by Faith Martin
He told himself he should probably leave it alone anyway. The police should be the ones to open it, obviously, in case of fingerprints or clues, or something.
Swallowing back a sudden rush of nausea, he turned in his swivel chair and surveyed the garden through the window. But in January there was little out there to distract his eye, and inevitably, as they so often did now, his thoughts turned to Jonathan. The son he’d never acknowledged. Had never, in fact, even met. And whose dead body now lay in the city morgue.
When Mavis had told him she was pregnant, he’d been relieved to let his father take care of it all, hushing up any scandal and paying her an allowance that would allow her to bring up his grandson in a reasonable manner.
Mavis had been unhappy, of course, as was her family, but in the end they came to see it was for the best. Marcus hadn’t even started university, and it was clear he was too young to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood.
As the years went by, although Mavis had offered him plenty of chances to get to know his son, he’d never felt the urge to take her up on them. And once he’d made such a good marriage, and Martha had presented him, first, with Anthony and then, a couple of years later, with Hermione, it had become even more unthinkable that he would play any part in the boy’s life. After all, Martha knew nothing about his past indiscretion, and for Anthony and Hermione to suddenly be presented with an older sibling – a cuckoo in the nest – was out of the question.
Besides, the boy was loved and cared for. Mavis had kept him informed of his progress – his marriage, the birth of his daughter, the loss of his wife, and the setting up of his own gardening business.
And if, in the back of his mind, he’d sometimes fantasised about meeting the boy, or perhaps just watching him walk down the street, well…
Well, that could never happen now, could it?
Wordlessly, Sir Marcus Deering began to weep; big, fat, desolate tears that rolled down his cheeks unnoticed.
He was dry-eyed and in control of himself, however, when Sergeant O’Grady arrived a short while later and, wearing gloves, carefully opened the letter, preserving the evidence in a plastic bag.
The message had been short, clear and unequivocal.
Unless Marcus Deering did the right thing, his other son would also die.
And it was then that the businessman finally had to acknowledge that the nightmare wasn’t over yet – not by a long chalk.
‘Well, come in and sit down,’ Clement Ryder said flatly. ‘I don’t bite.’
‘Good job you don’t, sir,’ Trudy said smartly. ‘That would constitute assaulting a police officer and I’d be obliged to handcuff and arrest you.’
For a second, the coroner stared at her. Then, unbelievably, he shot her a quick flash of his teeth – which she took to be a smile – and nodded.
‘Good. At least you’ve got some gumption,’ he congratulated her. ‘I was worried Jennings had fobbed me off with the office idiot.’ He paused and looked at her closely. ‘Do you have any A-levels? How old are you?’
Trudy flushed. ‘I’m nineteen, sir,’ she said flatly. ‘And I have eight O-levels and two A-levels.’
‘Science?’
‘English and history.’
‘Oh, well. That’s better than nothing, I suppose,’ he muttered.
Trudy flashed her own teeth at him. He could take it for a smile or not, as he pleased.
The old man grunted, but from the flash of his eyes and slight twist of his lip, Trudy guessed, with some relief, that he’d been rather pleased with her responses.
Which was just as well, for, when contemplating the task that lay ahead of her, it had occurred to her that perhaps appeasement wasn’t the way to go when dealing with a strong-minded character such as Dr Ryder. And although he was certainly an important man who expected obedience and respect, the sooner he acknowledged she wasn’t going to be ridden roughshod over, the better.
‘So, you’ve had a chance to read the Fleet-Wright file?’ he said briskly. ‘What do you make of it? And sit down, girl – you’re beginning to give me a crick in the neck.’
Trudy, who had been unknowingly standing at attention, quickly hooked a large, comfortable-looking, black-leather chair and sat down.
She was dressed in her crisp, neat uniform, complete with hard-peaked cap, and in the leather satchel thrown over her shoulder she had her full set of accoutrements. From this satchel she now drew out her own notebook, where she’d jotted down the salient points, and the copy of the file.
As she handed the latter document back, she cast a quick look around his office, which was definitely one up on the offices back at the station, that was for sure! Large landscape paintings hung on walls that had been painted soft beige, and a fire roared away in the fireplace. On top of the large mantelpiece were ranged a number of brass, art deco-style ornaments. The coroner’s large, leather-topped desk dominated the room, and a number of bookshelves, crammed with law, medicine and history tomes, gave the room the feeling of a library in an exclusive gentlemen’s club.
‘Be glad when they get some damned central heating in this place,’ Clement grumbled, glancing behind him at the large windows giving a view out onto what looked to be an old, cobbled courtyard. And even Trudy, who was seated further away from the panes of old glass, could feel a distinct chill coming from them. It didn’t help that, once again, the weather outside was cold, wet and windy.
Trudy took a deep breath. ‘Well, sir,’ she began firmly, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt, ‘it seems to me that, given the evidence, both the jury and coroner arrived at the only verdict possible. Death by misadventure.’
She looked up from her notebook, waiting for him to lambaste her. Reminding herself of her promise not to let herself be cowed, she watched him steadfastly.
