“Oh? I thought he’d stopped doing that.”
“Many days something is there. Uugh.” She gave a shake of her delicate shoulders. “I told him off. I said he was not to bring horrible, dirty things back to this house or he would no longer be welcome.” She gave one of her long peals of laughter and Martha laughed too.
They spent one of their funny treasured evenings, all four of them playing a quiz game, Who Wants to be a Millionaire, almost getting their cheque for the valued million but they couldn’t decide which team had won the Ashes in 1987. It was ten before both Sam and Sukey had retired to bed and Agnetha left too, saying she wanted to send some emails home, have a bath, shampoo her hair and go to bed. Martha was abruptly alone. Awake and fidgety. She had some wine opened in the laundry and the thought of a glass beckoned her.
But instead she found the record, where Agnetha had put it, in the sink. It was, as she had said, an old forty-five, caked in mud. It must have been buried for a while. She turned the tap on and rinsed it.
The label read, A Message For Martha.
This was no coincidence. It felt a mystical threat, a promise, a tease, a lure, a tell, a warning. She held the record in her hand for some minutes. Knowing only one thing. Whatever the meaning was of this object it was personal. She could no longer hide behind her profession, her position, her anonymity or her status. Someone was directing thrusts at her, at her home, at her family.
Like the Mafia say, “It’s all personal, baby.”
15
But there was no time to dwell. Whatever the message was, life must continue. Maybe one day she would understand. Until then she must be patient.
Wednesday, March 13th, was the appointed day for the inquest on Gerald Bosworth. And though it was currently a formality – the inquest would inevitably be opened and adjourned pending police enquiries – Martha took every aspect of her job seriously. To her nothing was a mere formality – or a foregone conclusion.
Usually family and friends of the deceased attended and, in cases like this, the police, the police surgeon, the pathologist, the press, witnesses and members of the public as well as any other interested parties. Inquests were rarely held in camera but were open to all and there were no reporting restrictions, which was why many coroners used their courts to broadcast statements and views. So far Martha had resisted the temptation to become a media star and make political comment. But maybe, one day, the temptation would seduce her.
It was her custom to speak to the bereaved family before the inquest opened, to allay their fears and address any concerns, also to tell them what would be expected of them. It was a sort of dress rehearsal. After all – to the police, doctors and other professionals this was an everyday affair. But to the relatives it was likely to be their only ever appearance in a coroner’s court. She did wonder how Frederica Bosworth would respond to her but she need not have worried. Mrs Bosworth was demure in manner as well as in dress, in a black suit, the skirt modestly reaching to her knees and black ankle-boots. She was wearing little make-up and looked pale and apprehensive. She was leaning heavily on the arm of a suited man who introduced himself as Patrick Carpenter, family solicitor and close friend. He and Freddie exchanged a lot of eye contact but it was not up to Martha to surmise.
Freddie spoke first, as soon as they were inside the room. “I’m sorry, Doctor Gunn. I was a bit off with you the other day. I was upset.”
Martha made a soothing noise, assured Freddie that it was natural – under the circumstances – and Freddie returned a half-smile. “Thanks.”
They spoke for a few minutes and Martha led the way into the court. She never entered it without a feeling of both awe and pride. It was formal, 1920’s oak pews, a witness box as beautifully carved as a pulpit, a long bench behind which she sat. The jury, when there was one, sat in an enclosed set of oak seats reminiscent of a Welsh chapel and the public in a galleried courtroom. Full, it could seat three hundred people but rarely was called to do so. Today it was almost empty. She spotted a cub reporter from the local paper, a tall blonde woman, and a few familiar faces. In the second row Freddie Bosworth stared straight ahead, as though wishing herself elsewhere. The solicitor-friend looked unmoved and uninterested, picking his nails halfway through. The front row included Alex Randall, Mark Sullivan and Police Constable Gary Coleman who looked as nervous as though he was the accused. Martha smiled inwardly. The first appearance in a coroner’s court was very nerve-wracking for a young police officer. At the back of the court, a stocky man in a black puffer-jacket sat with his arms folded.
