River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  “Excuse me.” An octogenarian pushed past them on an invalid scooter, followed by a child on a bike frantically ringing her bell. A couple of teenagers surreptitiously smoked underneath a tree, trying to appear grown up and managing to draw attention to the fact that they were simply kids. The girls had their midriffs bare, tattoos on much of the available skin. The boys had their hair carefully gelled into a casual, windswept style that made them look like shocked cartoon characters. They wore huge jeans while the girls’ jeans threatened to slip down their bottoms. Martha took a deep breath in and turned to Randall. “I love spring,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  Even he appeared more relaxed out of doors. He too was looking around with approval. “Fact is, Martha, we keep slogging away at the little facts and hope that one of them will strike us at some point. Then …”

  “And the alternative? I mean if nothing does strike you?”

  “I don’t even like to think about it.” They walked a few more paces before he answered her question. “Maybe even another murder.”

  And all she could think was Humphreys, who had looked scared even when he should have been safe – at work.

  22

  It was an audacious idea but the more Martha really thought about it the more it seemed the obvious answer. The trouble was she couldn’t work out the logistics. She didn’t know exactly how or when it had happened. Nor exactly what had happened. Or how it had been planned. Much of it was very obscure. Worse – how could she hope to find out the truth?

  Not alone. It wasn’t possible. She needed allies. But even though her knowledge was patchy she did know her instinct was right because it was like ringing the most perfect crystal glass. It rang true, clear and loud in the purest of tones. It explained everything – all the irritating anomalies and inconsistencies – all the things that couldn’t have happened, yet they all knew had.

  Somehow it must have been like this. The connection ran like a thread of scarlet silk through pure white linen. You couldn’t always see it – alternately visible then vanishing behind the cloth – yet you always knew it was there. But to know something is far from being able to prove it. She could prove nothing. And without proof her theory was simply an idea in her head. And ideas in heads had never sent anyone to prison. Not for murder.

  She considered confiding in DI Aitken. She was another woman. Maybe she would lend an empathic ear to Martha’s feelings and instincts. She rejected that idea. Aitken was not the right person. But she did need to talk to someone. She considered speaking to Alex. Rejected the idea. Thought about Mark Sullivan.

  Considered Alex again. And decided on them both.

  It is more difficult arranging a meeting between people who have tight schedules than you would think. Alex was unavailable until the early afternoon by which time Mark would already have started on his afternoon list of two post mortems. One a death on the operating table and the other a drunk who had been knocked down on Saturday night outside one of Shrewsbury’s nightclubs. With the result that they finally held the meeting at three thirty in the afternoon in the mortuary, as soon as Mark had finished.

  Alex had picked her up and tried to pump her about the reason for the meeting. She put her finger against her lips. “I’d really rather we talk about this when the three of us are present,” she said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “OK.” He grinned. “Let’s change the subject then. How are the twins?”

  She told him that Sam was hoping to be spotted by the scouts from Liverpool Youth Academy and Sukey was turning into an Abba clone, at the same time conscious that he never volunteered any information about his own family – partner or children.

  When they were almost at the mortuary she plucked up courage. To say, with a smile, “I know so little about you, Alex. Are you married?”

  His hands tightened around the wheel. “Yes.” His lips were pressed firmly together. To have pursued the questioning would have been intrusive. Unforgivably nosy. So she didn’t.

  They had arrived. He parked the car, pulled the hand-brake up, switched the engine off, turned to her. “I am married, Martha. My wife…” Pain twisted his face, passed and left it normal and familiar again. “She isn’t very well.”

  He climbed out of the car, waited for her to do the same and she knew she would never ask him anything about his wife or family again. In fact, she wished she hadn’t.

  Mark had changed back into black jeans and an olive green sweater. He ushered them into the room set aside for grieving relatives. A strangely soulless room, neutral colours, vertical blinds shrouding any view, a watercolour of a flower so bland and indistinct as to be almost abstract, coffee and tea machine as well as a water cooler. He played host, setting them all up with drinks, Martha and Alex watery coffee, himself, a plastic cup of water. Then he closed the door and immediately started apologising to Alex. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “for keeping you waiting. It must be a busy time.”

  Alex smiled. “It’s OK, Mark.” There was an obvious bond between the two men. They sat down, both looked for their cue to Martha. “Well then? Fire away.”

  And she didn’t know where to start. Mark’s glasses were glinting in her direction and Randall was regarding her with an almost patronising expression. If she was to retain her credibility she would have to produce something better than this.

  Mark spoke, she thought to ease her doubt and tension. “I know you wouldn’t have summoned us unless you had something definite to say. So – fire away,” he finished encouragingly, folded his arms and sat right back in his chair.

  “I wanted to ask some questions.”

  “OK.” It came from both of them.

  She turned to Alex. “Is there, in the police opinion, a connection between the two murders?”

