Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  Yay! Good, she cheered silently, giving her daughter a kiss but otherwise outwardly merely nodding her approval. She didn’t want to put her off by being too enthusiastic. But she liked and trusted Dominic Pryce. He had come to stay once or twice, a sharp shooter in his forties who could read contracts like a horoscope, seemingly seeing right into the future where the wording would lead them and sniff out a dodgy clause. He was not above squeezing out a few extra pounds a week but also knew when to accept a lower offer that might lead to greater things. He had a number of production companies tucked in his belt and, Martha thought, was perceptive, appreciating both Sukey’s talents but also her limitations. He also knew when to back off. He would have fumed at Pomeroy’s interference but in the end would have assessed that the decision would be Sukey’s. Knowing Dominic, he would have simply planted the one phrase: Offers don’t last forever.

  It was the theatrical equivalent of plenty more fish in the sea.

  Sam, in the meantime, was saying nothing about the various signs she was picking up that he had finally discovered the opposite sex. Only a newcomer to that particular club could possibly imagine that the clues were invisible – the scent of perfume which clung to him on his late returns home, the smears of lipstick and when he had given her a lift, in his Fiesta, to collect her car, she had noticed a mascara rolled almost underneath the seat. It wasn’t hers; neither was it his twin sister’s. One of his friends had a younger sister called Rosalie whom, he had said gruffly, ‘isn’t too bad’. And from that she was building up a picture. Her children were growing up fast, Martha thought. It wouldn’t be too long before she would be living in the White House all alone.

  And that thought chilled her.

  The one bit of tangible news was about the damage done to her car. The police had shown her the images from her CCTV camera. They were too grainy to be sure but she thought the boy could well have been Sean Silver. It was her first sighting of these shadowy figures bent on destruction. The question was what on earth was all this to do with her? Why had they vandalized her car? Had they realized the depth of her interest in the two suicides?

  She wondered when she would have an answer.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Monday, 24 April, 10 a.m.

  Martha didn’t have to wait for long.

  David Steadman was, by nature, like many coroners, a curious beast. He and Martha had known each other for years, sometimes working side by side in deaths that criss-crossed their borders. They pooled knowledge, shared information, met on various courses and had bumped into one another at various social events, and yet he retained this formality that was so stiff and starchy it made her want to giggle. Sometimes she even had to cough to try and disguise this unfortunate tendency. She wondered why he’d rung and wondered whether he had noticed her brief appearance at Erica’s funeral.

  ‘Martha.’ He sounded almost disapproving. ‘It was good of you to pass this case on to me.’

  Not exactly good, she thought, more expedient. But still …

  ‘It’s proved most interesting.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked closely with DI Randall. I would have found it … difficult. And in the light of Doctor Sullivan’s findings almost impossible to conduct the inquest. But it didn’t stop me speculating.’

  ‘Quite. I understand you made the suggestion to Mark Sullivan that he perform genetic tests.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I put together the fact that Mrs Randall had had a child with anencephaly and thought it was worth him testing Mrs Randall’s blood for a genetic defect.’

  ‘Which he found,’ he said. ‘And which explains everything: her son’s death, her poor mental state and probably loss of consciousness which in turn caused her to fall.’

  ‘Tragic. Had she ever had a brain scan?’

  ‘No. I thought that might be something I could pick up on. Her strange behaviour was put down to prolonged puerperal psychosis rather than being properly investigated.’

  ‘But with all the investigations in the world there would have been nothing anyone could have done.’

  ‘Maybe one day, Martha, we’ll have genetic engineering for such conditions.’

  Her outlook was more glum. ‘More likely we’ll have more tests done to pregnant women and eugenics.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ He snorted and continued in the same vein. ‘I did discuss with DI Randall that there was possibly a case for medical negligence against one or more of the psychiatrists whose help he sought, but he isn’t interested.’

  ‘So how is he?’

  Steadman paused. ‘It’s hard to say really. He’s quite a … contained man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ Most of the time. The times when nothing is bursting out.

  ‘Will you be homing in on the failure to diagnose at the inquest?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’ll do neither Mrs or Mr Randall any good now. And it isn’t what he wants. But …’

  She might have known there would be a ‘but’.

  ‘I might have a few words to say about making an assumption of psychiatric illness before excluding physical disease. That would be appropriate,’ he finished airily, ‘don’t you think?

  ‘It’s your case, David.’ She was smiling. ‘So your verdict will be …?’

  ‘Natural causes. A bit unsatisfactory under the circumstances but there is no question of either homicide or suicide and even I baulk at the idea of dragging in medical negligence. There was a failure to diagnose but no one is to blame for Mrs Randall’s death. However, it would be interesting to interview the psychiatrists Mrs Randall had been under, don’t you think?’

  ‘There would have been quite a few,’ she mused. ‘The DI has had a few moves in the last six years.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘But the change in care came with a diagnosis firmly in place. Mrs Randall had, apparently, not had a fit or headaches or any other physical symptoms which might have led to a brain scan and the discovery of her condition.’ He couldn’t resist giving himself a swift pat on the back. ‘I was most particular about asking DI Randall about this.’ She could imagine his tight little lips curving in a self-congratulatory smile as he carried on with his summing up of Erica’s death.

