‘You mean other injuries?’
His tone grew icy. ‘Other injuries? Well, more … other pathology.’
She was apprehensive but Sullivan hadn’t finished. He steamed on. ‘The interesting thing was the brain pathology.’
‘You mean a fracture or a bleed from before the fall?’ She was struggling now as well as worrying. Did he mean an assault? And if he’d found defensive wounds or a blow to the head why was he sounding so bloody jaunty? She’d thought Mark Sullivan and Alex Randall were … if not close friends then at least friendly colleagues.
And then as surely as though he was inside the room she sensed Sullivan was backing off. Retreating behind the big convenient screen of confidentiality.
‘Look,’ he said awkwardly, ‘there’s still a lot I need to find out. I need confirmation of my theory. I’m not absolutely sure. I’m just hazarding a guess considering the history. I need to speak to Alex and get a clearer picture of his wife’s behaviour. And … umm.’ Now he was sounding more than just awkward. He was having trouble getting the words out. ‘I should be discussing this with Mr Steadman as he’s the coroner in charge. After all …’ His voice was almost accusatory. ‘It was your decision to hand this case over to a colleague rather than handle it yourself, Martha.’ It was as though he felt she had abandoned her friend when the truth was so much the opposite. She had needed to distance herself partly so she could be objective but also because it would have compromised Alex Randall to have had his friend, the coroner, conduct the inquest. If it had come out later that they were close, her verdict would forever have been open to suspicion. Even so, speaking to Mark Sullivan, she felt cold and uncomfortable, on the defensive and struggling to regain her position. ‘OK then, Mark,’ she said briskly, ‘shall we move on to Gina Marconi?’
She could immediately tell that he was more comfortable in this safe zone. ‘Did you know her?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘It was a bit tough really. I’d sort of half met her – you know, on the various circuits. She played violin in the symphony orchestra. Not brilliant but …’
‘Are you happy for me to close the inquest? I take it there’s no doubt as to cause of death?’
‘Yes.’ He puffed. ‘Take your pick. I put down multiple injuries. Broken pelvis, broken neck …’
Martha winced.
He went on: ‘Clavicle, arms, ribs and a nasty tear of the subclavian artery. Shock. Haemorrhage.’
‘And there’s no indication as to why?’
‘No.’
‘So have you anything else to add?’
Mark Sullivan gave a dry chuckle. ‘You know my remit, Martha. Not to reason why, simply do or die, report my findings. Stick to the facts. If I started to spin stories around my victims’ lives and deaths – well, there’d be no end to it. And I wouldn’t be able to do my job.’
They chatted a little while longer, but it felt false. Her old colleague, Mark Sullivan, pathologist, was on his guard, keeping something back from her. And although she thought it possible that they both suspected the same scenario, her current concern was that for about the first time since they had started working together they weren’t sharing it.
She put the phone down with a feeling of regret and loss, mourning for something gone, but hopefully not forever.
Alone in her office, she had far too much time to reflect. If only Alex was around. She could have shared these vile pictures with him, tossed ideas his way, listened as he considered every possibility as he and she had done so many times before. She was surprised at how much she missed him both as a colleague and as a friend. He would have known what to do, started a police investigation, found this monster and warned him or her off, probably with a criminal charge – but what? There was no evidence of extortion, only of manipulation. Sharing of indecent images? Yes, possibly.
Assault of a minor? Yes.
Alex would have had access to all the evidence the police would have uncovered. And he would have shared it. He would have been her back door. More than once she knew he’d stepped over the mark when they had liaised over a case. Looked the other way when she had exceeded her remit. But, although she could easily obtain his home phone number, where she guessed he would be right now, and although she longed to speak to him, even if only to hear his voice, she didn’t pick up the phone. She told herself she could pretend she’d rung to offer her condolences but she knew they would sound hollow. And he would have realized they were insincere. She dared not pick up the phone. Communications between them had to stay cut.
Until all this was all over. If it ever would be.
