River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  The card was damp and as inappropriate as the flowers. With Loving Sympathy, and a flowered cross at its right upper border. The message inside was handwritten.

  “Message for Martha.”

  There was no signature.

  8

  She fretted over the incident for days, feeling threatened by the mystery behind it. Someone must have driven up the track and left the flowers there. She had questioned Sukey, Sam and Agnetha but they had seen nothing. They could only reiterate that they had not been there when they had returned from school. They seemed unconcerned but Martha could not dismiss the gesture so lightly. She didn’t know where the flowers had come from and she didn’t understand the significance of the message. What message? At night she tossed and turned, asking herself the same question. What message? It felt more like a threat.

  She took the wreath out of the laundry and dropped it in the wheelie bin, but the next time she put some rubbish in it, it was still there. The card she placed in a drawer where she saved old Christmas cards and other useless oddments. She locked and bolted the doors very firmly at night. There was not a lot else she could do. But like the unidentified body it was another story without an ending. A message for Martha.

  Then Alex called in at the office one week later, on a fine, bright day in early March. The warming weather had exploded the town into sunshine daffodils. The town of flowers was living up to its name as spring finally came and the threat of floods diminished with the drier weather. People were scurrying around with renewed energy. It was the traditional time of new beginnings. Except that she made the mistake of blurting out her simple mystery.

  “You have a secret admirer,” he said smiling. “Most women would feel flattered.”

  “Maybe I would if it hadn’t been for a wreath, the With Sympathy card, the cryptic message. I don’t feel flattered, Alex. I feel … exposed. Is that silly?”

  “No. Not considering the high-profile work you do combined with the fact that you live in a remote area and alone. Well, I mean alone with the children.”

  “And Agnetha,” she said, suddenly wishing the flowers had been from an admirer, meant for the au pair. But the message had been addressed to her, personally.

  At last Alex took her seriously. “You could always have brought the card, flowers and their packaging in to us,” he offered. “We could have fingerprinted it.”

  “Oh,” she protested. “I’d feel silly. I’m sure you’re right. It’s nothing.”

  He nodded dubiously. “Well, I don’t know. If you read the gift as a threat … And none of them saw a car arrive.”

  “No.”

  “Or heard the doorbell?”

  “No.”

  Now she felt it was he who was making a fuss and shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “Well,” he said finally, “you know where we are.”

  “Yes.” It was time to change the subject. “I think I saw Humphreys,” she said slowly. “About a week ago, crossing the English Bridge.”

  “Very possibly. He’s still around. Back in Marine Terrace, in fact. His wife’s gone back to Slough.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “And Sheelagh?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “She isn’t really part of the investigation – apart from giving Humphreys an alibi.” He was chewing his lip. A sure sign that he wasn’t quite happy with that last statement.

  Martha waited but he wasn’t going to enlarge. “So how is the case going?”

  “We think we have an ID for John Doe.”

  “Really? You should have said. Who is he?”

  “We haven’t actually got a positive ID yet which is why I haven’t let myself get too excited.”

  “OK – who do you think he is?”

  “I’m saying nothing,” he said. “After two false alarms I hardly dare hope.” He was teasing her.

  “Alex …”

  “We believe his name is Gerald Bosworth.”

  “And how did you get on to him?”

  “His wife saw the pictures flashed on the TV and rang her local force.”

  “Which is?”

  “Chester. They’ve faxed up some photographs and it does look like our man. However his wife said he was supposed to be on a business trip to Hamburg so if it is him goodness knows what he was doing in Shrewsbury. There’s Humphreys not at home when he should have been. Haddonfield vanishing into thin air. And now a guy turns up murdered in Shrewsbury when he should have been out of the country.”

  “I just hope you have the right man this time,” she warned. “When are you bringing her up to view the body?”

  “Later on today. The trouble is our John Doe has now been dead for more than a month and he’s had a post mortem. It could be a bit of a shock.”