  ‘She was not properly investigated for an organic cause for her odd behaviour. And we can understand why. The malformation of her son would be enough to account for prolonged grief.’

  ‘But also it was a pointer,’ she said, thinking, poor Erica. Aloud, saying, ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Steadman said, pompously. ‘A sad state of affairs and bound to have a negative knock-on effect on her husband. He will be feeling guilty that he didn’t insist she seek medical opinion for a very long time, I’m sure.’

  Thanks for that, Steadman.

  He continued seamlessly. ‘The funeral has, of course, as you know, already taken place.’ So he had seen her there.

  He finished with: ‘And I’ve set a date for the final inquest. I don’t know whether you’ll feel you want to attend?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She thanked him again and the conversation finished.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Martha had been half expecting this. The envelope was exactly the same. And she had an idea what might be inside so she didn’t open it but rang the police station and asked to speak to DS Talith. She couldn’t face Alex. Not now, not yet. Not with this in her hands. But this little missive they’d sent her meant that she was getting close.

  She had found the link between the criminal world, a high-profile lawyer about to be exposed, a schoolboy being bullied and worse, both resulting in what she called determined suicides. And now it was up to her to move in, prove that connection without publicly sullying the reputations both had died to preserve. Once she had learned the full ugly truth about the reasons behind these two apparently unrelated deaths, she could hold Gina’s inquest and Amanda and her sister could arrange Patrick’s funeral. Leave their dear ones privacy and space to grieve. In
camera. There was no need for the public to know. The person who had orchestrated all this was both clever and evil. For Gina he had wanted both death and public humiliation. Not only her body but her soul, her reputation and memory. And Patrick? He had got in the way of two boys, apprentices. And he had … Martha could hardly bear to think.

  The weak link had been the two boys who had taken Patrick Elson to their house. Thanks to the information from their teacher, it had led her to connect the two suicides. But this envelope was a warning. If Gina could be so manipulated, then she, Martha Gunn, coroner of North Shropshire, was not proof against that person. They were on to her. She was their next selected victim.

  Right on cue there was a knock on the door. ‘Martha.’

  She could hardly believe it. Here he was, in person. ‘I thought Talith would come.’

  He simply shook his head.

  ‘How are you?’

  He simply looked at her.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about …’

  ‘Yeah. You heard about the …?’

  She pre-empted him. She knew. ‘Yes, I did.’ She tried to reassure him. ‘When I put the two histories together, Christopher’s and Erica’s, I just wondered whether there could be a connection.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t think anyone could have known.’

  He gave the vaguest hint of a smile. ‘Are you defending the medical profession or me, as her husband?’ His tone was curious rather than challenging. ‘You think I should have picked up on it?’

  ‘I’m not trying to defend anyone,’ she said steadily, ‘or let anyone off the hook. I’m simply pointing out that with Erica’s psychiatric diagnosis after such a tragedy I don’t think a doctor or you would have looked for another cause for her behaviour.’

  There was a pause before he spoke again, as though he had been digesting her words. ‘But you did. Mark told me you had suggested we test for a genetic link.’

  She was silent.

  ‘I still think,’ he said, ‘I should have trusted her character better. I think,’ he said again, ‘that I shall always feel guilty that I didn’t. I failed her, Martha. I let her down.’ He crossed to the window and stared out. ‘I should have picked up on it, had more faith in her. Truth is, Martha, after Christopher’s sad, brief little life ended, we were both destroyed. When her grieving became prolonged I lost patience with her. After all, we’d both been through the same thing.’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘A woman holds a child inside her for the months of pregnancy and then has a labour.’

  He turned. ‘And a man has hopes for a son.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should have taken her to a doctor and insisted she be investigated. As it was I simply accepted the psychiatrist’s opinion that she had changed because of our loss. It’s an unfortunate coincidence, a horrible trick of nature that had a dreadful effect on both our lives. And now Erica is dead too. It’s cruel.’

  And she could do little but agree with him, her thoughts swirling round and round. Poor woman, labelled mad, labelled bad, disliked by her husband. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Why the summons?’

  She dropped her eyes to the envelope on the desk.

  He nodded. ‘Talith’s filled me in very well.’ He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and slid out the photographs. He looked at them carefully, one at a time. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

  She looked too at the obvious connection between two people. But when she met his eyes now that connection had vanished. Melted away like ice cream in a heat wave.

  ‘Leave this to us,’ he said. ‘Leave it, Martha. Don’t get involved.’

  She met his gaze now without flinching. She could ride this one out.

  ‘The link,’ she said, ‘I’m sure, is a man called Ivor Donaldson who is a financial advisor.’

  ‘He’s on our radar.’

  He turned to leave. ‘So that’s that?’ she demanded. ‘You expect me to just leave it all to you?’

