River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  She sipped her coffee, trying to answer her own questions. The identity of the victim often leads to the discovery of the killer but none of the usual steps had been taken to conceal it – apart from the empty pockets. The body hadn’t been hidden, at least, not effectively. Although you could argue that it had only been found through the intervention of the river. Martha shook her head. That wouldn’t really do. The cellar door hadn’t been bolted or locked. Apart from the removal of personal effects and the switching of the clothes the killer hadn’t tried to prevent identification by obliterating Bosworth’s features or removing his fingerprints. There had been no attempt to destroy the body – even to weight it and dump it in the swollen river. She took another sip of coffee, thoughtfully, and tried to imagine herself in the part of the killer.

  Perhaps he had been disturbed by the rising river before he had had time to complete his plans. Whatever they were. Perhaps he had considered sinking the body in the river, but had been prevented by the presence of the police and other emergency services. Depending on when he had committed the crime. Probably after Humphreys had called in after work and left. He had possibly seen Humphreys emerging from Marine Terrace and opportunistically used the empty property. After all, the police had said it would have been easy to gain entry.

  She put the mug back on the desk, her mind still busy. She’d been a coroner for a number of years and she could never remember a mix-up like this where women had twice been summoned wrongly in the hope of identifying what had been assumed were their husbands. One mistake was very, very unusual in this age-group. Teenagers were more common. She had frequently dealt with the parents of runaways who had shaken their heads, partly in relief that this was not their errant offspring, and partly in puzzlement over their actual fate. But she had never before witnessed the fiasco of mistaken identity over a man of Bosworth’s age. It was strange. More than strange. Almost a sick joke which had, in turn, led to a double farce. She recalled Alex’s account of Cressida Humphreys’ expression as she had denied that the corpse was her husband. And the fiasco had been repeated when Lindy Haddonfield had also shaken her head. The same emotions. Mirrored. And finally Freddie Bosworth had identified the man. Her eyes slipped out of focus. So many thoughts were racing round her mind:

  How much of a part had the rising river played in the three-act-farce? Aid or hindrance or had it made no real difference? Had the killer utilised the property emptied by the flood or had the waters foiled his plans either by exposing the body early or bringing the property to the attention of the authorities? After all – it had been the police who had discovered Gerald Bosworth. Had Coleman not pushed open the door of the property, Bosworth would have remained undiscovered for a while longer. What difference would there have been had the Severn not played Joker? What would have happened if Humphreys had been home? Would Bosworth still have died? What had he been doing there, anyway? Waiting for Humphreys?

  Her mind fixed on just one of the facts. Bosworth’s body had been hidden in the cellar. No one would leave a cellar door open to a living room in February. Particularly when the cellar was damp and beneath the level of a flooding river. So almost certainly the cellar door had been closed but not properly latched and the force of water had pushed it open. Otherwise Humphreys might not have discovered the body until the scent of putrefaction alerted him. Unless he had innocently had occasion to visit the cellar, which he denied. Then what? Well, surely he would have told the police. It was a blind ending.

  So Martha’s mind tracked along another path. Why had Bosworth come to Shrewsbury? To meet Humphreys? Had there been a connection between the two men? She finished her coffee and sat, motionless. Something was stirring.

  She continued searching the PM report. If anyone should be capable of discerning evidence from this cold, clinical document, she should. After all – she read post mortem reports all the time. She was well-used to the jargon. If there was evidence to tease from the corpse Mark Sullivan would have done it. And she should be able to read it.

  Appearance: Well-nourished, muscular male.

  Apparent age: early forties

  Body weight: 82 Kg Rigor Mortis partly dispersed

  Apparent sex: Male. Crown-heel length: 6ft1inch. Crown-rump length: Blank

  Hypostasis: Dorsal, Purple.

  External features:-Well-nourished middle-aged man with gaping 2 centimetres wound, one centimetre below left nipple. Evidence of post mortem wounds on face, lower limbs consistent with contact injury. One centimetre circular contusion over mid-line of sternum.

