River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  They finally left after a Sunday afternoon walk, early dinner and games of Monopoly and Ratrace. Martin’s mother’s face had cracked into a smile when she had bought her second Porsche and was divorced for the third time and Martha had the briefest of glimpses of how her mother-in-law must once have been – sensitive, intelligent, perceptive and happy. Like her son. Martin had been all those things. And her own mother, useful, kind, with an imagination which stowed other people’s sufferings deep into her own heart. She gave them both an extra-special hug because they meant well. It was not their fault that it was her father who achieved what they would have liked to have done – brought her some real solace. They rose to leave at the same time, at nine o’clock exactly, as though each had secretly been clock-watching and had set this exact minute to go. Martha waved the two cars down the drive. Both of them, she knew, looked after her and the twins’ welfare and would always do so. They were her family.

  She had an appointment with Sam’s teacher first thing on Monday morning and agreed that Sam should be trialled for the Liverpool Academy with a view to starting in September – if he was picked. As soon as she had finished speaking she felt a sense of relief that she had finally come to a decision and acted on it.

  What the decision had been, whether right or wrong, wise or unwise, was less important than an end to vacillation and uncertainty. She sat in her car, outside the school, transfixed, for a moment, by a brief vision of Sam in Liverpool strip, in front of a roaring crowd, then scolded herself for jumping ahead with her imagination and moving into her castle in the air. So she threw objections in front of her dreams. He may well not be chosen. There were other talented boys around. Other parents shared the same vision. Enough to populate ten Liverpool football teams. She might have to deal not with elation but disappointment.

  Yet she smiled, leaned forward and started the car acknowledging that it was no use pointing out that there were other football clubs. Liverpool was the only one for Sam. Anything else would seem like second best. It was his dream. She manoeuvred out of the car park still lecturing herself that even if he was successful there was always the spectre of injury hovering behind the shoulder of every wannabe professional footballer. A knee injury. A torn ligament. Fragile metatarsals to shatter. But even so, all day long, she was aware of a secret sense of elation. An air-thumping, “Ye-e-es.” And she felt especially warm when she recalled that when she had served up tomato soup with croutons of white toast last night for supper Sam had stared for a while, reading its significance then flung his arms around her neck. “I’m going to make you so proud of me, Mum,” he had said, before sitting down and slurping it so noisily Sukey and Agnetha burst out laughing. It had been the happiest of evenings and she knew she would remember Sam’s words all day. Treasure them all her life.

  What she could only hope was that they would never return to haunt her.

  But her job meant there was always death and formality to deal with. On the Tuesday, at a little after nine, Alex Randall rang her.

  “Martha.” His voice was cordial but formal. “I thought I’d better give you a ring, let you know how our investigations are proceeding.”

  He must have sensed her unseemly curiosity in the case. He didn’t usually keep her quite so well informed. She tried to keep her voice cool – detached. Suppress the intrigue that was bubbling up. “That’s good of you, Alex.”

  He cleared his throat and she caught the flicker of paper down the phone line. “Haddonfield almost certainly was killed sometime after February the ninth. That’s when the skip was last changed. And his body dumped in the clothing bank soon after he died. There’s some leakage of blood on the surrounding clothes.”

  She interrupted him. “The clothes could have been dumped with him.”

  “There are all sorts, for all ages, all qualities and sizes. Too much of a variety for one person to have dropped them. At least, Martha, that’s what we think. We haven’t had any firm sightings of him in Shrewsbury on Monday, the 11th, but there’s no reason to doubt his wife’s statement that he rang her mobile from home on Monday morning. The call was logged. And after all – his van was driven here, into Shrewsbury. The most likely explanation is that he drove it in himself. There is some corroboration from the next-door neighbour. He watched Haddonfield backing his car down the drive about ten o’clock on Monday morning. It’s a narrow turn and he’s on long-term sick and is very possessive about his new Renault Clio. He was worried that Haddonfield might scrape it. Hence the interest.”

