River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  He grinned back at her. “Just a bit.”

  “Oh – it’s such a tantalising puzzle.”

  Mark was eyeing her very carefully, glasses back on. “If you’re so curious to know where the investigation’s got to now you’ll have to talk back to Alex Randall. I’ve no idea how his case is progressing. Maybe he’s found out something more.”

  “Right.”

  They chatted idly like old friends until a little past eleven. Both being doctors they found plenty of subjects they were both interested in and more besides. But of his family Mark Sullivan remained silent and she did not probe. Neither did he mention Martin or her children even though the strains of Abba could be heard bouncing down from the top floor and Sam’s heavy footprints went twice up and down the stairs. For food, she guessed.

  Something else registered too. Neither of her children popped their heads round the door to wish her goodnight. It was as though neither Mark nor her offspring had any desire to acknowledge the other’s presence. It didn’t really matter. Sullivan was no more than an occasional work colleague. An acquaintance. But one day someone might enter all their lives. This fact sat at the back of her mind heavily, like a piece of uncooked dough.

  He gave her a quick peck on the cheek on the front doorstep as he left but didn’t offer the usual platitude of “seeing her soon”. He simply left. Had she been a teenager she would have read much into this omission but as it was she simply sighed and closed the door behind him without waiting for his car to manoeuvre around in the drive. Then she took a small nightcap of brandy up to bed with her.

  She did not read but lay in the light of the Tiffany lamp, staring up at the ceiling, sipping the brandy and wondering at her life – so far. Her job she loved. Such an involvement in death might, to many, seem morbid. But it gave her an opportunity to be of real worth to people at a low point in their lives. Martin’s legacy, her two children, filled the other parts of her life.

  In many ways she was blessed. She knew that. She had had a brief but happy marriage, had been left with two fulfilling children and a career she loved. She was financially solvent and had a home. So … She fell asleep still listing her blessings. She had a career, a home, children and a dog.

  Alex called into her office early the next morning.

  “Haddonfield’s been officially listed as a missing person,” he said, standing with his back to the window, arms folded. “There’s no sign of him. Since the lorry driver set him down on the outskirts of Oswestry he’s vanished. And there’s something else odd that I can’t explain. The dead man was wearing one of Humphreys’ suits.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Humphreys’ suit. Do you remember Coleman saying it wasn’t a very good fit? It wasn’t because of the water stretching it. It was because it never was his suit. On an off-chance we showed it to Humphreys and he identified it. Shirt too. So it’s no use describing our corpse’s clothes. They weren’t his.”

  This lobbed the ball right into another court. “So all our assumptions about a well-dressed man etcetera etcetera are meaningless? He wasn’t well-dressed at all but wearing borrowed clothes.”

  “Exactly. We don’t know what he was wearing. In fact we don’t know anything about him. No ID. No clothes either.”

  “So were his own clothes at Marine Terrace?”

  “No. Humphreys has identified all the clothes as belonging to him.”

  “Underwear too?”

  Randall’s eyes gleamed. He’d always loved the way her mind worked. Logical, tenacious. She would have made a good policewoman. But she had chosen medicine and then made a strange sideswipe of a career move. Coroner of this quiet corner of Shropshire. He wondered what had lured her here. She was not a local woman. She had told him her parents lived in Wales. Her husband, he understood, had originated from Birmingham. So why had she decided to do such a job? One that dealt solely with death and its detritus. Grief. Relatives. The law. All the messy side of the healing profession.

  Maybe it was that – the formality of the law after the chaos of medicine. Making some logical sense of events after nature – or man – had inflicted her worst. He remembered now that her husband had been a solicitor. Maybe he had influenced her choice.

  Anyway. He sat down.

  “Our corpse wore Calvin Klein boxer shorts which Humphreys insists are not his.” Randall couldn’t resist one of his swift, elusive, mischievous smiles. “Although if you ask me, one pair of Calvin Kleins looks very much like another and Humphreys does have a drawerful of the things.”

  “How do you know?”

  He winked. “The search, Doctor Gunn. And the socks our corpse wore were English, Marks and Spencers, plain black wool mix. Humphreys has said it’s impossible for him to be sure whether they’re his or not. And it was the only time during the entire interview I was absolutely certain that this statement was the truth.”

  “You don’t like Humphreys much, do you?”

  “Aa-ah.” Randall shook his head decisively. “I – do – not. He’s a cheat. What’s worse is that because he’s got away with cheating he keeps doing it and getting more and more conceited and sure he won’t get found out.”

  “Hasn’t the broken nose sobered him up a bit?”

  “Not enough for my liking. I’d have made an even flatter job of it.”

  Martha laughed out loud. “Oh, Alex,” she said. “You are funny. I’m not sure you should be making an expression of intention of police brutality to me, the coroner. If someday I’m investigating a death in custody you might just find my hand on your collar.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” he said.

  “You’re sure about the clothes?”

  “The shirt, tie and suit were all Humphreys’ – and he’s telling the truth. The collar size was wrong for our corpse and he’s even produced a photograph where he’s wearing the tie – an electric blue silk affair. Very flash.” She remembered it. Not for being flash but for being cut from around a dead man’s neck.