When old Walter had heard she’d been seconded to work with Ryder, he’d filled her in rather gleefully on yet more tales of how the old vulture had tripped up many a copper on the witness stand. And had once made such a pest of himself that the Chief Constable had even contemplated taking early retirement.
Even the Sergeant had warned her that the old man, though ‘sharp as a tack’, could be a bit irascible, and that she was to take no nonsense from him. So, considering the man had such a reputation for not suffering fools gladly, she half-expected to feel the knife-edge of his temper right away.
Instead of berating her for not agreeing with his contention that there was something wrong about the case, however, she found him watching her thoughtfully instead, and even nodding slightly.
‘Yes. From the evidence presented, the jury couldn’t really come up with anything else, could they?’ he said mildly, instantly making her doubt she’d heard him properly.
‘You’re agreeing with me?’ she heard herself say stupidly. Then felt herself flush. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Clement, but I’m rather confused. I understood…that is, DI Jennings told me you weren’t happy with the verdict. That, in fact, I’m supposed to help you re-examine the case?’
‘You are.’
Trudy blinked.
The coroner was dressed in his trademark dark suit, with a tie that she suspected either represented his specific Oxford college, or maybe some equally high-up medical establishment. His abundant silver hair was neatly brushed, and his watery-looking grey eyes were as sharp as ever. He didn’t look like somebody who was either losing his marbles or liked to indulge in word games.
Nevertheless, she definitely felt as if he was messing her about, and her own gaze hardened. ‘Perhaps it would simply save us some time and effort, sir, if you were to tell me exactly what it is you’d like us to do?’
Clement Ryder smiled faintly. ‘A decisive woman of action. Very well, WPC Loveday,’ he said briskly. ‘I want us to question the witnesses who testified at Gisela Fleet-Wright’s inquest, and re-examine the evidence in the cold light of day nearly five years later. And to perhaps start with your newest murder victim, Jonathan McGillicuddy.’
‘But why, sir? Mr McGillicuddy, according to the transcripts, gave only a very short witness statement. He simply said, in effect, that he and Gisela had been “going steady” for a while, but that they had broken it off. And that he hadn’t been in contact with her for weeks before she died.’
‘That’s what he said, yes,’ Clement Ryder agreed mildly.
‘And you think he was lying?’
‘He certainly wasn’t telling the whole truth.’
Trudy slowly leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you have any evidence of this, sir?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ Clement said testily. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t need you to find it for me, would I?’ But as Trudy flushed – either in anger or embarrassment – he swept on before she had a chance to protest. ‘But he’s not the only one who lied. And since the man is dead, we can’t actually ask him why he did, can we? So we’ll need to start with a living witness who might know, and his mother is the obvious starting point for that.’
Trudy took another long, deep breath. Instinct was telling her she needed to keep her wits about her with this man, and that once she’d let him bamboozle her, it would set the pattern forever. So she’d damned well better make sure it didn’t happen.
‘Not quite so fast, sir, if you please,’ she said smartly, but with a brief smile. ‘Who else do you believe lied on the witness stand?’
Clement Ryder gave a brief, ironic grunt. ‘Who lied? It would be easier to say who didn’t!’ He leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Apart from the expert witnesses – and, I think, the two gardeners who were called to testify that they hadn’t seen any strangers hanging around – they all had something to hide. At the very least, some of them were fudging it. And the more brazen of them were telling downright lies in an attempt to pervert the course of justice.’
Trudy felt her jaw starting to drop at this arrogant, sweeping statement, and quickly clamped her teeth together. She noticed that the older man was watching her with some amusement now, probably well aware she was only holding on to her temper with a bit of an effort, and again she felt a telltale flush of repressed temper cross her cheeks.
She really wished she could get out of this childish habit of colouring up whenever she felt angry or disconcerted.
‘All of them, sir?’ she said mildly, but allowing her tone to sound downright sceptical. ‘You’re saying they were all lying? The girl’s father?’
‘Him, certainly.’
‘Her mother?’
‘Her especially.’
‘And, as you say, our murder victim. What about her friends who testified as to her temperament and state of mind?’ she asked sardonically. ‘Did the conspiracy of lies extend to them as well?’
Totally ignoring her sarcasm, Dr Ryder shook his head. ‘No, not them so much,’ he admitted airily. ‘I think they tried to be as honest as they could, given the circumstances. Of course, they were all rather reluctant to speak ill of the dead, but that’s a common enough phenomenon. The point is, I don’t think any of them was trying to be deliberately obstructive. And they certainly painted a clear and honest picture of the victim, who had been a rather brittle and self-destructive character.’
Trudy, for the moment, was willing to let the old vulture’s rather outlandish statements stand, because now he’d come to something that had struck her too. On reading through the file for the fourth and final time last night, what had made the most lasting impression of all on her was the character of the dead girl.
Although the medical witnesses had talked of her depression and mood swings in medical lingo, and her parents, naturally, had talked of her as a loving daughter with distressing mental issues, what had come across to Trudy was the sheer instability of the girl.
