Dave Arrett looked at no one as he stumbled over his words but as he stepped down from the witness box he must have caught Billy Gough’s eye because he gave a nod and a smile and sat down, still smiling.
At the back of the court Shelley Hughes slipped in, almost unnoticed.
Martha watched Gough’s loyal friend take his seat again and to her surprise Chelsea Arnold stood up, looking tinier and more vulnerable than ever. Martha noticed that she was wearing flat shoes like small ballet pumps with elastic crisscrossed at the ankle.
‘Can I say something?’ she said.
There was a mixture of emotion around the court, fury from Katie, confusion from the Gough parents, admiration from Gough’s loyal school friend.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But you must come to the witness box.’
No one in the entire court could have thought anything but that this was a great act of bravery from this child. What puzzled Martha was why she had chosen to speak out. And what was she about to say? Gough had plenty of other friends to speak out for him – an entire gang of them. So why Chelsea? Then it hit her.
Of course. It was part of her punishment for not being one of Gough’s followers, for having befriended Callum. Perhaps she thought that doing this would buy her some peace and safety in her school.
The girl’s throat was dry and constricted. She was having trouble getting her words out. Jericho kindly handed her a glass of water and she drank it noisily, like a greedy child taking milk. She cleared her throat, gulped, coughed, glanced at Martha – and spoke.
‘I was asked to come here,’ she said, ‘to speak up for one of my class mates. But I’ve lost two people. Not just the one.’ She too glanced around the courtroom until she found Shelley Hughes who was watching her with a deep frown, sitting slightly forward in her seat, her eyes fixed on the small girl.
‘Roger Gough was a bully,’ she said clearly. ‘He made Call’s life absolute hell. DreadNought ’ad it coming. I wasn’t supposed to say this but I have now and I’m glad.’
She stepped down daintily from the witness box, looked at no one and walked straight out of the door leaving behind a scene of utter amazement.
Billy Gough’s face was puce with anger. He’d left his seat and stood in front of Martha. ‘You should have stopped this,’ he said. ‘It’s a farce. Lies. That’s all.’ He wheeled round on his feet to face the watching rim of faces. ‘She’s a liar, that girl. A liar from a family of liars. It isn’t true about my boy. It isn’t true.’ And to everyone’s shock he put his hands in front of his face and gave one great, racking sob.
His wife, on the other hand, was still sitting, her face white and very angry. She looked at no one. But, watching her, Martha knew something was going on inside her head. Christine Gough gnawed her lip, pressed her fingers together, muttered something inaudible. Martha shivered. A witch’s incantation? A hex?
Do we ever stop believing in these things?
Maybe not.
Martha risked a peep at Shelley Hughes. For the first time since they had met Shelley was smiling. She put her fingers up to her lips almost kissing them in a Papal benediction, then tilted them away, in the direction of the girl. A tribute to the girl who had, so bravely, spoken the truth when no one else would.
Martha waited for the furore to die down, watched as the skinny young journalist followed Chelsea out of the door and felt a glimmer of optimism that the true story behind the two deaths would see the light of a morning newspaper.
She cleared her throat and the whispering died down. ‘The court finds that the death of Roger Gough on Friday the 16th of September at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital was as a direct result of the injury inflicted on him on Tuesday the 6th of September by Callum Hughes outside Hallow’s Lane School. The cause of death is thus clearly homicide,’ she finished, listening to the sounds of Gough’s parents’ relief, the exhaled air and the quiet, Thank God. Billy put his arm around his wife and she dropped her head down on his shoulder.
It seemed an act of finality but Martha feared that this was only the beginning.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Martha left the court feeling drained by the Goughs. Inquests sometimes did this to her. Grief she could deal with. It was, after all, part of the job. But there was something vindictive and vengeful about their sorrow that concerned her.