  Consistent with Bosworth’s body bumping on the cellar steps and against the cellar wall.

  There was a lot of other detail in the report, largely irrelevant but legally required, relating to the state of Bosworth’s general health – lymph nodes, muscles, skeleton, skull circumference and so on. Largely normal. Martha’s eyes skipped to the words beneath the heading, heart. Penetrating knife wound to the left ventricle causing leakage of blood into the pericardium, causing cardiac tamponade.

  At the bottom of the page: Cause of death.

  In my opinion the cause of death was:

  1. a) shock, due to

  b) loss of circulatory blood due to

  c) cardiac tamponade due to

  d) penetrating wound to the left ventricle.

  She stopped reading. As far as forensic pathology was concerned it was a well-done, efficient post mortem report. But it was such an incomplete picture. The wound had been skilfully or luckily inflicted. She knew it was not up to the pathologist to make stabs at the facts, merely to report the clinical findings but, even so, she was disappointed. What was missing was how long had it taken Bosworth to die. The reason it was missing was because a pathologist could only guess at the answer. No one knew – except the killer.

  So had this killer sat and calmly waited for Bosworth to die from the fatal stab wound? Had his victim tried to call out? To summon help? How weakened had he been by the initial blow? For how long had he remained conscious? And where? The cellar or elsewhere in the house? How had his murderer prevented him from escaping? Forcefully?

  Jericho had thoughtfully attached more details. Deceased identified on March 7th by his wife as Gerald Bosworth aged 42 of 16 Gawton’s Way, Chester.

  She sat and did nothing for a minute. Then she picked up the phone.

  It was time to speak to Frederica Bosworth. A man answered with an ever-so-slight Liverpool accent. When she asked to speak to Mrs Bosworth he asked politely who was speaking. She explained and there was a brief pause. Then Freddie spoke with a tentative, “Yeah?”.

  Martha reintroduced herself, realising as she did so that Bosworth’s widow had no recollection of her at all. “We’d like to set a date for the inquest on your husband’s death,” she began and went on to explain that it would be a formality, would be adjourned pending police enquiries, but would enable the funeral to go ahead. She would be able to release the body for burial.

  “Oh.”

  There was an awkward pause so Martha continued. “I wondered if there were any questions you’d like to ask me.”

  Freddie’s response was confused. “Like what?”

  “Sometimes relatives want to try and understand the circumstances surrounding their loved one’s death.” She paused. “It can help them to grieve.”

  She waited for some response to give her a clue how to proceed.

  “All I want,” Freddie Bosworth said fiercely, “is for you to catch the bastard what did it. He was a good bloke, my Gerald.” The line went quiet. “Not perfect – I grant you. But he didn’t deserve that.”

  Martha made an expression of sympathy.

  “What’s the purpose of the inquest?”

  “Simply to state who has died, when, where and how.”

  “So what’s the point of it then?” Truculent now. “It’s bloody obvious who’s died. I’ve identified him. We know when and where he died. And as for how. Someone stuck a knife into his heart. I take it you’r
e not going to make any contribution to find out who stuck the knife in so I can’t really see the point of your involvement. Thanks very much. But no thanks.”

  “The inquest is a formal, legal requirement,” Martha said icily. “It is not a police enquiry. It will take place whether you can see the point or not, Mrs Bosworth. In fact, usually relatives welcome it.”

  “Oh.” Freddie sounded mystified. “All right then.”

  “We’ll keep you informed.”

  “Thanks.” She could have been acknowledging a mail order delivery. “But that’s just what the police say. Trouble is there’s nothin’ to really tell me, is there?”

  Martha put the phone down in a fury. She would let Jericho liaise with the woman and the police to set a suitable date for the inquest. He could organise her diary.

  Martha had a pile of work to do but she couldn’t shift her mind back into gear. It was stuck in the Gerald Bosworth groove, spinning round and round like a broken record. She felt fidgety and restless. It felt like very unfinished business. She dialled Oswestry Police and asked to be connected with the Senior Officer investigating the disappearance of Clarke Haddonfield. After a lengthy pause she was put through to a woman. “Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Wendy Aitken. I understand you wish to talk to me about Clarke Haddonfield’s disappearance.” The voice was brisk and not inviting.

