Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Crikey,’ he’d said. ‘Poor you. Practically brand-new Merc and it cranks out on you.’ Was she imagining a hint of malice? She eyed him suspiciously, but this time read only sincerity. Had she been wrong about him? Was he possibly just one of those people who had an unfortunate manner? Said things out of awkwardness rather than true malice? Well, she had enough to deal with now without undoing her character assassination of Sukey’s current boyfriend.

  The Toyota they provided wasn’t quite the Mercedes but it would do for now. However, a little like having your home violated by a burglar, she knew she wouldn’t feel quite the same affection for the car when she had it back, doubtless as good as new. She would still run her fingers along the paintwork and, however skilled a job they managed, would still feel all the letters of Lewsinki’s message. She would be swapping it in the near future.

  On the other end of the phone was PC Sean Dart, the one Alex had described to her as a ‘dark horse’. Somewhere in his past a dark secret lurked but this morning that was far from her mind. He was simply passing on information that he’d gleaned from the CCTV set up along the drive. ‘Two guys,’ he said. ‘One’s small – could be a kid even. We’ve picked them up on the CCTV and we might – we just might have part of a number plate.’

  ‘Careless.’

  ‘We-ell, I don’t suppose they’d be expecting a camera to be stuck up there in the trees, Mrs Gunn.’ His tone was stolid but there was a note of humour in it. She smiled too.

  ‘True. So who are my villains?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t actually got them at the moment.’ A pause. ‘We’ve got the forensic boys to take a look around both the car and your rather secluded drive but they haven’t found anything obvious so far. I take it you want the car removed to a garage for a facelift?’

  Sean Dark Horse did not appear to be taking this seriously enough. But what could she say except, ‘That would be good. Thank you.’

  She worked through the day but was distracted. She was trying to piece together the facts as she knew them and needed to do something. She finally decided she would begin by eyeballing the Silver boys who had been bullying Patrick. As this was something she knew for definite it seemed a good place to start. The best thing to do, she decided, would be to hang around the school when they came out. She would recognize them. What she didn’t want was for them to recognize her. Trouble was her red hair was a beacon so she found herself a dark green beanie and stuck it over her head, then donned a pair of tinted glasses to hide her eyes. Luckily the rain was sheeting down so over this she belted up a shiny black mac and turned the collar up. Flat shoes to disguise her height and she was ready for battle.

  That stopped her up short. What on earth was she saying? Ready for battle? Do battle with a couple of twelve-year-olds? A bit dramatic, Martha. And yet what could be more dramatic than the two suicides, the boy’s dive on to a busy dual carriageway and Gina’s determined impact with the wall?

  She hoped the year eight brothers would be easy to spot. She had a vague description from Freddie Trimble and she guessed they would walk home together. If the worst came to the worst she could always ask some of the other children to confirm their identity. She took up her place on the pavement with a crowd of jostling mothers, fathers, grandparents, childminders, some of whom already had their hands full with smaller infants. A couple of them were pregnant. Most of them wore jeans. No one took any notice of her. The sun came out from behind a cloud. The rain stopped abruptly and shadows danced in front of her on the still-wet pavement. She looked up at the sky at the source of one of the dancing shadows. And there they were, the shoes still pirouetting over the telegraph wire. Left there long after he had died. What happened to these shoes in the end? she wondered. Dumped by Openreach workers? Taken home for their kids? Thrown away? Who knew.

  As the stream of children trickled through the gates Martha hit a stroke of luck. A plump little girl with plaits called out. ‘Hey you, Warreny.’ Two boys turned around simultaneously and Martha caught her first sight of Patrick Elson’s tormentors. Two stocky lads with buzz haircuts, a tough air about them, swigging Coke from plastic bottles. Bingo. And yes, they looked as though they were walking home. And so she followed them. Simple.

  But as she walked behind them she knew there was more to this. They were not the ones who had assaulted Patrick Elson. It was somebody else. An adult. Not their dad. He was out of the picture. Somebody else was involved.