Jericho opened the proceedings, giving the name of the deceased, the date of the discovery of the body and the place. The rest would be ascertained during the hearing.
Martha gave one of her short, introductory speeches, explaining the format very gently and simply to the court. Coleman was the first witness to be sworn in.
He used his notebook to prompt him and when he wasn’t reading stared at his big black shoes as though he wished he could climb inside them and hide from view.
“It was Tuesday, the 12th of February. The River Severn was bursting its banks and I’d been detailed to make sure everyone was out of the properties along Marine Terrace. About four o’clock, as I approached number seven, I noticed the door wasn’t quite closed.” He flicked the page over. A fly was climbing up the courthouse window. Calliphora. “I,” said the fly. “With my little eye. I saw him die.”
“I called out. No one answered but I was concerned the property was not secured. I pushed the door open, flashed the torch around. There was a swell in the river so the door opened further and something bumped into me. I saw the body of a man.”
“And what did you do then?”
A helpless glance around the courtroom. Martha felt sorry for him. “I touched him. He was cold. I called for help.”
Jericho interrupted to address the court. “The emergency call was logged in at 4.05.”
Coleman wiped some sweat from his forehead. Martha smiled encouragingly at him. “Thank you, PC Coleman.”
He stood stock-still, not understanding that this was a dismissal. Jericho came to the rescue. “You can step down now.”
And Martha caught the faintest tinge of disappointment from the young constable. He would learn.
Alex was the next to take the solemn oath. Not for the first time. He was well used to it and needed no prompting.
“Detective Inspector Alex Randall, Shrewsbury Police. When the emergency call was put through to me I was about to go off duty but realising this was likely to be a serious and unusual case I decided to attend Marine Terrace in person.” He did not need the benefit of notes. “I arrived at four-twenty to find, as Constable Coleman has just said, the body of a man lying face down in shallow water. I ascertained he was dead, informed the coroner’s officer and summoned Doctor Delyth Fontaine, the police surgeon. She arrived at five-twenty.” He paused, knowing, for now, that would be the sum of his evidence.
Delyth Fontaine was called next. She was a vastly overweight, experienced police surgeon in her fifties who worked part time as a GP in the town. Martha knew her very well. She had long, straggly grey hair, a wide, warm smile and perceptive intelligence. She also had a palpable no-nonsense attitude to her work. Martha had only ever seen her upset when dealing with the death of children. Otherwise she did not allow emotion to get in the way of facts.
“I arrived at Marine Terrace at six pm,” she said crisply. “There was a certain amount of turmoil around the place because the Severn was still rising and there was some threat from the river. Attendant were Detective Inspector Alex Randall, Police Constable Gary Coleman and Detective Sergeant Barry Klisco.” She paused, glanced down at her notes, tucked a strand of long grey hair behind her ear. “In the corner of the room was the body of a man. He was quite cold and rigor mortis was beginning to wear off which led me to believe he had been dead for more than thirty-six hours. I could see no external wounds and no obvious case of death.”
Now it was Sullivan’s turn. He took the oath and also read from notes. Martha knew Mark’s need for precision. He left nothing to chance. His evidence concurred with Delyth Fontaine’s but he was able to add the results of the post mortem. The stab wound, the injuries, the bleeding into the pericardial sac.
Martha stole a swift glance at Freddie Bosworth. These were harrowing facts to learn about your husband’s death. The widow was leaning forward in her chair, her lipsticked mouth slightly open. Something more than pain but less than anguish passed across her face. She was frowning, chewing her lip, concentrating. More distressed and anxious than Martha had realised. Jericho handed her a glass of water and Freddie gulped it down gratefully. And to her amusement Martha could have sworn the attention from the deceased’s wife had made Jericho blush right to the roots of his hair.