  Martha introduced herself and began by asking how the investigation was going. Wendy Aitken’s voice changed. “Not very well, I’m afraid, Coroner. We’ve spoken to the van driver on numerous occasions as he was apparently the last person to see Haddonfield alive. We’ve shown him photographs and so on but he couldn’t positively identify Clarke. He hardly looked at the guy he picked up. It was dark and rainy. He needed to concentrate on the road. Added to that Haddonfield had his coat collar pulled right up around his face. Our driver had the radio on and Haddonfield didn’t speak much apart from into the phone. Watkins, the van driver, claims he deliberately didn’t listen in to the conversation because he assumed Haddonfield was speaking to his wife. We’ve put a board up on the A5 appealing for people with information to ring in but as yet we’ve got nothing. In fact we’ve drawn a complete blank. We’ve had the SOCOs clean the cab out for DNA, blood, hair – anything really – and drawn another blank. Looks like Watkins often picked up hitchhikers on their way through to Wales. There’s an absolute wealth of forensic evidence but nothing that takes us straight to back to Clarke Haddonfield.”

  “I take it the van driver’s clean.”

  “As a newborn baby. He hasn’t even had a speeding ticket in the last fifteen years.”

  Martha was frowning into the phone. When did innocence become suspicious? “Haddonfield was dropped off by a service station. Didn’t anyone there see anything?”

  DI Wendy Aitken gave a loud, hopeless sigh. “It’s as though the elements conspired against us. Everyone in the service station was busy doing their own thing. Reading the paper, buying sweets, paying for petrol. It was chucking it down with rain and, of course, very dark. The cashier thinks she might have seen a lorry drop someone off but she isn’t sure. She half remembers someone sheltering under the tree but didn’t take much notice and she couldn’t tell us anything other than that if she was right and there was someone sheltering underneath the tree he must have been picked up later because she didn’t notice anyone there at nine o’clock when she finished her duty. And of course to add to everything traffic was heavy that night.”

  “What was the van like?”

  “Big, white, eighteen hundredweight, long wheel base.”

  “Any markings on the side?”

  “No,” DI Aitken said crisply. “Original white van man with no distinguishing features.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Car spares.”

  “Taking them to where?”

  “Watkins Garage. Great big place on the A5. Family business – does MOTs, services, tyres, silencers. All perfectly above-board. My granny’s got more to hide than they have. It was the Watkins’ son, Evan, who picked up our hitchhiker and dropped him off. He says he did offer to take the man all the way home as the weather was so foul but he was refused. Apparently Haddonfield assured him his wife would be along in a matter of minutes. The last he saw of him he was sheltering underneath a tree. Watkins drove off and never saw him again.”

  “A public-spirited guy,” Martha commented. “I don’t suppose for a second that Watkins knew Haddonfield already, did he?”

  “No. They weren’t acquainted. I’m convinced he’s speaking the truth.”

  “You’ve interviewed Mrs Haddonfield again?”

  “Lindy – yes – again and again. She sticks to her story that her husband did not ring her after lunchtime on Monday. Neither did he arrive home on Monday night. She claims she didn’t get a phone call to go and pick him up. What’s more, I believe her. I don’t think a call was put through to her. The whole business is extraordinary and a bit of a brainteaser. I don’t know where he’s gone. I mean – the obvious answer is some sort of parallel life. Not a wife but a mistress whom he phoned and picked him up.” She gave a short, huffy laugh. “And window cleaners do have a bit of a reputation.”

  “So?”

  “I haven’t unearthed anything like that. He was a bit of a jack of all trades. Lots of fingers in lots of little pies – and from his bank statements I don’t think any of them made any money but there’s nothing sinister there. Just poor judgement.”

  “His mobile phone printout?”

  “According to our records he didn’t have one. We think it was a pay-as-you-go and not registered in his name.”