And something in her feared for the gentle Chelsea. She felt apprehensive for the girl, almost as though she knew there would be reprisals. Callum Hughes might be beyond their vindictiveness. But she couldn’t rid herself of the conviction that their emotions would turn into something tangible – as Callum Hughes’s anxiety had changed, into murder and then into suicide. The Goughs patently felt real hatred for Shelley Hughes. Martha had seen them push into her outside the courtroom, shoving her out of the way with a real viciousness. And yet it had been Gough who had set off the chain of events.
So Martha had returned to the office with Jericho in reflective mood.
Where would all this vitriol lead? What could stem the flow of poison? And what could she do about it?
The mood hung over her like a pall of funereal smoke. She felt apprehensive and found it hard to concentrate all afternoon.
Her frame of mind was not lifted by a sudden, heavy downpour and like many citizens of Shrewsbury she pictured the River Severn swirling and eddying while its level stole higher, and yet higher, to touch the arches of both English and Welsh Bridges, to wash out the town and cut it off as it had done on countless occasions.
The river had claimed a recent victim; the Floating Thai Restaurant – abandoned by its owners and now listing badly to one side. Some wag had repainted its name on the side – Thai-tanic. It had raised many a smile from the citizens of Shrewsbury as they caught the pun.
By five o’clock she felt she could not work any more that day and stopped off at Tesco’s to buy some fresh salmon. She wanted to cook tonight, spend the evening with Agnetha and Sukey on the sofa, ring Sam and have something approaching a conversation with him, invite hers and Martin’s parents for the weekend.
Have a life. Away from death.
But she had forgotten about Finton Cley coming over that evening to look at the antiques she was considering selling.
He arrived just as she was serving up dinner. New potatoes, steamed salmon steaks, homemade Hollandaise sauce and courgettes. For a moment she was confused by the doorbell ringing. Then she remembered.
He was a charismatic character with his curling hair, much too long for current fashion, the one, pirate earring, swinging in his earlobe. He was leaning against the side of the portico, grinning. ‘You’d forgotten I was coming, hadn’t you, Martha Gunn?’
It was useless to deny it. She laughed. ‘Yes. I had, as a matter of fact. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right – so long as I can still take a look at your little titbits.’
‘Yes. Of course. We were just eating. There’s a little left over, Mr Cley. Would you like some?’
‘Depends what it is.’
He was, she decided, insufferably arrogant.
‘Well now,’ she said, walking ahead of him into the kitchen, ‘I don’t know what to say. What if you reject my own, home cooking, Mr Cley?’
She could smell him. Tobacco, some exotic spice and, reassuringly, shampoo. Soapy and clean.
‘Home cooking,’ he said, settling into the spare chair and appraising Agnetha and Sukey very coolly, ‘I never refuse.’
Sukey and Agnetha were signalling to each other in eyebrow semaphore. Who is this guy?
Martha put a plateful of food in front of Finton Cley and sat down, opposite him.
‘This is Mr Cley,’ she said. ‘He has an antiques shop in town. I asked him to come tonight to look at some of the pieces in your father’s study, Sukey. I thought I’d sell them before we decorate.’
‘This,’ she said to Finton, ‘is my daughter Sukey and her au pair, Agnetha. As you can probably guess Agnetha is from Sweden.’
Fin
ton Cley treated them both to one of the wide smiles which transformed his face from leering pirate to perfect gentleman. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ he said.
Agnetha giggled. ‘Likewise, Mr Cley.’
But Sukey simply stared. ‘So what are you selling, Mum?’
‘Well I don’t know, Sukes. It all depends on what Mr Cley offers me.’
The arch reply seemed to reassure her daughter and Sukey continued eating although Agnetha forked some salmon into her mouth and frowned. ‘So tell me, Mr Cley,’ she said, ‘is the antiques trade still profitable or is it like many other businesses these days, much work with very little reward?’
‘Is that a comment on your present situation?’ Cley spoke with a mouthful of courgette.
‘Certainly not. I was simply being curious. That is all.’
‘It comes and goes,’ Cley said casually.
Agnetha stretched across the table. ‘Would you like some more vegetables?’