  A pause. “Haddonfield’s wife drives a Vauxhall Calibra and was seen driving home on the Monday night coming back from work. She’d been there all day. She’s vouched for.”

  “Convenient.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “Yes.” Neither could he.

  “Where does she work?”

  “It’s a health farm. A posh sort of place just south of Chester. Fanciful name.” He laughed. “Lilac Clouds. In fact if I worked for the drugs squad I’d be investigating it for hallucinogenics.”

  She laughed at the joke, seeing his point. It did sound very sixties. “Have you found any connection between Humphreys and Bosworth?”

  “No.” Said shortly. “I mean – we’re looking into it but we’ve come up with nothing so far.”

  “Have you any ideas why Bosworth was wearing Humphrey’s suit rather than his own?”

  “Again no.”

  “Or what he was doing in Marine Terrace in the first place?”

  Randall shook his head.

  “And I don’t suppose Haddonfield connects with either man?”

  “No. Nothing there either. Haddonfield’s murder may well be quite unconnected. Although …”

  She waited.

  Randall’s tone was tense. “Haddonfield was someone who would do anything for a few quid. A sort of minor Steptoe.”

  “Oh?”

  “Some sort of scam would be right up his street.”

  “This is a bit more than a scam.”

  “True. But it could be a scam that went wrong.”

  “We don’t actually know that he died on my patch.”

  A wisp of a smile. “Don’t complicate matters, Martha. Haddonfield vanished from sight somewhere, sometime, between Oswestry and Shrewsbury on the Monday and your jurisdiction extends to most of north Shropshire so it’s pretty safe to say that he died almost certainly on your territory. There isn’t any point involving another coroner at this stage, Martha, particularly as you’re already handling the inquest on Bosworth.”

  “But -”

  “I know. We haven’t found any connection yet between the two killings but even I’m not sure how far the long arm of coincidence can extend.”

  She caught a tired smile in his voice and heartily agreed. Without waiting for further comment he hurried on.

  “Mrs Haddonfield doesn’t seem able or willing to supply us with any answers. She doesn’t have a clue about why her husband was abducted, where he was between February the 11th and him turning up inside the clothing bank. She has no idea of who might have killed him. She’s never heard of or met James Humphreys or Gerald Bosworth or heard her husband mention them. We’ve re-interviewed Humphreys and he can’t help us either although I think there’s something bugging him about all this. He seems badly scared and it isn’t just his wife biffing his nose that’s getting to him. It’s something much much more than that but is he going to tell us anything about it? No. And he and his wife appear to have formed an uneasy truce about his peccadillo. He’s back at work and in Marine Terrace again. She’s gone back to Slough and Sheelagh Mandershall is still with her husband. So everything’s returned to normal. She hasn’t been of any help anyway – in spite of us having questioned her a few times. She doesn’t seem to know anything and I believe her.”

  “I see. So what line are you working on?”

  “Just between you and me I think this is the work of an organised gang. Some sort of car scam involving Humphreys a
t the Jaguar garage, Bosworth doing the foreign side of things and Haddonfield – somewhere on the periphery. A sort of runner. They must have trodden on some gangland bosses’ toes and got their come-uppance. It would explain why Humphreys is so scared. I have spoken to a forensic psychiatrist who’s studied organised crime and he feels the two murders were done by different people which points us in that direction.”

  He seemed to feel the need to justify his reasoning. “It looks suspiciously like two perfectly ordinary middle-aged men were killed violently within days of each other and their bodies both found in north Shropshire. It has to be more than coincidence.”

  “Absolutely. I agree.”

  “See, Martha, I remembered your lecture about coincidence and have looked for one explanation.” He was trying to win her round, still sounding like a little boy who expected a pat on the head.

  She gave it – verbally. “Good for you. And how about the hitchhiker?”

  There was a pause. “That I cannot understand or explain. We’ve tried everything. Everything to find out who he is. We’ve stopped traffic on the road to Oswestry, put boards up, re-interviewed Watkins, gone right through his van with the finest of toothcombs.” He sounded worried. “I don’t know who he was. Maybe our killer. We won’t stop hunting for him.”