  She revisited the conversation she’d had with Mark Sullivan two hours after her original call. He’d agreed with her first point but when she had followed this up with a question about Gina’s suicide he had sounded surprised. ‘Don’t quite see where this is heading, Martha. Yes, she’d had recent intercourse. But she was engaged.’

  ‘When you say recent?’

  ‘Within the last few days.’

  But Julius Zedanski had been in Syria for the last month. Little cracks were appearing in Gina’s perfect life.

  She trailed the boys, noting their manner. They were true clones of their father, potentially criminal material. What was it Trimble had called them? Junior thugs.

  They pushed and jostled their way through the smaller children, the two boys easy to pick out, taller and bulkier than the others, both big for their age. The two Silver boys must have been fed on hormones and junk food. Martha could well imagine their feeling of power. They were the sort of boys who would have pulled the legs off frogs, enjoyed inflicting pain, frightening the younger children who stepped aside pretty smartly to let them through, one or two spilling dangerously on to the road. Even the mothers who were picking up the younger children gave them a wide berth, avoided their eyes and steered their children’s scooters tight into the side. Martha walked steadily behind them, keeping her distance and her head down. She did not want to be recognized. But she needn’t have worried. The boys were far too busy with their own agenda to notice someone following behind them. In her beanie and mac she was invisible. Besides, the pavement was crowded with children, parents, pushchairs, scooters, a couple of bikes, one or two pensioners on their mobility scooters. The one called Warren deliberately stood in front of one, causing the elderly gentleman to brake sharply and curse loudly. But he too backed off when he met the boy’s eyes. Warren gave a mocking giggle, sticking his middle finger up. And the gentleman hurried away as fast as his scooter would let him from the two thugs. These were the sort of boys and men they would become, Martha mused, as she too moved along the pavement, head down. People would shy away from them all their lives. And those who didn’t would come to regret it.

  Their home was a fifteen-minute walk away but in that time their tormenting was relentless. They pushed a girl out into the road, almost in front of a car, threw a small boy’s school bag into a skip full of broken glass and old wood, drew a key along a car, one committing the act, his brother keeping watch for tale bearers. They grabbed another boy by the scruff of his neck so he handed over the chocolate bar he was halfway through eating. All the time they were watching for someone to pick on, preferably someone small. Finally both boys let themselves into a house, quite a smart house, modern, detached, probably three or four bedrooms, no car in the drive. The window to the right of the front door had rather feminine draped net curtains – unusual for these days. And on the window sill stood a Doulton model of a girl in a red windswept crinoline. Juliet. It pricked a memory.

  Gotcha.

  Martha’s breath quickened. I have you now, she thought. I have you. Or at least I nearly do.

  The memory of Patrick Elson’s face, terrified, humiliated, made her clench her fists. But how on earth could she ensure these boys were punished? Bullying is hardly an imprisonable offence. An adult male was involved here somewhere. She recalled the man who stood by, waiting. These two lads were not capable of rape … not yet. Again she recalled Mark Sullivan’s words: ‘They all know to wear a condom these days.’ She knew it would be difficult if not impossible to prove. So she could do nothing a
nd these boys would continue in their ugly ways. And in the future, as they matured, there may well be more vulnerable victims. More boys determined to destroy themselves because of these two villains. It was a terrible thought.

  A second memory augmented that thought, the list of traumatic injuries Mark Sullivan had picked up on during the post-mortem along with the jaunty comment that had failed to hide his revulsion.

  Take your pick, Martha.

  And then a third image superimposed itself on the first two: Amanda Elson practically propped up by her sister. Martha stood still, appalled by the image. How, as coroner, she asked herself, can I prevent this in the future?

  And the politically incorrect answer? By removing them from a harmful environment.

  Minus the beanie, glasses and mac she returned to her office. Jericho, sitting at the front desk, gave her a swift, searching glance as she entered but he said nothing. The office – and her pile of work – was waiting for her. As unwelcome work always does, sits and stares at you, pricking your conscience. She sat at her desk and leafed through the photographs yet again. She needed that anger to propel herself through the stormy waters that lay ahead.