Cley’s eyes focused on her engagement ring. He looked at it, at her, at it again and said nothing but took a spoonful of potatoes and one of courgettes. Sukey watched him with a mixture of curiosity and incredulity. Then, very deliberately, she stretched out her hand for some more vegetables too.
After supper Martha offered Cley a coffee but he declined. ‘Keeps me awake,’ he said.
‘Then a beer?’
‘That would be nice, Martha Gunn.’
Martha fished around in the fridge and pulled out a couple of lagers. She felt like one herself although she virtually never touched the stuff. Time to break the rules.
She handed him one then led him into the study and watched his response to the antiques as she showed him them, one by one. As she’d guessed he scrutinised everything, tipping the library table upside down, shining a light into the crevices, fingering the carvings. As he worked she watched him. How old was he? Late twenties, very early thirties at the most. Well educated but liked to pretend he was a ruffian. Yet at a guess he was familiar with Hardy and Tolstoy, Tennyson and Byron, Mozart and Beethoven.
When he crossed the room he suddenly turned and saw her watching him and she felt embarrassed. But to explain anything would be awkward, simply focus on the very thing she was avoiding. He would interpret her interest the wrong way. But she didn’t fancy him. She was simply curious about him. That was all. She felt a compulsion to know more about him. Just a little more.
‘Do you have a partner in your shop?’
He turned, giving her that mocking smile, as though he knew more about her than she could possibly know about him. ‘Not really,’ he said, speaking easily, dissolving the awkwardness she had imagined? ‘My sister helps me now and then.’
‘Not full time?’
‘She can’t do anything full time.’ But the words were spoken without malice.
‘Don’t you find it hard, trying to buy as well as sell?’
‘No, Martha Gunn,’ he said, digging his hands into the pocket of his grey cargo pants, pulling out a tape measure and measuring up the width of the secretaire with a neat flourish which told her how many times he must have done this before. ‘The stuff tends to come to me.’
Studying the glint in his eye and recalling the scent of marijuana which pervaded the inside of his shop she wondered exactly what stuff he was talking about but she let the matter ride.
Cley opened the secretaire and studied its interior before closing it and sliding it shut. Then he wandered across to the two chairs. ‘Nice,’ he commented. ‘I love the deep buttoning. And leather’s very ‘in’ at the moment.’ His head swivelled round so she caught the full force of his very clear eyes. ‘What period did you think they were?’
‘Early Victorian, late Regency,’ she ventured.
‘Well – do you want me to give you individual prices or one for the lot?’
‘The lot,’ she said firmly.
He scanned the four pieces, silently working out their worth. ‘Will four thousand suit, Martha Gunn?’
‘Four thousand will suit very well.’ In fact it was about what she had anticipated.
He laughed and shook her hand. ‘If it suits that well,’ he said, ‘maybe I should have offered less.’
‘Then I wouldn’t take it.’
He nodded and she knew he was appraising her. There was a brief pause between them before Martha spoke. ‘Another lager, Mr Cley?’
‘That would be nice,’ he said, ‘though a glass of Rioja would be nicer.’
‘You can have both the furniture and the glass of Rioja if you’ll answer me a question.’
His eyebrows lifted. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an opened bottle of wine and two wine glasses. She filled them both, handed one to him and they settled down in the leather armchairs, opposite one another. Finton Cley was watching her warily over the rim of his glass. But she was in no hurry. She took a sip or two then spoke.
‘Why do you always smirk when you say my name? Why do you always call me Martha Gunn, as though it has some significance?’
He sipped his wine too and made a pleased face. He looked suddenly smug, a public schoolboy who has just achieved top marks. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived all your life and don’t recognise your own name.’
‘No I don’t,’ she said waspishly. ‘So are you going to tell me?’
‘“To Brighton came he
Came George III’s son
To be dipped in the sea
By famed Martha Gunn.”’
‘What?’