  “You could use dental records.”

  “She wants to see him. I think something in her simply doesn’t believe any of it.”

  “I can understand that – particularly as he wasn’t even supposed to be in the country.” She frowned. “What on earth was he doing here?”

  Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t suppose you’d like to be around when she comes, would you?”

  “I should if there’s a likelihood it really is this Gerald Bosworth.” She smiled. “He sounds awfully upper class.”

  “Well the wife doesn’t.”

  “So when …?”

  “In the morning? Ten?”

  “I’ll get Jericho to look at my diary.”

  The morning bloomed, bright, clear and cold. Frost had visited again. She could tell that before opening her eyes. The bedroom seemed unnaturally light and chilly – even with the central heating on. She threw back the duvet and crossed the bedroom to open the curtains. The sky was a clear, Wedgwood blue, the fingered branches of the trees thrown into silhouette against such brilliance. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the woods. In summer this brought hoards of flies who buzzed around the sap-scented trees. But in winter the view was even more special, a far panorama back towards the town, the spires of which peeped over the top of the branches: St Mary’s, St Alkmunds and St Chads. RSPB enthusiasts had nailed bird boxes to the trunks, large and small, so owls had made their homes there and swooped and hunted through the clear winter’s nights, and blue tits fussed around the feeders full of nuts. In spring the woods were as overcrowded as a council estate with every nesting box noisily taken. And, in autumn, sometimes when she drew back the curtains her breath was taken away by the vivid colours of the dying leaves. Another few weeks and the trees would be wearing their spring best.

  She had awoken early for some reason. Maybe because the sunlight had penetrated her curtains and acted as nature’s alarm clock or maybe it had been the cold or perhaps because the thought of an unseen watcher who lay flowers at her doorstep still disturbed her. Tantalised her with a phrase.

  What message? She had even questioned Agnetha again and had a vehement denial. “There is no one, Mrs Gunn. I have a perfectly nice boyfriend back home in Sweden. I do not want to meet a man here, in England. The flowers – they must have been for you. It was your name written. The Sympathy card … well.” Martha guessed the phrase had a different meaning in Sweden than here.

  She threw back the duvet and crossed the bedroom. The house was still peaceful. In minutes the day would begin with footsteps, music and voices. But for now she treasured the silence. Even Bobby hadn’t started scratching at the door of the laundry where he slept. A blackbird, perched on the forsythia bush outside, was singing. It was a moment of rare peace.

  Then abruptly the day began. Somewhere, probably in Sukey’s room, the music started playing. There was the heavy thump of Sam clomping to the toilet, Agnetha’s light step tripping down the stairs. Running water. The spell was broken. Martha was under the shower in a moment and wrapping a towel round her by the time Agnetha knocked with some welcome morning coffee. Agnetha would take the children to school while she took Bobby out for a walk.

  She left through the back door and sta
rted walking briskly, at first, only aware of the cold. The morning was more comfortable from the inside. The air vaporised her breath. She thrust her hands deep into her pockets, ignoring the nip around her ears, and planned to wear the dark wool suit with a cream blouse. One of the worst aspects of being a coroner was that more days than not she felt obliged to wear funereal clothing when her favourite colour was red and her special outfit a very snug pair of jeans which fitted her with a pull yet felt comfortable.

  Bobby scampered on ahead, his nose pressed into the ground, his breath noisy in puffing, steamy pants. She felt overwhelmed with affection for the furry black hound and walked quickly to catch up with him. The woods were almost always empty at this time of the morning, the branches hoary with frost. Her feet crunched across frozen clay. She could almost convince herself that this was her own private forest. She rarely saw anyone else using the footpaths. The RSPB volunteers threw out dark hints about coppicing and thinning, of woodland management and control but she loved to think of them as wild.