She dismissed Mark and called Freddie Bosworth to the witness stand, watched while she took her oath. Freddie was waxy pale. “Would you like to sit down, Mrs Bosworth?” Jericho was there with a chair and Freddie Bosworth dropped into it gratefully. This was an obvious strain.
“When did you last see your husband?”
“On Thursday, the seventh of February,” she almost whispered. “He was setting off for a business trip to Germany, packing his suitcase with a spare suit and other clothes. He often went abroad. I didn’t think …” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’d never …”
Martha nodded encouragement.
“I didn’t think there was anything unusual that morning.” Freddie’s blue eyes swept around the courtroom to meet a wave of sympathy – except for the stocky man at the back who had now removed his puffer-jacket and was staring at the widow with visible dislike.
The sympathy from the courtroom appeared to have a recuperative effect on Freddie Bosworth. She continued with a stronger voice. “It was the same as lots of other mornings. Gerald was planning to drive himself to the airport. If he was planning to be away a long time he’d normally have taken a taxi or asked me to drive him in. The airport charges. They’re really steep. I thought he’d be back in a couple of weeks.”
“But you didn’t worry when you didn’t hear anything from him?”
“No. It was like Gerald not to phone. He forgot everything when he was away. Out of sight …” The brave attempt at a joke added pathos to her statement.
“You have no explanation for how he came to be in Shrewsbury instead of Germany?”
Freddie’s wide blue eyes stared back at her. “No,” she said. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“And you were summoned to identify your husband?”
Freddie nodded and threaded a hankie out of her pocket. She sniffed into it loudly, dabbed her eyes carefully to protect her mascara and put it back again.
Although Martha knew the answer to the next question it was a formality.
“You’re sure it was your husband?”
“Yes. It was him.”
“Thank you, Mrs Bosworth.”
Martha next addressed the court. “Police enquiries are ongoing,” she said, “and it is the custom to adjourn the inquest until the investigation is complete. If anyone has anything to add I would be grateful if they would contact my office. The date for the final inquest may not be for some time. Today’s proceedings mean that Gerald Bosworth can be buried, his business affairs completed and his widow grieve without hindrance. Thank you.” She stood up and most of the people in the courtroom stood too. Except the stocky man at the back whose arms were still folded. Her eyes flickered over him curiously and he stared back, insolently.
She watched as Freddie Bosworth and Carpenter made their way towards the exit. The stocky man was pushing towards them, shoving the tall, blonde woman out of the way quite rudely. Martha halted, anticipating an altercation. It wouldn’t be the first time in a coroner’s court for emotions to erupt. Investigations of death could bring all sorts of old resentments and bitternesses to the surface. She noticed that Alex Randall was watching the scene too. In the end Freddie, the solicitor and the stocky man exchanged words but there was no violence. Only rumblings. Then they filed out with the others leaving Martha staring after them, Alex Randall at her side. “Did you know who he was?”
“No.”
“It might be worth you finding out,” she suggested and Randall grinned at her. He knew exactly what she was up to.
And suddenly only she and Jericho were left in the empty courtroom. “What did you make of Mrs Bosworth?” she asked him curiously.
“I don’t think she’ll grieve long,” her assistant observed.
16
After the inquest she felt a desperate need to escape Shrewsbury and during the next day, Thursday, she laid her plans.
On Friday she raced home for five, showered and had the car packed up by six. They put Bobby into kennels – London was no place for a dog. She braved the M54 and the Birmingham box, reaching London late and in time for some supper, a few glasses of wine for her and Agnetha and bed for the exhausted twins.
They rose late the next morning, spent the day at the Natural History museum, ate an early supper and headed for the West End. Agnetha and Sukey went into frenzies as they watched the show and even Sam seemed happy. She knew why.
But all through Mamma Mia, however gaudy and wonderful the costumes, however loud and explosive the tunes were, the case continually nagged at the back of her mind like toothache, and just as impossible to ignore.