  “So what’s your impression?”

  “Nothing concrete, I’m afraid, Coroner. Only very vague ideas. But I do get the impression that Lindy Haddonfield isn’t too worried about her husband’s disappearance. In fact she seems quite relaxed about the whole affair.”

  “Do they have children?”

  “No.” DI Aitken laughed. “Lindy’s a bit of a glamourpuss. A beautician at a big hotel not far from her home. Not exactly the earth mother type.”

  “Isn’t she?” Martha toyed with the idea for a minute or two, teasing it as a cat does a ball of wool. There seemed to be plenty of glamorous women hovering on the edge of the lives of three men. Gerald Bosworth’s wife was a babe who drove a flashy sports car. She wondered what Cressida Humphreys was like.

  “Have you considered trying to take the van driver back both physically and mentally?”

  “Well, we’ve driven him on the road between Shrewsbury and Oswestry more than once, getting him to pick out various landmarks. As for mentally. You mean hypnosis?”

  “Yes. I just wonder if under relaxation Watkins might be encouraged to recall the Monday night, driving out of Shrewsbury on the bypass. When he decided to pick Haddonfield up he must have seen him quite clearly in his headlights. It’s that image that will have imprinted.”

  “Mmm?” DI Aitken sounded sceptical.

  “If you do happen to consider that line and record any conversation I’d be very interested to listen to what Watkins has to say.”

  “All right.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Wendy Aitken laughed. She had a nice laugh, high-pitched and cheerful. “More of a maybe. Maybe it is worth a try. We have been liaising with the Shrewsbury force to try and stage a reconstruction but we’ve shelved the idea for the moment. We consider the information appeal boards are probably more appropriate and may well be more productive.”

  “Fine. I wish you luck in your search.”

  “It won’t be luck that solves this case,” Wendy Aitken said soberly. “It’s going to be good, old-fashioned policing.” There was a brief pause during which Martha had the impression Wendy Aitken was gathering a question. “Do you mind me asking, Coroner, what is your interest in this?” Her laugh was embarrassed. “I mean, Haddonfield isn’t dead. He’s just missing. It’s a puzzle but there aren’t any disturbing features. He
isn’t old or vulnerable. He’s just gone walkabout. I know you probably have heightened concerns because in Shrewsbury you’ve had a murder. But Haddonfield’s disappearance is unconnected. I’m sure.”

  Martha wished she could agree with her. “To be honest, Detective Inspector, I don’t know whether the two events are separate or connected. Put my interest down to feminine curiosity and a long nose. Haddonfield disappeared from the same town the very night after Bosworth was murdered and that seems a hefty coincidence.”

  “Which you don’t believe in.”

  Martha squirmed. “Put it like this,” she said, “I have yet to be convinced.”

  “I see.”

  “There is just one last thing. How did the van driver know it was Haddonfield?”

  “He introduced himself. They shook hands.” And that, in itself, seemed strange. Or else it was her heightened sensitivity that made ordinary events seem odd. Like a man walking across a bridge, speaking into a mobile phone. How much less suspicious can normal behaviour appear?

  Martha put the phone down, still dissatisfied. Haddonfield had had his collar pulled up around his face. Why? He had been in the warmth and comfort of a van by then with no need to wrap his face up, other than to conceal his features and maybe muffle his telephone conversation.

  Why had he refused the offer of being dropped off at his own home? The van driver had been obliging. It had been a filthy night. It would have saved Lindy from being dragged out into the rain. It would be more normal to have accepted Watkins’ offer of a lift to the door. Unless, as Wendy Aitken had suggested, he wasn’t intending to go home.

  Why had he waited underneath a tree instead of inside the service station? His wife could have picked him up just as easily from inside the shop. It would have been warm and dry in there. She wondered whether they would ever know the whole truth.

  In her mind she was asking the real question. Did Haddonfield have any connection with the murder at Marine Terrace? Or was it pure coincidence that he had vanished so soon after the murder? Was he simply a man who had not wished to go home to his wife? Why get dropped off in his home town then?