  And there it was, her proof, the pictures that she could use. Taken from the outside through the window. Lace curtains, swept back from the middle, the same lady in a red crinoline standing on the sill like an actress centre stage, back towards her, flouncing her skirts into the room. Doulton pretty lady figure, Juliet. So what had Juliet’s china eyes witnessed? She could picture the scene. Mother not at home, they had lured Patrick to their house while a photographer stood outside and recorded. Someone had forced Elson to bend over. Why? She joined her question to the others. Why him? Jealousy because he was smarter than they? Had Patrick been a natural victim as his teacher had assessed? Why go this far with this particular child? Just because he was a geek – clever?

  Her hand moved across to the other file. Like a missing piece in a puzzle she was manoeuvring this case over Gina’s, fitting it together. The natural instinct was to link the boys, Patrick Elson and Terence. But Terence Marconi was at a different school from Patrick so not exposed to this pair of embryonic psychopaths. And besides, he was four years younger. With the information Mark Sullivan had given her, the link was sexual. She shook her head. It was not enough. She needed more. Her frown turned into a scowl. She was still missing something. Was she skipping along this theory of hers, bridging the gaps, jumping to all the wrong conclusions? Forcing facts to slip into her theory? She jumped anyway. She had found the link between Silver’s two sons and Gina Marconi, who had defended their father. And now it was up to her to find the still missing gaps, find the proof and present it to the police. Minus DI Randall.

  Patrick’s suicide had been the result of bullying and almost certainly rape. But she was still missing Gina’s back story.

  It couldn’t be a couple of lads tormenting her, but something and someone more equal to her in both age and intellect. Someone who had caught her out. Someone who was intelligent and presumably charismatic enough to lead her into a trap and she, with all her lawyer’s clever instincts, had not seen it for what it was. It had also been under Mosha Steventon’s radar. That pulled her up short. In the main the clients Gina dealt with were thugs. She would have seen right through them, fended off any attempt to manipulate or blackmail her or manoeuvre her into a position of vulnerability. She was just too smart. She would have seen that coming like a steam train four miles down the track. So why hadn’t she taken heed? Had she had sex with someone when there was so much to lose? Everything destroyed. Was Gina, perhaps, not as smart as everyone thought, but a fool, to let this lust get the better of her? And they had won in the end. The villains had beaten both Mosha and the clever lawyer. Question was who were they – or rather who was he? And how had he pulled this one off? How had he backed her against a wall – literally – where the only way out she could see was suicide, with no explanation, an act hurtful and cruel to her family?

  She didn’t know enough yet but at some point she should confront Gina’s family with her beliefs. Not now. When she had proof and saw the full picture she could explain. Agitated, she picked up the phone. She had to speak to Gina’s mother again and, if possible, Terence. Terence, the quiet little boy with the all-seeing, wary, watchful eyes. There was something destroyed in those eyes.

  Mentally she zoomed back out to the wider picture. Curtis Thatcher would have been anxious to protect his reputation, preserve the integrity of the partnership and distance himself from anything that might damage the firm. And Zedanski? These days the BBC was a notoriously conventional employer with a strict moral code. Correspondents with a tainted reputation would soon be dispatched. So perhaps Zedanski’s high profile had been another nail in Gina’s coffin. Martha flicked back to the last broadcast she had seen him make. His almost messianic reporting of the world’s troubles. Had she died because of who he was? Fame and fortune are equally fickle entities. Both her law firm and Zedanski could have easily been tumbled from their perches. Did that put them in the picture? How far would they have gone to protect their images? And, realizing this hard fact, was that why Gina had decided to end it all? But there were differences. While Curtis Thatcher had been there, every day, sharing offices, Zedanski had been away covering the refugee crisis from Damascus. When, she wondered, had they last actually been face-to-face?

  One way to find out.