  They set a date for Clarke Haddonfield’s inquest. She thanked him for his call, put the phone down and continued with her work. But after a few minutes her head jerked up.

  She did not fault his reasoning. Only his conclusion. He was looking the wrong way. A bluebottle climbed slowly up the window.

  Half an hour later she was still sitting, staring at the fly moving jerkily up the glass, rolling her pen to and fro between her fingers, arguing silently with herself and hardly seeing the dullness of the day outside.

  She could justify it. Oh no she couldn’t. She owed it to herself. No she didn’t. She could pamper herself. It was outside her remit. A beauty treatment was what professionals did when they wanted to chill out or dry out. She was a professional, in a high-profile, demanding job. It was none of her business and, if uncovered, would be viewed as unprofessional, unwarranted interest, which might even prejudice the outcome of the inquest. The court case. She could always plead ignorance – coincidence. Lindy Haddonfield might recognise her. They would inevitably meet at the inquest. That was the point at which reason lost the argument.

  Every woman loves the thought that they can wear a disguise, radically change the way they look. She could wear glasses during the inquest, pin her hair up, wear frumpy clothes. People didn’t really look at a coroner. It was the office which grabbed the attention. And as Martha Rees …

  She made a few phone calls quickly, before she could change her mind, told Jericho she would be away all day Wednesday and booked in for a day’s Anti Stress treatment at Lilac Clouds, making a special request that her allocated beautician for the entire day would be Lindy Haddonfield. Now Tuesday was simply a day to be got through.

  She arrived at 10 am with a full day ahead of her and her heart in her mouth.

  She was so nervous she could hardly park her car and ended up noisily reversing in then realising she hadn’t left enough room to open her door and spending another five minutes moving the car forwards then backwards and forwards again.

  She stepped out. Her white fleece and cut-off black pedal-pushers gave her confidence. A brown hair rinse which promised to wash out in three shampoos, lots and lots of make-up, hair teased out like an eighties soap star, high-heeled strappy shoes. She tottered up to the imposing front door, following the signpost to reception.

  Lilac Clouds was an Elizabethan black and white half-timbered house with a huge, modern extension dwarfing it from behind. She slung her bag containing lycra and bikini (she’d been told Lilac Clouds would supply the towels) over her shoulder and felt a sudden rush of apprehension, elation and excitement. She was not only a coroner but emulating her fictional idols. She was Martha Rees, female sleuth.

  Lilac Clouds was going to make her Stress Busting Day a smooth run. She was aware of that as soon as she stepped inside, greeted at once by a white-uniformed blonde wearing soft mules and the scent of patchouli and lavender clinging around her, strong enough to act as a major tranquilliser.

  The blonde flashed white teeth and lifted heavy, bluemascara’d eyelashes. “You are?” Her eyes drifted across a white clipboard.

  “Martha Rees.” Martha spoke with ebullient confidence. It was her maiden name.

  “Oh yes – Ms Rees,” the blonde echoed in a Barbie-doll voice.

  Relief. “Welcome to Lilac Clouds. To our Stress Buster Day. We are so glad to have you chill out with us in these beautiful surroundings. I’m sure you will benefit from the experience.” She had the speech learned word perfect. She crinkled her eyes, which Martha translated into a smile. She returned it.

  The girl launched into her spiel again. “My name is Lucy. Would you like coffee or a visit to the powder room before I take you across to our salon so you can meet our team?”

  The word ‘team’ threw Martha. “I’d asked for …”

  The blonde dropped her eyelashes quickly down again towards her clipboard. “That’s all right,” she said smoothly. “We’ve made a note that you’d requested Lindy. You’ve been here before then?”

  Martha had her answer ready. “A friend recommended her.”

  “Ri-ight.” No suspicion.

  “I think I’ll leave the coffee. I’d really like to start on my treatments, if that’s OK, Lucy.”

