t need to go over the facts again. She knew them all off by heart. And yet she was still missing something. Probably staring right at it.

  Sitting quietly in her office with no distractions, Martha was able to dig deep into her experience as a coroner and focus on this one case, revise what she believed. Gina Marconi had loved her mother, her son and her fiancé, and she would have spared them from this pain if she had been able. Perhaps Gina’s personal life really had been as perfect as it appeared. Happy and comfortable. But what about her professional life? She was a lawyer who had mingled with dark forces. What was it Curtis Thatcher had said?

  ‘She dealt with the underworld.’

  Martha nodded and recalled something else Thatcher had said.

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Mosha was in her debt. He’s an evil fellow with a lot of influence. There have been some very dark rumours of murder, torture, bribery, organized crime. If these are true he would have protected her.’

  From threats made by other criminals? From blackmail?

  ‘They were better off in prison.’ Better off? For whom? For them? Had he meant safer on the inside than on the outside? And then his next comment: ‘That even defending them put her in a tricky position.’

  Tricky in this instance meant vulnerable. Was there something there? Something Gina had not quite handled right? Had one of her villainous clients a score to settle? And somehow exposed or threatened to expose some anomaly? Martha shifted in her chair. It would have to have been under Mosha Steventon’s radar or he would have avenged her. Who could have known about this? Obviously her partner, Curtis Thatcher. How much would he have known about Gina’s cases? How much had she shared? Did they work together? Even as she wondered about him too she started planning her next move. It seemed a promising area to begin with.

  She kept the notes on her desk. The trouble was her link with the police – her mole, Alex, was no longer active. He had his own problems to deal with and was suspended or on ‘gardening leave’ or ‘enforced holiday’ or whatever it was called these days, so she would be restricted to formal channels. Enter by the front door. And tread very gently.

  But before events had removed him she and Alex had talked about these two cases and agreed on a few facts. He had been just as wary and dissatisfied with the lack of explanation as she was and he had been aware that she would dig deeper. Alex had helped up to a point, but mobile phone records had revealed little, mainly calls to family and friends. And nothing conclusive had been unearthed during interviews. Colleagues at work (her secretary and the cleaner) had said she had appeared distracted recently. But they always say that after the event and there was no detail. Her secretary had added she had seemed a bit dreamy.

  What imminent bride is not?

  Martha cupped her chin in her hand and dreamed herself. Dreamy, distracted. She made a silent apology – Forgive me for being a romantic – but didn’t that sound just like a woman anticipating a wedding to a heroic character?

  But if you factor in a suicide with someone appearing dreamy or distracted prior to her wedding the picture forming starts to look rather different. Had Gina been having second thoughts? Had Gina let herself down? Was she about to let Julius down? Her mother and son too, who had formed such a close bond with him?

  Only one way to find out.

  She picked up the phone and asked Jericho to make further appointments with Gina Marconi’s mother, her fiancé and her son. Feeling she was fumbling her way forward in understanding Gina’s death she put her notes to one side and picked up Patrick Elson’s file.

  Her other mystery.

  A little like Gina Marconi’s, his life had appeared on the surface clean and untroubled. Yes, he was being brought up by a lone mum and there was little evidence of a father figure, but Patrick had been part of a huge extended and loving family. He had grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The Elsons had been a large, rumbustious, supportive family and financially sound – not wealthy, but they had managed. Amanda Elson had a part-time job as a support teacher. Martha picked up the school photograph of the boy, looked at his confident, freckled face, his big grin. It could have been Sam, her own son, footballer, wannabe teacher. She imagined how she would feel if he too had jumped off a bridge on to a road and into the path of fast-moving traffic. Her heart almost stopped at the thought. It was too awful. She suppressed the urge to ring him. Right now. Check he was OK.

  She glanced at her watch. He would be in training.

  So instead, when she picked up the phone she asked Jericho to make another appointment with Amanda Elson. Now she had her distractions. Adding the two cases to her routine work would keep her busy; her next few days spoken for. It would make it easier for her to hold back on her instinct to try and find out the truth behind Erica Randall’s death.

  She could leave that to the police, David Steadman and Dr Mark Sullivan. It was their job. Not hers.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Friday, 7 April, 11 a.m.

  Martha had been fidgety all morning, knowing that Mark Sullivan was probably getting the answers to Erica Randall’s death. It was a curious sensation. She had no feelings for the woman – she’d never met her – but she’d attended enough post-mortems to know exactly what assaults her body had been subjected to. The body which Alex must once have loved. She left her desk, agitated now, and moved to the bay window. Perhaps the view of the town would calm her. But no. The spire of St Chad’s Church only reminded her of death. She tried to block out the vision of Sullivan’s fingers teasing out a dead person’s story, slicing up specimens, probing with fingers and scalpel, measuring contusions and abrasions, finding out the story, re-enacting sequences of events by piecing together physical signs. Exploration of the brain, the sternal split, analysis of each and every single bruise and injury, specimens for chemical analysis. Someone else peering down a microscope, preparation of slides, centrifuging bloods, chemical analysis. She knew the processes off by heart. What had he found? Had Alex any hand in his wife’s death? Even the slightest pressure between the shoulder blades as she stood at the top of the stairs?

  She looked at the phone once or twice, fought the temptation to pick it up, make that call, but at the same time knowing she couldn’t. She did ring through to Jericho, but just the once to ask if any messages had been left and almost congratulated herself on her restraint. There were messages – plenty of them – but not the ones she had hoped for.

  So she waited for Patrick’s mother and aunt. Jericho had persuaded them to attend at two o’clock that afternoon.

  The two women were bang on time and entered, clutching each other tightly. Amanda looked panicky while her sister supported her with a hand on her forearm.

  ‘We’ve fixed a date for Patrick’s inquest,’ Martha opened with the blunt fact. ‘Wednesday the nineteenth. It will be held at Shirehall in Abbey Foregate at ten a.m. If you want anyone to speak for y
our son let my officer, Jericho, know. We will accommodate anyone you feel might have something to contribute.’

  Amanda nodded, her grip on her sister’s hand tightening.

  For the briefest of seconds the two women exchanged glances. And Martha picked up that there was something conspiratorial in the look. Her antennae quivered. She could sense conflict between these two women, who up until now had appeared close sisters.

  The look they exchanged spelt out: Do we tell her or not?

  And she sensed they had a conflict, a question they dared not ask. But she had a question too. Why had Patrick trailed two miles to the bridge over a fast section of the A5, lugging his schoolbag, his homework completed? Why, on that particular morning, had he committed suicide in that very public fashion? As though he wanted the world to see, to bear witness. As though … Martha fumbled with the thought. As though he had wanted the headline.

  And, as she studied Amanda Elson’s face, a phrase that Gina’s mother, Bridget, had used swam into her mind. At least I didn’t have to find her body. Was this the way Patrick’s mind had worked? Or had he considered the thought that his mother might find him halfway through an attempt – before he was dead – and bring him round? Tablets, slashed wrists, car exhaust fumes were notoriously easy to intervene.

  She looked from one to the other and waited, hoping her silence might flush out the sisters’ secret. Then she caught the slightest shake of Amanda’s head, little more than a shiver in her hair.

  No.

  Their decision. But she was finding it hard to be excluded from whatever secret they were hiding and so, after a pause to give them the opportunity to enlarge, she pushed. ‘Have you thought of any reason why Patrick was driven to this?’