  Today was one of the dog’s naughty days. He scampered after rabbits and eventually she lost him. She didn’t worry. He’d find his own way home. She stood at the highest point, turned and stared back at the house, suddenly registering how visible her bedroom window was from this point. She stared for a long, long time. Thinking. Anyone standing on this spot could see right into her bedroom. She shivered. It did not do to stand still and think. One must keep moving in such chilly weather. Particularly when she had unwelcome thoughts. But even striding back towards the house the image continued to disturb her. She pictured herself standing, as she had only minutes ago, at the window, staring out. Undressing without quite pulling the curtains together. And being at the back of the house she had never shrouded her windows in net or voile. She hated the stuff anyway. But it did leave the windows exposed.

  With Deepest Sympathy? She practically ran all the way back to the house. Three-quarters of an hour later she was changed, made-up, her hair brushed and tidy. Temporarily. The fierce Irish inherited from her mother kept it wild. Like the woods. Bobby had turned up on the back doorstep not even looking penitent. Just panting and tired, his flanks rising and falling. She made a pretence of scolding him and he handed her his paw to shake. She put him in his basket in the laundry. Agnetha wasn’t back yet from taking the children to school. She sometimes stopped off and browsed around the record shops and today was not Vera’s day.

  She set the burglar alarm and stepped back out through the front door, stooping. “Oh, Bobby,” she scolded. He’d caught a mouse and, dog-like, had presented it as a peace offering on the front doorstep. He’d often done this before; he was only obeying his instinct. Scolding and smacking made no difference though Martha still felt she should show disapproval in some way. She threw the mouse into the bushes trying not to look at it. A little blood had been trickling from the corner of its mouth. Freshly killed. Poor little thing. A field mouse, tiny and inoffensive. Nature could be so cruel. She put the incident behind her.

  It was nine-thirty. She wasn’t due at the mortuary until ten so she had time to call in the office, collect some papers and have a swift word with Jericho. He stood in the doorway, a grizzle-haired clerk, watching, while she leafed through her letters. There was nothing too desperate. She told him where she’d be for the rest of the morning and arrived at the mortuary with a second to spare.

  At the same time as a pink Porsche Boxster. A pair of long legs extended out, black skirt, split almost to a tiny rump and an impossibly small waist. Then a skin-tight red sweater encasing disproportionately large breasts. High-heeled boots completed the outfit. Obviously Mrs Bosworth, if this was who she was, did not share scruples about wearing suitably funereal clothes. Martha watched her with fascination. A real live babe. She walked behind her, invisibly observing and breathing in the scent of cigarettes and expensive perfume.

  Mrs Bosworth bounced towards the door, rang the bell with a red-painted finger nail which Martha noted, again with glee, exactly matched her sweater. Wow. Martha noticed these things. They did not happen by chance but by womanly design. She may have planned her outfit but this woman had paid proper attention to detail – right down to the fingernails. And the scarlet boots with pointy toes and spiky heels.

  Mark Sullivan opened the door himself. His eyes widened as he scanned the woman from head to toe before noticing Martha standing behind her. But it was Martha’s hand that he grasped and she was glad of that. “Hello, Martha.” Then he turned his attention to the woman. “And you are …?”

  “Freddie Bosworth. Frederica really.” Her thick lashes dropped slightly as she spoke. Martha assumed a suitably grave face and waited for Mark to perform the introductions.

  He did it perfunctorily. “Martha Gunn, our local coroner. She’ll be conducting the inquest.”

  The woman’s eyes flickered across her with a tinge of disdain. (Martha may have approved of Frederica Bosworth but she hadn’t passed the return test). However, tucked behind the female appraisal was a clear spark of worry.

  The three of them stepped inside just as Alex Randall pulled onto the car park, tucking his tie inside his jacket as he climbed out of the fluorescent squad car.

  “Hello … hello.” He strode over. “Sorry I’m a bit late.” His eyes rested on ‘Freddie’ with a faint air of confusion. Sullivan filled in the gaps. Alex introduced himself formally as the senior investigating officer and they all moved inside to the viewing room.