  Alex frowned. “We’ve got an open mind on that, Martha.” The line of his mouth was straight. “I thought you realised that.” What he was saying was, in essence, please don’t tell me you’ve called this meeting simply to ask questions you’ve already asked many times before.

  “Did the two men know each other?”

  Again Alex answered very carefully. “Not that we can discover, no. They did different jobs. Lived in different areas of the country, moved in different circles …”

  “What about their wives?” Martha interrupted and held her breath.

  If Randall was surprised he didn’t show it. “We haven’t discovered anything – yet.”

  “But you think there could be one,” she persisted.

  “What do you know that we don’t?” This came from Mark who had been quietly appraising her.

  Martha almost hiccupped in a nervous breath.

  “I was looking at the case from the other side.”

  Both men looked at her enquiringly.

  “We have three women,” she ploughed on. “All less than happy with their marriages.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  She ignored him. “Lindy Haddonfield who was discontented with her husband – a small-time probable crook and window cleaner when she could have the glamorous and wealthy Mr Khan instead.”

  Neither man commented.

  “Then we have Cressida Humphreys whose husband leaves her for another job, quickly finds himself another woman – and gets found out. Don’t tell me she’s in a blissful relationship?”

  Still silence from Randall and Sullivan.

  “And lastly we have Freddie Bosworth, Babe, who could probably hook-up with any man she liked. She’s every man’s fantasy.” She glanced from one to the other. Alex’s dark eyes blinking quickly, Sullivan’s eyes very bright blue behind his glasses. “So why does her husband cheat on her?”

  “We don’t know that he did.”

  “Then why was he in Shrewsbury instead of Germany?”

  Alex again. “It could have been some sort of shady business deal that diverted him.”

  “And have you found one?” she asked sweetly.

  Alex shook his head slowly.

&nbs
p; “OK, so let’s stick to what we know. Bosworth told his wife he’d be out of the country – but he wasn’t. Neither did he contact her after the Friday he was supposed to be leaving.”

  “Can I mention something else?”

  “Bosworth was found wearing another man’s suit whereas Haddonfield’s body was naked.” She looked from one to the other. “Does that seem significant to you?”

  Both men looked blank.

  “OK then, Mark.” She was not letting the pathologist off the hook yet. “Bosworth had a small, circular contusion in the middle of his chest.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you have an explanation for this?”

  He simply stared back at her without making any attempt to answer.

  She didn’t even mention Lilac Clouds at this point although she knew she should have. It was possibly the common denominator. But she salved her conscience with the argument that the police would surely have explored the beauty salon. It was such an obvious focal point. If she mentioned it they would wonder what her interest was. And she didn’t want to lead them down that particular path. After all, she reasoned, it didn’t take much deduction to realise that Freddie Bosworth was exactly the sort of woman who would use such a place. She wouldn’t be surprised if Cressida Humphreys was too. And Lindy Haddonfield worked there. The problem was how exactly had this then translated into a double murder and the complicated morass of facts which surrounded the cases? All she knew was that the three women were bound as tightly by evil as witches in a coven. The problem was conveying this fantastic idea to pathologist and policeman.

  She tried to inch them forward. “What I’m suggesting,” she said slowly, “more to Alex than to Sullivan, is that you focus on the women of the case.”

  “But they don’t know each other. There is no connection.” Randall spoke for both of them.

  She fidgeted. Sullivan was eyeing her carefully.

  “Do you think the two murders were done by the same person?”

  He was shaking his head dubiously. “I don’t really think so.”

  Randall gave a heartfelt sigh as though he was very very tired. She must try another tack.

  “Do you think Freddie Bosworth murdered her husband?”

  “Not possible. She was staying with friends from Saturday morning, in the west country, and left there on Monday morning.”

  “And you’re sure Gerald Bosworth died on Sunday night or in the early hours of the Monday morning?”

  He nodded, not even bothering to answer.

  “And Lindy Haddonfield? Do you think she killed her husband?”

  “The same. She was elsewhere when her husband was murdered.”

  She challenged the statement. “But you don’t know when he was murdered.”

  Alex looked uncomfortable. “We know when he disappeared from view, Martha. It doesn’t take a huge deduction to believe the two events were within a short time of each other.”

  “And Cressida Humphreys?”

  Alex looked at her as though she was mad. “She doesn’t need an alibi. Her husband is well and truly alive and kicking.”

  “Of course – that’s true. I think-” She looked from one to the other. They were not impressed. “-it might be an idea if you interviewed the women again?” She left it at that. It would have to be enough. A word to the wise. She had pointed them in what she believed to be the right direction. She could do no more.

  As she drove home she went over and over the facts in her mind, tried to extend them into some reasonable solution. And failed. As Randall had said, it was not possible that any of the three women had murdered their husbands. All had been miles away at the time when they had died. That much was proven.

  Randall was right. Lindy Haddonfield had been in full view of the staff at Lilac Clouds during the time when her husband had last been seen. And how did all that business of the hitchhiker fit in? What had been the point of the entire silly charade – if charade it was? She pressed the button to wind her window down and sucked in a deep breath of air. Whatever her instinct told her, it was not possible that Lindy Haddonfield had murdered or kidnapped or whatever. Without an accomplice.