‘Or do you prefer:
“There’s plenty of dippers and jokers
And saltwater rigs for your fun
The King of them all is ‘Old Smoaker’
The Queen of them ‘Old Martha Gunn’
The ladies walk out in the morn,
To taste of the saltwater breeze,
They ask if the water is warm,
Says Martha, ‘Yes if you please’.”’
‘She was a Brighton bathing attendant,’ Cley said, his eyes twinkling with fun, ‘and reputed to have attended the Prince of Wales. The Staffordshire Potters made a female Toby jug of her. There’s one in Hanley museum, if you’ve a mind to go and take a look.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Don’t tell me your parents didn’t know this when they named you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to ask them, won’t I?’
‘Indeed you will. The good lady is portrayed with a hat bearing the three plumes of the Prince of Wales. She was quite a character by all accounts and died in 1815, aged eighty-eight years which is a goodly age, for the time, don’t you think?’
Martha nodded.
‘She’s buried in St Nicholas’s Churchyard, Brighton. You ought to take a trip down there and pay tribute.’
‘I should. You’re right.’
She leaned forward. ‘More wine?’
He shook his head reluctantly. ‘Driving, I’m afraid. And my business would soon go downhill if I couldn’t get round. I’ll send someone over tomorrow in a van to pick up the pieces – if that’s all right, Martha Gunn?’
They both laughed and Cley gave a rueful glance. ‘It isn’t the same now you’re in on the secret. What time shall the van come?’
‘Ten-ish?’
‘Ten it is.’ He stood up and she saw him to the door.
The evening was chilly now with a wind blowing through the trees, making the leaves whisper and conspire. Martha watched the tail lights of Cley’s Volvo disappear down the drive then stood for a moment.
It was so quiet here, so very very quiet.
After a moment more she turned around and went back inside.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was Jericho who told her as she arrived late at work on the Wednesday. For some unknown reason the alarm had failed to wake either herself, Agnetha or Sukey and the morning had begun with pandemonium, all of them skittering to their bathrooms, throwing on clothes and eating toast in the cars on the way to work and school. Bobby’s m
orning walk had been neglected; he was not a forgiving dog and glowered at her from the basket when she apologised and left his lead hanging on the back of the laundry door.
Jericho was waiting for her in the hallway, his face grave and she felt her heart sink. He often had to impart bad news to her over the telephone but when he considered the news was particularly bad he took it upon himself to wait for a face to face encounter. And he always looked like this, mournful, lugubrious eyes, his mouth drooping down and his hair, which always reminded her of Dickens’s Scrooge – straggly and grey, looking even more so. So when she burst in, an apology ready on her lips, and saw he was standing in front of his desk (his particular position), with his face twisted into something more extreme than his habitual grave expression, she was alarmed and forewarned.
‘Jericho? What is it?’
Her mind fled through all sorts of eventualities, his wife ill – dying – an accident to Agnetha, Sukey – ‘Say something,’ she said. ‘You’re frightening me.’
‘Nothing to do with your family, Ma’am,’ he reassured her quickly. ‘Or mine, thank God.’
But his face was distorted with something.
‘Then what is it?’
‘Another nasty incident, Ma’am. To do with that poor boy’s death, I’m sure.’
‘What?’
‘You might not have heard it but there was a house fire last night,’ he said. ‘Along Old Potts Way. A council house. A semi.’
‘And?’ She was feeling cold inside.
‘There was a family inside. A young girl, her little baby brother. She was babysitting while her parents went up the pub with some friends.’
‘Who was the girl?’
‘Little Chelsea.’ His eyes seemed to change. ‘She’s dead, Ma’am. Died at the scene they say.’
The image flitted through her mind, like a child ghost in a spooky, scary movie – only this was much much scarier. Real life and the depths to which human hope and despair, hatred and revenge can plummet, far below the earth’s crust. Below any creeping, crawling creatures. Below the ocean’s bed and the inhabitants of slime. Below any depravity known to any other creature in God’s universe but man. An evil plotting, a deliberate destruction of a human body, together with its heart and soul.
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