  Freddie was digging the blood red finger-nails into her palms as Mark Sullivan drew the sheet back. Her small shoulders twitched. She hardly looked at the face but stared, unfocused, around the room. She looked very shocked, her skin yellowy pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’d have said earlier …”

  “Is it your husband?”

  Martha could read the bones in the woman’s hands, strong, practical hands, with dry skin and long nails. She peered closer. Intriguingly, the nails were stuck on. She studied the woman’s face even closer and read habitual, old tension, a few smoker’s lines sprouting around the mouth. Grief hadn’t kicked in to join them yet. Her eyes met Freddie’s wide blue ones as she nodded. “It is him,” she said. “It’s Gerald all right though none of it makes any sense at all.” She frowned. “I don’t understand. I didn’t think …”

  “Can I have a fag?” she said next. The three of them looked at each other. It was against all rules. But sometimes rules are meant to be broken. Alex led her into Mark’s cluttered office and opened the window and they all watched her drag on a cigarette for a few minutes without interrupting. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought he was in Germany.” The puzzlement carved more lines into her face so she looked old. “He never went then? You said he’s been dead a while. How long. What’s a while?”

  She looked so pale Martha fingered a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs Bosworth?”

  Frederica sank into it, looking around at all three of them. “It’s been such a shock.”

  They believed her. She looked genuinely shaken. Her hands trembled so she was finding it hard to put the cigarette to her lips.

  “What’s he doin’ here, do you think?”

  They looked at each other.

  “He doesn’t even know anyone in Shrewsbury. I don’t think we’ve ever been here. It isn’t our neck of the woods. We go across to Manchester if we want to shop. How come he told me he was in Germany? What was he up to?” Her blue eyes were pitiful. She wasn’t crying so much as shocked. They were staring wide open. “I don’t understand any of it,” she said again.

  “I’m so sorry,” Martha said. “It definitely is your husband?”

  The blue eyes fixed on her. “No doubt about it, love.”

  She lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one. “So what did he die of? The local bobby just said he’d met with an accident? Was it his car?”

  Both men looked at Martha for their cue. “Freddie,” she said. “Mrs Bosworth. There isn’t an easy
way to say this. Your husband was murdered.”

  “What?”

  “He died from a stab wound which entered his heart. There was a lot of bleeding.”

  “What? You mean all over his clothes?”

  “No. Into the lining around the heart. There’s a medical term. But it won’t mean anything to you.”

  Freddie’s hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. “What is it?” she asked. “I’m going to be hearing plenty about it. You may as well tell me.”

  “It’s called a cardiac tamponade.”

  Freddie responded with a twitch of her shoulders. Alex drew in a long, deep breath. Martha could tell he was thinking up a list of questions.

  “I’ll be holding an inquest,” she said, “but there are bound to be police investigations.”

  “A funeral …?” Freddie said weakly.

  “There are a few formalities to be completed first,” Martha said. She stole a swift glance at Alex Randall. “The police will want to question you.” She turned her head around. “Alex, if you’d prefer to use my office …”

  “It’s up to you, Mrs Bosworth.”

  “I don’t care where,” she said. “But get me out of here.”

  Mentally Martha tacked on the phrase, “away from him …”

  The fight had gone out of Freddie Bosworth. She looked frightened. She was gnawing her lip like a hungry rat. And yet there was still a steeliness behind it, as though she was bracing herself for some huge pressure. Martha contrasted the woman who had bounced into the mortuary to the one who was subsequently led out. Maybe it was the shock of seeing her husband dead. Maybe as she had walked in she had half-hoped that it was not him and her husband really was somewhere else – alive. Maybe in Germany. Martha could remember denying that Martin was dead. It is only when you look down on a cold, empty face that you begin to accept death.

  The pink Boxster followed Alex Randall’s Ford out of the car park slowly, Mark Sullivan watching through the window.

  “Well,” he said, “what do you make of that?”