  He turned back then, his eyes warm, his mouth twitching, hinting at a smile which never quite completed. ‘We-ell,’ he said. ‘It would be a good idea but I can’t say I expect it.’

  And with that he left.

  She hadn’t even had the chance to speak her prepared neutral line. It’d be great if we could meet up sometime.

  Agitated, she went into the kitchen, passing an affronted Jericho who considered the room his domain and the task of coffee-making his duty. But she needed to walk. To move. She had too much work on to stroll into town or even take a spin up Haughmond Hill but she did need to stretch her legs, get away from the four walls of her office. Breathe. She felt Jericho’s eyes on her, reproachful, but couldn’t find the right response. Then thought, Why not the truth?

  ‘I needed to stretch my legs, Jericho,’ she explained. But it didn’t quite extinguish the reproachful look so she didn’t offer to make him a coffee.

  She strode around the garden for an hour breathing the fresh air deeply, only returning when the exercise had calmed her. Back in her office she closed her door firmly behind her. She needed to focus. And for that now she needed peace, quiet and privacy. She had an idea.

  FORTY-NINE

  Once safely inside, with no witnesses and no one likely to burst in, Martha drew a spider’s web on a sheet of paper. In the centre she put Gina and Patrick. The victims.

  And the spider? The olive-skinned man who had reduced Gina Marconi to a whore. How had he done it? More importantly, who had introduced her to him? How? And why? Was he a criminal she had defended or failed to defend? And, Martha thought, why me? What do I have to do with this man? Those photos of her and Alex looking like lovers had been taken last summer. Long before these two suicides. So who else was in his sights, apart from her?

  She recalled the man who had been with Gina on that night when their planets had brushed together. And that was it. He had been her escort. A handsome, suave man whose olive skin showed well against the white of his shirt. So Gina had paid for a male escort to the ball because Julius Zedanski was probably halfway across the world. Was it possible that Gina had mentioned her name, joked with her escort? The lady with the red hair. That’s the coroner.

  And that had been it? Enough to make her a person of interest? Or was it something else? Maybe he or one of his associates had had indirect dealings with her?

  And now she knew a little more she wanted to understand the rest. Victor Stanley had been Gina’s escort that night. And without realizing who she was tangling with, she had walked right in to what was so obviously a trap.

  Martha frowned as she recalled the pictures.

  What had they given her to make her like this? Cocaine? Rohypnol? The pictures could not have been more damning. She could never have worked as a barrister again.

  Work was a welcome diversion and calmed her down, finding the rhythmic groove of more routine cases. Not all coroners’ work is so dramatic.

  She’d almost forgotten about the conflict when, at six o’clock, her mobile pinged with a message. Enjoyed the other night. A friend of mine would love to meet up with you. Ivor D.

  She stared at her phone screen. Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. It was an invitation to sup with the Devil.

  She felt the sour taste of fear even as she tapped out her response. It was dangerous. It made no sense. It was stupid. She knew exactly who the friend was, knew she was putting herself at risk. Did she think she was cleverer than Ms Marconi? Did she think she had less to lose? Position, family et cetera, et cetera. As Gina had had a position, so did she. As Gina’s had been destroyed, so could hers. She was no better, no wiser, no more in control than Gina Marconi had been and yet she knew her own nature. Blame half-Irish, half-Welsh. She was a risk taker, a rule breaker. She liked adventure and she liked the truth. And so she would do it. Find out how all this had happened. More than ever she wished she had Alex Randall to watch her back. But she didn’t because paradoxically, now he was free, now they could be open about a friendship, he
was further away from her than ever. And the photos could always be aired to indicate a relationship between them while his poor, damaged wife was still alive. And then she’d died. Of natural causes, they’d said.

  Oh, Alex.

  She responded to the text message with just the one word.

  Saturday?

  So the trap was set. She knew exactly what she was doing. Or did she? She sure as hell knew why she was going. This persistent search for the truth behind the obfuscation. And to find that out she was walking not just into the lions’ den but right into the lion’s mouth close enough to pick between his teeth. And she had no one to look out for her – just as Patrick’s mother had been at work blissfully unaware of her son’s intent, Terence and Bridget had been asleep and Gina’s fiancé halfway round the world reporting on others’ desperate situations. She was similarly alone. If she got it wrong she knew what the consequences could be.

  The image of the boy’s face as described by the witnesses loomed in front of her, determined as he had stood on the rail of the A5 bridge looking at the traffic. Gina’s face would have been similarly determined. And now, in the gilded mirror hanging on the wall near the door, she caught sight of her own face with that same look, gritty determination. That was where she was heading. To hell? Surely not. Not if she was on her guard. Forewarned. Forearmed.

  Friends and relatives had painted the pictures but there was something she did not understand. While Gina had made enemies through her work, what interest could Victor Stanley possibly have had in one twelve-year-old boy? She was still missing some connection. Was it because he preyed sexually on young lads as well as available women? Or was there something else?

  Before she could speculate further her mobile phone buzzed again. Great. The Armoury? 8 p.m.

  She tapped out Fine.