  And what had James Humphreys to do with the whole thing? What had he seen from the English Bridge that had made him look as though the world was screaming into his ears? Who had been on the mobile phone when he had glanced across the river and seen the pretty blue door of Marine Terrace open?

  There was nothing for it but to follow her own nose. She had made the acquaintance of Lindy Haddonfield and of James Humphreys (briefly). Freddie Bosworth was, presumably, back in Chester, while Cressida Humphreys was, again presumably, in Slough. Three women. Continuing with their own lives. Two recently widowed. But there was nothing to stop her from taking the river walk that led past Marine Cottage. She stood on the bridge, for a while, looking. It was such an idyllic scene. The spring light had changed the row back to being pretty fisherman’s cottages. She descended the steps and strolled past the blue door, the river Severn sparkling to her left. No sign of life. She would have loved to have pushed her way in to the house, to have refreshed her memory of that dank cellar, of the body, of that initial, morbid scene. She thought. The body. The beginning of it all, the body where a bluebottle had laid its thousand eggs. That had been the start of it all. The fly had given Freddie Bosworth an alibi, the pathologist a time of death. In a way it had been the beginning of it all. She was reminded of the old nursery rhyme, Who killed Cock Robin? I said the fly, with my little eye.

  The door to number seven opened. Martha froze. It wasn’t Humphreys who stood there but a tall, blonde woman. Cressida? Martha pretended to be studying the English Bridge, admiring the view of the peaceful river. The woman was speaking to someone inside the cottage. Words travel across water.

  “Your hands are tied, James.”

  Martha could not hear what he replied. But there was no mistaking the threat in the woman’s voice. She also sounded very confident. She flung back one final remark. “I don’t really think you have any choice, my dear husband.”

  Martha caught a momentary glimpse of a white face. Humphreys. And then the door was slammed shut and the woman hurried back towards the English Bridge.

  Martha walked in the opposite direction for a few minutes then looped back. The door to number seven was closed now. A light was on inside. There was no sign of the blonde woman. Or Humphreys. She hurried back to her own car and drove home.

  23

  Surprisingly it was Sullivan who made the next move. She could still make no sense of the entire business. Every time she thought she had a solution she realised it could not have been like that. Something was wrong but it took the pathologist’s brain to light her way.

  He rang her three days later, moving through the official channel of Jericho. In fact at first he discussed another case and she believed that had been her reason for telephoning but just as she finished giving her comments on the case of an old man found dead in his bath he paused. “Actually, Martha, I had another reason for wanting to speak to you.”

  “Oh?” She knew instantly that it was the Marine Terrace murder.

  And he confirmed it. “It’s Haddonfield – and Bosworth,” he said. “It’s the problem of identity.”

  She was surprised. “I don’t understand you, Mark. What do you mean? Haddonfield’s wife identified him and so did Freddie Bosworth. There is no doubt about identity. That’s the one thing in this case we are sure about.”

  “Let’s just look at Haddonfield,” he said patiently. “It’s the point that the wife did identify him that makes me unhappy.”

  “Explain.”

  “OK,” he said. “Why did she insist on identifying him? He had an awful injury. We’d told her that. The front of his neck was virtually destroyed and he’d been dead for weeks by then. He was enough to turn the strongest of stomachs and I’m a pathologist. I’ve seen every variation of the degradation of the human body. So why did Mrs Haddonfield insist on ident
ifying her husband?”

  She had her answer ready. “Oh – come on, Mark. You know the answer to that as well as I do. People want to identify their loved ones for a variety of reasons. To be sure they really are dead, that there hasn’t been some awful mistake. As you well know in cases of sudden, violent death the next of kin often has trouble believing they really are dead. It’s like a still-birth. At the back of the mind sits the question, What if they were wrong? What if it is someone else’s baby who is dead and mine is in a crib somewhere, crying?”

  Even though she did not quite believe herself what she was saying she was aware of what she was doing – playing devil’s advocate – because this was an aspect she had not considered. She continued. “Maybe Lindy Haddonfield thought the same – what if it was someone else’s husband who died and mine is still alive? Particularly with the confusing evidence of the van driver who seems to have dropped him off into a void. She must wonder what on earth happened to him. Maybe she thought if she saw his body it might help her to accept his death. It can be part of the grief process. Sometimes it’s important to say goodbye – physically – just to assure yourself your loved one is at peace.”

  There was a brief, respectful pause before Mark Randall spoke again. “Who are you trying to kid? We heard what you said the other day. You can’t have it both ways, Martha.”

  He was right.

  “Well, she may still have wanted to reassure herself that he really was dead, at peace.”

  “At peace? Loved one,” he scoffed. “You saw her at the inquest, Martha. I wouldn’t say she was exactly prostrated with grief, would you?”