  She hooked up with Zedanski on his mobile phone. He responded quickly, perhaps recognizing the 01743 telephone number. ‘Mrs Gunn,’ he said, his voice wary and guarded. ‘Thank you for calling.’ It was mere politeness. His tone was flat.

  ‘Are you still in Shrewsbury?’

  ‘Yeah. I have to wind up things here, organize completion of the building work on the rest of the house and then put it up for sale. Bridget is kindly putting me up.’ He tried to laugh. It was a miserable failure. ‘Or rather putting up with me. I can’t bear to be inside that place. We’re managing.’ It was his response to a question she had not asked.

  ‘When did you last actually see her?’

  ‘Not for two months. There’s so much going on out there I couldn’t really take a break.’

  That would take them back to the end of January.

  He seemed to think he needed to add something. ‘We spoke daily about stuff – the wedding, the house.’ He was sounding defensive. ‘It’s the same, really.’

  But, as Martha knew, speaking on the phone is not the same as seeing someone face-to-face, sharing innermost thoughts or making love, sleeping beside them through the dead hours of the nights, putting your hand out, knowing he is there. She blinked away that particular distant memory. More than fifteen years old.

  Telephone conversations can never be a substitute for that. They are not intimate or perceptive. One can keep up a pretty good farce over the phone. Seeing is different. ‘You Skyped?’

  ‘She wasn’t keen on it, thought it made her look odd.’ A slightly more genuine attempt at mirth. ‘Said I’d dump her if she looked as distorted as that in real life.’

  Distorted. The word bored into Martha’s mind – and stayed there. Latent for now.

  ‘Hmm. Did you think she was lonely? Did you pick up on anything?’

  There was a long silence in response and then Zedanski said softly, ‘I thought it was the wedding. I thought …’ Whatever he had been about to say he substituted for: ‘There was a distance.’ Another pause during which she could hear him breathing. ‘The distance seemed to be widening.’ There was a pause and then he added, ‘Are you any nearer …?’ The question faded into nothing.

  She said that she wasn’t, but that she had an idea she would like to discuss with him before the inquest. Then she said goodbye and thought. She would get to the bottom of this. She would take this bull by the horns. Now. Because now she could approach this from another direction. Before she could change her mind, she picked up the phone again and asked to speak with DS Talith.

 
; ‘I take it you’re still the SIO in the two suicides, Patrick Elson and Gina Marconi?’

  ‘I am, ma’am.’

  So Alex was still off.

  ‘I think I have some evidence that Patrick was being intimidated, threatened. Possibly raped.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘The family are in possession of some photographs – rather unsavoury. The boy was being victimized.’ She held back on the rape. She had no proof. Even Sullivan had said there was a chance the boy had suffered from constipation. ‘I shall be bringing this out at the inquest. I’m quite happy to deal with it myself for the moment but you should have copies of these pictures and I’m hoping that you’ll be able to act on them.’

  Talith was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I take it the perpetrators were also youngsters?’

  ‘The bullying – yes. The other I don’t think so.’

  ‘The other?’

  ‘You know Jack Silver?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘He appears to have two sons who are following in their father’s footsteps.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Nor me. But without proof and perhaps a lead to an older man you’re going to have a struggle to do anything about this.’

  ‘Yeah. Not for the first time.’ Talith was growing cynical.

  ‘Have you unearthed anything more about Gina Marconi’s private life?’

  ‘We-ell. She mixed with some unpleasant characters.’

  So he was trudging along the same road. ‘Through her work, surely?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘We’ve got our eye on a Mr Lewinski and his accountant, a slick old fellow named Donaldson.’

  ‘Lewinski I know about – racial hatred, money laundering. But Donaldson?’

  ‘Financial advisor,’ Talith said, grumpy at the implication of wealth. ‘We’ve had our eye on him for ages – as have HMRC, but nothing provable yet. We can’t get a case together that the CPS will have anything to do with. There’s another guy called Lenny Khan who’s of interest to MI6, maybe connected with terrorism, maybe not. She got him off anyway so he’s free. But again we’ve nothing concrete. She mixed in such a witches’ brew of odd company.’