  Martha was thinking about the slash through the jacket and shirt which corresponded with the fatal wound. “And our dead man was wearing Humphreys’ clothes when he was killed. So was he maybe a thief? Was he looting the property as it was empty?” Even more vividly it conjured up a vision of Humphreys, returning to the flooding cottage, finding someone who had borrowed his clothes and in a fury … killing him? Knowing Alex Randall he would already have considered this option.

  But.

  “Alex,” she said slowly, “Your ‘John Doe’ didn’t go to Marine Terrace naked except for boxer shorts and maybe black M&S socks. But you said … ?”

  “Exactly. Everything else in the entire place belonged to Humphreys.”

  “Well – if James Humphreys is telling the truth, and presuming your man didn’t go there naked, either the murderer took away our man’s clothes, having persuaded him to put them on before sticking a knife into him or our man came to Humphreys’ house already in Humphreys’ suit. Masquerading as him. Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe his own clothes were wet,” Randall suggested.

  “But you don’t do things like that, break into a house, steal a man’s suit. Oh – none of it makes sense.”

  “That about sums it up, Martha,” Randall said jauntily.

  “And you’ve found no one who saw him arrive?”

  Randall shook his head. “We’ve put signs up on the English Bridge and a couple through the town using artist’s impressions. No response.”

  His face changed and he chewed his lip. “Martha,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my discussing the case with you? After all, it’s a bit out of your remit.”

  “Not at all,” she said, folding her arms and moving away from her desk. “I find it interesting – if a little frustrating. Just to be handed the bald facts at the end of a protracted investigation will seem a little tame in future, Alex. You must have to explore many blind alleys in an investigation like this. I don’t mind you sharing them with me. Better that tha
n being kept in the dark.”

  He sighed, suddenly despondent. “If only you knew how dark, how many blind alleys; how many missing persons. You wouldn’t believe how many men in this age group who loosely fit the description have vanished. It’s quite depressing. And what with the floods and a still anonymous body, I was glad to hand Mr and Mrs Haddonfield back to the Oswestry force.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, Haddonfield seems to have disappeared from there and officially Oswestry is outside my jurisdiction.”

  “But not outside mine.”

  “That’s true,” he admitted.

  “Anyway, if I can help … “

  “Thank you. I’d better get back. I did want to keep you up to date.”

  They both knew a phone call would have sufficed.

  Martha stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Alex,” she said thoughtfully. “I know I’m a suspicious creature and I really don’t want to give you more work.”

  “But?”

  “Two things. When your police officers went to the Jaguar garage on Tuesday why didn’t Sheelagh Mandershall say that Humphreys was staying with her?”

  “Simple. She wasn’t at work that day. In actual fact a friend did tell her someone had been asking about him but Sheelagh assumed it was something to do with either the floods or his wife chasing him up. By the time she knew otherwise Cressida Humphreys really was on the scene.”

  He smiled. “And your second question?”

  “How did the lorry driver know it really was Haddonfield?”

  “He told him.”

  “What if it wasn’t? I mean, Haddonfield hasn’t been seen by anyone who can positively identify him. What was he doing in Shrewsbury anyway?”

  “Shopping. He’s a window cleaner and no one wants their windows cleaned when it’s pouring with rain. The only connection with us appears to be that his van was left here because of the floods. As I said, it’s up to the Oswestry police to investigate that side of things. I’m convinced he left our patch on Monday night. His wife spoke to him by telephone on Monday and she’s confirmed that our man is definitely not her husband which is good enough for me. The timing’s all wrong, anyway. Haddonfield was still alive on Monday night whereas our man died on Sunday. It must surely be coincidence.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Mrs Haddonfield arrived home at about nine pm on Monday to an empty house. And that, it seems, is that.”

  “Did she go out later?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “So what’s happened to nosy neighbours?”

  “It was a filthy night. The nosy neighbours had their curtains tightly shut and were glued to the soaps. No one saw or heard anything. She says she was at home all evening, didn’t budge and didn’t hear the phone go. And try shifting that as an alibi. Not that she needs one.”

  7

  Martha heard nothing from Alex Randall for a few days. She was busy anyway. There was plenty to distract her from the puzzle of the unidentified man and she knew the police, under his direction, would be doggedly pursuing their investigations. But while she didn’t exactly forget about the case it did sit at the back of her mind, pricking her curiosity at times. So she scoured the Shropshire Star for detail but there was none. It didn’t even get a mention. Besides – at a guess – if Alex had really broken ground he would have let her know. So she sat back and waited, reflecting that whatever the sayings, no news was exactly that – no news – neither good nor bad.

  The citizens of Shrewsbury, in the meantime, had their own threats to think about. The river still swirled across the fields and intermittently inched its way across the Frankwell car park. Vulnerable inhabitants watched every drop of rain falling from the sky with dread and clung to the elevated ring road, looking down on the flooded meadows. Shopkeepers in the town were busily refurbishing their premises, one eye cocked over their shoulder so they would not miss another stealthy invasion of the river. There was a tangible sense of apprehension overlaid with anger at the delay in the installation of flood defences. The twenty-first century bleat was printed in the newspapers. Somebody should be doing something. Somebody should pay. As though man held the answers to this problem. They were misguided. Not man. Nature. The Salopians were not understanding. Nature has us in her grip. Not vice versa. And try suing Nature or applying for compensation.