And now she had a new worry. What was Mark Sullivan’s theory? Were they thinking along the same lines or not? Was he worrying about the part Alex had played in his wife’s death? What other pathology of the brain? Did he mean trauma? A previous injury? The most likely finding following a fall downstairs was surely a depressed fracture of the cranium or a zygomatic arch fracture, the bone at the socket of the eyes which was as thin as tissue paper. Easily broken in a fall or after a blow to the side of the face. She pictured Alex’s long, bony fingers and knew she had only seen them balled into a fist once. And that had been when he was sharing his feelings about his wife.
I hate her.
The history of a broken neck to her had been suggestive of a traumatic spondylolisthesis of the axis – the classic hangman’s injury. The broken neck of grisly stories. But this wouldn’t be an unexpected finding. And it wouldn’t prove anything. So what was Mark Sullivan’s idea?
And as her mind drifted, tossed on a stormy sea of doubt, her thoughts inevitably returned to DI Alex Randall.
Who at that very moment was sitting at home without a clue what to do. The house seemed quiet, empty and very small. He didn’t know where he was in his life or where he would go next. What he would do. Everything seemed like a faraway never-never land, everywhere unreachable. He’d lost control of his own life through Erica’s lack of control over hers. He sank back into the sofa, leaned his head forward and rubbed his forehead as though that would remove his worries and put his thoughts back in order.
The thought that seemed to saturate his mind was that Erica was dead. And he didn’t know how he felt about that.
There would be no more embarrassment, no more anxiety, no more emergency situations brought about by his wife’s unstable mental condition. The odd thing was that at the moment it seemed like a loss. A hole in his life, a hollow in his core. He had never dared to hope that one day he might be free of her. At the same time he acknowledged the undeniable fact that pushed into him, unwelcome but inevitable as a rat in a sewer. He wasn’t free. He might never be free. This might hang around his neck as cursed as the albatross around the poor old sailor. This wasn’t over yet. He felt very alone, abandoned and isolated, as though a curtain had fallen between him and everyone else in the living world: friends, colleagues, Martha. He was alone in limbo, somewhere between the living and the dead, alone with Erica. Only he and she populated this dreadful place and this empty house.
There was no one he could ring. Everyone would be compromised by a connection. He was a leper. A pariah. Touch me and you are contaminated. His friends were all in the Force. And the one person he could and would have discussed this awful situation with was way out of bounds. He had to consider his options now, guess at what would happen next. The Force was honour-bound to treat this as a suspicious death until they had all their answers. The investigation would be thorough. And he would be suspended.
But there was one person to whom he owed a duty call: Erica’s mother. He picked up the landline.
He’d always liked his mother-in-law and she had been supportive throughout Erica’s long years of illness. He’d already told her there had been a fatal accident. With typical thoughtfulness she’d offered to come and stay, an offer Alex had declined. Erica’s mother hadn’t been upset, simply quiet, then expressing her sorrow, which had morphed into an apology though why he didn’t know – her
daughter’s mental condition was hardly her fault. Now he just filled her in on the day’s events, said that hopefully the body would be released for burial soon and a date set for the coroner’s inquest. He was fully aware that Martha Gunn had abandoned him, relinquishing responsibility and keeping at a safe distance. Talith had related this fact with as much awkwardness as if he had been responsible for her decision. But Alex understood only too well what was behind it. He had watched her deal with tragedy and complicated situations. He had seen her comfort relatives and practically accuse others of neglect. He had seen her campaign for prisoners’ rights, speak out against bullying, stick up for those whose mouths were forever sealed.
But this case would be too near her heart. Too personal. Too close to call. He would not be on her list of relatives to be comforted; neither would she be speaking as Erica’s mouthpiece. He wondered how she really felt about Erica’s death.
That was when his mobile trilled and the caller ID displayed Mark Sullivan’s number. Aware the next few minutes could be life-changing, he answered. What on earth, he wondered, was the pathologist about to say?
He made his apologies to Erica’s mother and spoke to Sullivan before he rang off or, even worse, left a cryptic and ambiguous message which would worry him until he learned the truth.