She thought back to the dramatic discovery of Gerald Bosworth’s body, the river rising steadily, embracing the town and flushing him from the cellar. Coincidence. It had to be. Even she couldn’t believe that a killer could organise a river to flood. And although it was partly predictable what would happen it was never completely so. Even for locals it was still a bit of a shock. Days when the river was expected to peak sometimes passed without incident whereas the unexpected could still happen. That was the point. Rivers were unpredictable. Untameable. Laws unto themselves.
“Waterloo …” The show pounded on in candy pinks, gold platform-heeled boots and swirls of lycra bell-bottoms. The choreography indistinguishable from Sukey and Agnetha’s routine a few nights ago.
What difference would it have made if the river had not misbehaved? What had Bosworth being doing in Shrewsbury – in Marine Terrace? Why had he not gone to Germany? Why had he died? Had it been a random killing? Martha made a face. Difficult to believe. A premeditated murder then? Had to be. So why? How had he been lured there? Why had no one seen him arrive? They were all such little questions and so impossible to answer.
Halfway through the show she got restless legs and sat flexing and unflexing her calf muscles until Sam tapped her on the arm. “Are you very bored?” he whispered. She shook her head, laughed, and forced herself to concentrate.
She drove back on the Sunday afternoon after a morning of frenzied shopping in Oxford Street, which Sam had tolerated remarkably well. As soon as they were through the front door Sukey ran to the answerphone to pick up the messages. “Granny,” she hissed, then “Granny again” before listening, redialling and finally putting the phone down. “Our mystery caller,” she said crossly. “The one who never says anything or leaves a number. He gets on my nerves.” She stalked into the kitchen.
Sam was halfway up the stairs. “If the mystery caller never says anything how do you know it’s a man?”
Sukey came out of the kitchen to stand at the bottom of the stairs, hands on slim hips. “I can hear him breathing, Sam. Anyway – no woman does that sort of thing.”
And it suddenly hit Martha. There were a lot of anonymous callers to this number. More than there should be by the law of averages. Odd thing
s did happen. A wreath left when there had been no death? A muddy record. A Message to Martha. What message? It was beginning to infuriate her. What message, she was screaming inside her.
And now she believed someone was out there beaming some emotion right into this household. Into her. For what purpose, when it was done so randomly, so ill-directed, so obscurely? What was it achieving? And if it was not malevolent why did they not speak? If there was a message why not bloody well leave it? Why not simply explain what they were trying to say? Was it some nut? Connected with her job? Should she speak again to Alex about it? Request police surveillance? Because of the nature of her job she knew her request would be granted. Provided she made it. And what was it, really? Nothing. There was no threat. She did not feel threatened. More invaded. This was an isolated house. Private. She was a private person. She welcomed the house’s isolation rather than seeing it as a problem. She could consider moving but she didn’t really want to.
Then she started to understand – a little. The reason she did not feel threatened was because she was not threatened. It was not a threat. It was simply a message – for Martha. The trouble was with her: that she could not read it. One day she would. Not yet.
She glanced at the telephone. Strike while the iron is hot. There had been other telephone calls too. She dialled her mother first then Martin’s mother and invited them both to come for the weekend. Both accepted. Husbands too. It would be the weekend of the grandparents and she could tell them about Sam, and Sukey and Agnetha could show them their dance routine. She felt virtuous. Virtue is a pleasant emotion. By Monday mid-morning her emotions were much less pleasant.
How surprising that in this overcrowded age a corpse can remain undiscovered. In a populated area. For more than a month. It had intrigued her before that there were black holes through which a person can disappear for months, weeks, sometimes forever. But in these sophisticated days instinct and observation have been bred out by civilisation. We no longer use our senses properly – our five precious senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing and sight. Unlike Calliphora whose multi-faceted eyes see all and whose instincts lead her unfailingly to find the right source. Dogs have as keen a sense of smell as Calliphora. And both are irresistibly attracted to the scent of rotting flesh.
River Deep Page 14