  Martha did wonder how Finton Cley had fared at the hands of the insurance investigators but she hadn’t walked past his shop or called in. She had spoken to Mark Sullivan a few times on the phone about other subjects. They were in constant touch through the very nature of his job but they had not discussed the case of the unidentified man and as far as she knew he remained that – unidentified. Anonymous. It was as though both of them knew they must wait for the ponderous steps of the Shropshire police force. There was no point speculating. It was a waste of energy. Evidence and proof would be gathered eventually and only that would reduce broad speculation to narrow fact.

  Mark didn’t sound well. His speech was slower, hesitant and occasionally very slightly slurred. If she had not observed him so clear-headed at her house that night she might have thought it was the way he always spoke. But it wasn’t. She suspected he was drinking, but friend-like, felt compelled to excuse him – even to herself. If he was drinking it was for a reason. She didn’t know anything about his personal life but she could hazard guesses. Possibly something was very wrong at Mark Sullivan’s home but it wasn’t her business. She might suspect he had marital problems but she didn’t really want to know so she deliberately didn’t raise the subject with Jericho. Of course, as she hadn’t actually seen Mark since the night at her house when he had so obviously been fine, her observations were purely made over the phone. She might have been wrong but she didn’t think so.

  Sukey and Agnetha had discovered the Abba website and a chatroom linked to one of the stars. According to Sukey, who treated her obsession like a religion, they linked partly in Swedish and partly in English and he (it was one of the boy members) was really “cool”. Martha knew the word had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with acceptability but she had no objection anyway. It kept them occupied for hours.

  Sam was, according to the school, getting seriously sporty. One Wednesday afternoon, a fortnight after the body had been discovered in Marine Terrace, the PE master rang her at work and asked her to call in on the following afternoon.

  Intrigued, she arrived at the school promptly at three and made her way to the gym. It wasn’t difficult to find the sports master. She could hear him before she saw anyone.

  “Come on, you boys. You aren’t trying. Take the ball and RUN. That’s better. No … Backwards. Backwards, boy.”

  He was a small, wiry man with curling, black hair, wearing jogging pants and a sleeveless white T-shirt that showed off a pair of impressive, weight-lifter’s arms. He was marooned in a sea of scarlet T-shirts, black shorts and trainers. They were practising rugby skills, passing the ball to each other. The scent of sweat and feet was overpowering. She took a step back. The master spotted her and trotted towards her.

  “Carry on, boys,” he shouted back over his shoulder. Then he grinned again. “Mrs Gunn? I think we’d better go in my office.”

  She followed him into a shoebox of a room, its walls plastered with photographs of triumph. Teams, cups held aloft, winners’ ribbons. This was a school that appreciated success. Not for them the stigma of winning. Pride beamed at her as did the man across the desk.

  “Do sit down.”

  She sat, for some unknown reason, glad she had worn trousers today, well-fitting, dark blue, with a white sweater. He leaned forward, eyes pinning hers. “I think we should have a bit of a word about your Sam.” He leaned across the desk again, this time to shake her hand. “Paul Grant, by the way.” He had a pleasant North Eastern accent and smelt faintly of grass. There was a smear of mud on the right knee of his jogging pants.

  She returned the smile. “Martha … Gunn.”

/>   He launched straight in. “You see the lad’s got a rare talent.”

  She nodded dubiously.

  “No. I mean it. I’ve watched him. And I’ve seen a few eager young players in my time. It takes more than that. Nature’s got to give you the right build. You’ve got to have single-minded devotion and a certain strength. Not just in your legs. In your character. I can’t put it any clearer than that. There’s a certain magic about really good footballers that makes your toes curl.”

  He must have got the impression she wasn’t taking this seriously enough because he fixed her with a stare again.

  “Mrs Gunn, he could get a place at a football training school. Young Newcastle or somewhere. Maybe Liverpool. A club from the Premier Division would be glad to take him on.”

  She stared at Paul Grant. And understood that to this man there was no higher calling in life. He would not understand why she was not jumping up, screaming with joy, tears rolling down her cheeks at the thought of her boy. Her boy being potentially one of the chosen few. Again he leaned back across the desk, speaking urgently, his eyes boring into hers but with less certainty now. “If I make that phone call they’ll come down and scout him.” He waited for her to absorb this statement. “I didn’t want to do it without you and Sam’s dad’s say so.”

  She gaped at the man. Didn’t he know? Had no one thought to tell him? “Sam’s father is dead, Mr Grant.”

  The PE master looked as though he’d been struck down. “His dad is dead, is he? I imagined …”

  She knew what he’d imagined. “That his father stood in goals and had a knockabout on the lawn? If anyone did, Mr Grant, I did. His father died when Sam was just three years old. He’s never really had a dad.”