Ten minutes later he was staring at the wall. Alex Randall was not a man given to swearing but in the circumstances no other word would do.
‘Oh, fuck.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Friday, 7 April. 6 p.m.
Martha was glad to get home and leave it all behind her, even if Sukey was there with Pomeroy taking up most of the kitchen space. They appeared to be on a prolonged visit. She hadn’t heard yet when they planned to leave and return to Bristol. But Sukey was ‘between jobs’ and that, she supposed, was what life was like as a student/actress. She only hoped that her daughter, beautiful and talented though she undoubtedly was, had a career Plan B, because in her opinion acting was a profession that needed a decent back-up plan. Pomeroy, her boyfriend, was far too arrogant to bother with anything so mundane as a back-up plan, even though he didn’t exactly have work lined up either. He was, as far as Martha could tell, content to do very little except criticize her daughter. What she couldn’t work out was why the hell Sukey put up with it. She eyed him across the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of wine. She supposed he was handsome in a dissolute, lazy, casual sort of way. He had floppy brown hair, very smooth skin, quite nice brown eyes and good teeth. He was average height and build but, in Martha’s opinion, he was nothing special. He wasn’t unintelligent, but an education at one of the top public schools combined with overindulgent parents and a plain and intellectually compromised sister all added up to a spoilt brat who overrated his place in the world, in Martha’s opinion. Whereas Sukey had more or less grown up in a single-parent family where her mother worked hard to keep them, and considered herself lucky to get any acting work, Pomeroy simply lapped them up as his due – when he got any parts at all. He was, Martha surmised, not that popular even in the indulgent world of the thespians. His arrogance, she felt, might well cost him his career.
She’d heard his voice as she’d let herself in through the front door. Hectoring. ‘Well, I wouldn’t take it. I mean, it’s beneath you.’ The laconic, lazy tone of his voice had sent needles up Martha’s spine. She’d longed to intervene.
Sukey’s voice back had sounded timid, cowed – which made Martha’s blood boil. She hadn’t brought her daughter up to accept this lowered state. ‘I don’t know, Pomeroy – at least it’s a job. It’ll pay the rent, you know.’
When she’d entered the kitchen they’d already opened a bottle of – quick glance – expensive wine. Sukey was looking beseechingly across while Pomeroy looked – well, he looked perturbed. She looked again, checked she’d read him right.
That was interesting. Maybe her daughter was, at last, sticking up for herself?
‘Hi, Mum.’
Martha scrutinized her daughter’s face. It looked thinner these days – a bit like what her mother with her Irish talent for finding the right word would have called ‘peaky’.
While Pomeroy looked … smug. Instinctively Martha knew her mother would dislike Pomeroy on sight. No doubt about it. Sparks would fly whenever, if ever, they met.
She eyed the half-empty bottle of wine. Sukey eyed it too with a hint of guilt. It was Chasse du Pape, twenty-five pounds a bottle. Without a word Sukey crossed the kitchen, fetched a glass from the cupboard and poured Martha a huge slug, which she handed to her with a look of mute apology from big blue eyes. Martha took it as one anyway. ‘Thank you, darling.’
‘How was your day, Mum?’
At least she was making an effort.
‘I’ll be honest, Sukes,’ she said, sinking into a chair, ‘not great.’
The conversation was halted by a huge noise coming from the front door. Voices, doors slamming, footsteps. A people-quake. The next moment Sam was filling the kitchen with his presence and that of four of his mates. Their sheer ebullience more than filled any awkward silences. All their talk was of offsides and passes, chances missed and a certain amount of teasing about stamina, speed, goalposts hit. Boy talk. Football talk. Apart from a ‘Hi, sis’ to Sukey, the pair at the table were virtually ignored.
As was Martha, until she said the magic words. ‘Anyone hungry?’
Silly question.
There is nothing like one’s family to bring you down to earth, Martha thought as she opened the fridge to cheese, tomatoes and olives, defrosted some French bread, found some leftover apple pie and cream.