  “That’s fine. Uum maybe you’d like to sort out the …”

  Martha handed the girl her money. Cash. All her credit cards would be in the wrong name. She felt ridiculously pleased with herself that she was already thinking like a PI.

  The Stress Buster day included full body massage, Deluxe Non-surgical Facelift and seaweed wrap followed by a manicure with a detox lunch, optional pool, sauna and solarium and workout in the gym for the afternoon. And she didn’t feel a single tinge of guilt – even at the £250 currently being counted with the deft expertise of a professional gambler.

  “Would you like a receipt?”

  “Thank you, no.” Martha couldn’t begin to imagine explaining this as a tax-deductible expense – even to her long-suffering accountant. She followed Lucy down a long hallway, red-carpeted, timber-beamed, scented with lavender and expensive pot pourri, lined with convincing looking oil portraits and leather-look wallpaper, making conversation all the way, tossing back the comments when Martha lagged behind. “Lindy is one of our best and most dedicated beauticians.” Martha glanced at her reflection in a rococo gilt mirror and didn’t recognise herself.

  Women are so lucky, she reflected. No man could ever disguise himself so efficiently. It simply went to prove that what we take note of are the superficial features, what her mother used to call ‘window-dressing’. She was almost tempted to wink at herself.

  They passed buttoned leather seats clustered around tiny wine tables beneath leaded casement windows, chandeliers blazing above her as she followed Lucy’s footsteps, silently sinking into the deep pile. As she passed a mirror she risked another peep at herself and noted her secret, excited smile, her hair dark rich brown, as the packet had promised, and wonderfully unruly despite Vernon’s attentions. She pushed it a little more out of place. Her eyes gleamed back at her, green and mischievous, her orange mouth curving. She forced herself to concentrate on Lucy’s swaying bottom.

  Through two double doors and they were obviously in the modern extension. The smell changed. Beneath the lavender and pot pourri was a vaguely threatening odour of chlorine. They must be near the pool. The sound altered too – from subliminal easy-listening to echoing shouts and strains of gluppy whale-music. Lindy Haddonfield was standing behind a wooden counter, a little plump, the buttons of her white uniform gaping slightly to reveal a lace-covered cleavage and beneath that a roll of fat. She wore a name badge and illustrated ‘window dressing’ at its nadir –
skin sunbed orange, with vivid red lips, sparkling blue eyes neatly outlined in lilac kohl, impressively neat eyebrows and a wonderful complexion framed by enviably neat, straight brown hair sunstreaked with blonde. A woman who would like money, Martha thought, as she greeted her with the warmth of a long-lost-friend and the same Barbie-doll voice as her colleague. She too had learned her lines.

  “Miss Rees, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful day. Now we do want you to relax.” Even, white teeth a dentist would be proud of. thoughts flashed like stars through Martha’s mind. She didn’t look like the wife of a window cleaner.

  Lindy Haddonfield babbled, “We don’t call it the Stress Buster for nothing.” She had a pleasant Shropshire burr, which blended nicely with the high-pitched tone. “Now then. I suggest we do the facial first and then I can wrap you in seaweed while you have a fruit tea and after that the massage. Later – after lunch – you’re free to do as you wish until the manicure at four.”

  She handed Martha a white towel then discreetly left the room while Martha stripped down to her knickers and wrapped the towel round her, hovering uneasily, waiting for Lindy to return.

  She was seized with the sparkly, excited feeling again, looking around. It was clinically clean; the room smelt of antiseptic and Aloe Vera. Trolleys lay neatly side by side – almost surgically laid up on white towels: tweezers, antiseptic, strips of material, bowls of viscous liquids, blue, green, clear. She dipped her finger in the blue bowl and found the substance gelatinous. A thick film stuck to her fingers.

  “Now then. It’s best if you lie on your back.”

  She hadn’t heard her return. Guiltily Martha climbed up on the couch, clutching her towel around her and lay back to the order. Tilted – as in a dentist’s chair. Lindy flicked a switch and she was lying flat, on a couch.