One moment Gisela had been up, the next down. One minute contrite, the next manipulative. One moment she was sure she was going to win back her former boyfriend, the next she was roundly ranting about him and blaming him for all her woes. But underneath it all, she’d sensed that Gisela Fleet-Wright had been a volatile, perhaps spoilt girl; one who was used to getting her own way, and didn’t like it when she didn’t. A bright girl – her university place had shown that – and, from the photographs of her, a very beautiful one too. And beautiful girls, as Trudy had often observed, were very good at getting what they wanted.
And Gisela, like a child who probably hadn’t grown up, had thrown tantrums when thwarted.
Another thing that had stood out, in Trudy’s mind at least, was Gisela’s obvious obsession with their latest murder victim. Whether Jonathan had been the one to end the relationship, as most people believed, or whether Gisela had in fact ended it (as she had insisted to all her friends she had), everyone was in agreement that the dead girl had been totally besotted with Jonathan McGillicuddy. Either with winning him back, or paying him back, depending on her mood of the moment.
Trudy quickly flipped through the file and picked out a photograph of the dead girl, taken barely a month before she died. About five-feet-eight or so, she’d had lovely long dark hair and vivid green eyes in a heart-shaped face. Almost too slender, she had an elfin rather than voluptuous beauty, and even if she hadn’t already been aware of the girl’s ultimate fate, Trudy would have said she had a fragile look about her. The sort of girl who could pose for a pre-Raphaelite painting of some tragic maiden, doomed to die of love.
‘You think she was a bit of a madam?’ was what Trudy found herself actually saying. And again, saw the coroner give her a swift and approving look.
Which, in turn, made her feel rather pleased with herself.
‘I think that’s a pretty good description, yes,’ he agreed wryly.
Instantly forcing the warm, fuzzy feeling his approbation had given her to one side, she looked across at him flatly. ‘And do you think her personality had anything to do with what happened to her?’
‘Our personalities always affect our lives,’ Clement said, and there was some echo of sadness in his voice that puzzled her. ‘How can it not?’
Clearly, this man had known pain and regret, she thought fleetingly.
Then his eyes sharpened on her once again, and any desire to feel pity for the man instantly fled. It would be a poor fool indeed, Trudy thought in that moment, who offered tea and unwanted sympathy to Dr Clement Ryder.
‘What I intend to find out is how and why that young woman died,’ he said crisply. ‘Because I’m damned certain that what we heard at the inquest was a carefully edited version at best, and a damned travesty of the truth at worst.’
It was clear the older man was angry now – but more than that. He felt indignant, as if in some way, even though he’d never even known Gisela, or been the one to preside over her case, it was a personal insult that the right verdict hadn’t been handed down.
And with a flash of insight, Trudy understood that, to this man, truth and justice weren’t just lofty ideals to be aimed for, but real necessities.
Feeling somewhat humbled – and rather young and callow – Trudy swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Then, more cautiously, ‘But I still don’t understand why you think it didn’t happen the way her mother said.’
It was one thing to feel uplifted by the man’s passion, Trudy mused, but another altogether to just assume he was right.
‘That Gisela took too many pills by accident? That between Mrs Beatrice Fleet-Wright’s actions and those of her daughter, she accidentally ingested too many pills?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded.
‘Because if that was the case, why did so many of the witnesses lie?’
Trudy coughed nervously. She wasn’t sure how she could say what she wanted to say now in any tactful way, so she just girded her loins and said it out loud. ‘Well, sir, we don’t know for a fact that they did lie, do we? After all, although you may have felt sure in yourself that they were lying…’
‘I could have been wrong?’ Clement finished the sentence for her flatly.
Trudy again felt herself flush, and took a s
wift, angry breath. ‘Is that so unthinkable, sir?’ she managed.
She waited for the storm to break over her head.
But, again, it never happened.
Instead, as a grandfather clock ticked ponderously in one corner behind her and, outside, the wind and rain lashed against the ill-fitting windowpanes, the silence felt more amiable than hostile.
‘Of course it’s possible,’ Clement Ryder acknowledged a shade impatiently. ‘But I maintain that it’s highly unlikely. I’ve knocked about this world a bit, WPC Loveday,’ he carried on, his precise, educated voice becoming almost hypnotic now. ‘I’ve worked all my life in stressful environments, where you need to keep your wits about you. And more than that – get to know and fully understand human nature in all its glory and ignominy.’
For a moment he paused. Then shrugged. ‘I’ve had patients who’ve ignored their symptoms for years, and convinced themselves they were as right as rain when any idiot could have told them they were sick. And during my years on the coroner’s bench, I’ve had people stand up and tell truths that would break your heart. I’ve seen courage and cowardice, greed and selflessness, petty self-absorption and vanity like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve listened to tales of devotion and madness and the full gamut of emotions in between.’
It was only when Trudy finally let out a long breath that she realised she’d been holding it in.
‘So when I tell you that I just know when people are lying, either to themselves or to others, I suppose I’m asking you to take that on trust. Not that I think you’ll need to do that for very long,’ he added crisply, once more spearing her with those iron-grey eyes. ‘You strike me as an intelligent enough sort. And I think once we start picking this case apart as it should have been picked apart four and a half years ago, it won’t take you long to be as convinced as I am that there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark. Or, in this case, at the heart of the Fleet-Wright family.’