It was all soon gone.
The evening was saved. Whatever Pomeroy and Sukey had been talking about when she had arrived home was shelved. By the time Sam and his team members had dispersed it was ten o’clock and she was not ready for any sort of confrontation with Pomeroy, who had a habit of scoring points and almost visibly chalking up any ‘victories’ whether it be about general knowledge or travel or anything else that he considered himself an authority on, which basically covered everything.
And, in Martha’s opinion, covered nothing.
Strange that a life can be so neatly divided in half – the traumas and tragedies of her work, and her harum-scarum home life. Unlike Gina, Patrick and Alex, for whom the unhappiness of home and work or school had somehow seeped into their personal life and infected their entire existence.
She wouldn’t have it any other way but, it appeared, they had had no choice.
TWENTY-NINE
Monday, 10 April, 11 a.m.
Martha had kept the sad photographs of Patrick Elson in a drawer while she puzzled over what to do next.
From Alex she’d heard absolutely nothing. That was to be expected. But neither did she hear from David Steadman or Mark Sullivan. She was well and truly out of the loop. Fumbling and blind. So she was left to wonder.
She transported herself back to that brief, cryptic conversation and tried to extract something tangible.
‘The interesting thing was the brain pathology.’
‘You mean a fracture or a bleed from the fall?’ That had been when she had sensed Sullivan backing off.
‘There’s still a lot I need to find out. I’m not absolutely sure. I’m just hazarding a guess.’ But pathology is not guesswork. It is scientific and structured. If you don’t know something the saying is you don’t guess but confess.
‘I need to interview Alex again and get a clearer picture of his wife’s behaviour.’
What for? What on earth did Sullivan think he could learn about Erica’s death from her behaviour?
And then there had been the final blow. The smack in the face. ‘I should be discussing this with Mr Steadman as he’s the coroner in charge. After all … it was your decision to hand Alex’s case over to a colleague rather than handle it yourself, Martha.’
What had he found? What did he suspect? Were his suspicions mirroring her own? She drummed her fingers on the des
k. And that did nothing at all except irritate her.
Use your brain, love. Her father’s words, puffing on a pipe he shouldn’t even have been smoking. Use your brain.
And so she did. She ran through the possibilities, tried and tested her theory by revising the facts.
Erica Randall had been unpredictable since the birth of her damaged baby. Medicine dislikes coincidence. It likes to link adverse events. The shock and tragedy of giving birth to Christopher Randall, the child who had lived for just a few hours, had been the explanation for her mental state. But was it possible that her mental problems had another cause?
What if cause and effect had been reversed? She logged into her medical data account and checked a few facts. An hour later she longed to pick up the phone and ask Mark Sullivan what tests he had ordered.
She plonked herself back down in her chair. He wasn’t going to share it with her, which gave her only one option – speak to David Steadman, crawl on her knees and ask him. And that, she reflected, would be a big mistake at the moment. Steadman would know. He was a clever man. Intuitive. He probably already knew that her passing the case to him had been more than politeness and formality. If she continued to pursue the truth he would know that she was emotionally involved right up to her armpits.
Perhaps, she thought with typical optimism, Steadman had already sensed her involvement and would soon get back in touch. And then she could put her theory to the test. Already she was feeling hopeful. Redemption, she thought, followed by justice.
The rest of the day passed in unsatisfactory fashion, an anti-climax after the optimism of the morning. She had still not worked out how to speak to Terence Marconi.
And when she arrived home Pomeroy and Sukey were still there – and another bottle of red wine was opened. Rioja Superior this time.
As she let herself in through the front door to hear his nasal tones she wanted to know how long they were planning to stay. In other words, when were they going? Martha felt awful, but it wasn’t her daughter that she wanted to wave goodbye to. It was the bloody boyfriend. Besides, they had a small but nice rented flat between them in Bristol (paid for partly by her). Surely they would prefer to be there? Private? Without Mother hanging around?
Bridge of Sighs Page 14
