River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  “Mark – what are you getting at?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her – not straight out – not yet. “How many post mortems, inquests, enquiries have we been involved in together?”

  He must know the answer as well as she did. “Hundreds.”

  “So you’d agree we should have a good instinct for what is right?”

  “I would think so, yes.”

  “And for a while now you’ve been trying to get Alex and me to see that something about this case is not right.”

  She had to admit it. “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to sound fanciful, Martha. And I don’t know what it is but something is screaming at me.”

  After she had put the phone down the word bumped around her head. How strange that he should use that word. Screaming. Like Munch’s painting. She knew now that she had convinced Mark Sullivan.

  Screaming. The word troubled her for days. Sometimes she believed she could understand what had happened. Bits appeared then vanished, or appeared not to fit. Like pieces in a rogue jigsaw puzzle.

  It was almost the First of May before she had any idea what was going on. It was two jigsaw puzzles – or maybe three. Deliberately shaken out into the same box so the picture would make no sense. Never would. Clever. And piece by piece she began to understand.

  At first she thought the three women, Mesdames Bosworth, Humphreys and Haddonfield, must have met. A day later she corrected herself. There was absolutely no need for the three women ever to have met. They had only needed a catalyst. Lindy Haddonfield. A beautician who pumped her clients for complaints about their husbands. That bit was easy. So, somehow Freddie Bosworth and Cressida Humphreys had, probably separately, made the acquaintance of Lindy who had sensed some great dislike – hatred, even – of their husbands. Enough hatred for her to knead. Then came the dangerous bit, translating hatred into murder. Proving the dough. Complicated murder which would leave the women free. But it had all gone wrong because the river Severn had flooded its banks.

  First of all Cressida Humphreys had lured Gerald Bosworth to Seven Marine Terrace. To kill him. The idea had been to leave the body in the cellar, leaving her husband with some explaining to do. She would have enjoyed that. Seeing him squirm. Perhaps trying to dispose of the body himself – Humphreys was a bungler. He would mess that up and maybe go down for murder. Or possibly conceal the body – leave it there. And one day even Martha could see the dark humour behind this.

  Haddonfield must have driven to Shrewsbury that day, hitchhiked back to Oswestry and … Martha could not quite follow this. It still seemed unclear, the waters muddied. She did not understand it all but she thought she did know why Humphreys had looked so struck on the bridge when she had seen him that day, a week or so after the murder. It had been an action replay of a previous event. What if, standing on the bridge on the Sunday afternoon, he had seen his own wife come out of his front door?

  He would have had a guilty conscience about his infidelity – only that. But what if later he had begun to mull over exactly what he had seen, tried to work out the full significance of his wife being in such a place at such a time, maybe even started to construct some explanation of his own – possibly even confronted her?

  Martha recalled the bloody nose. So why hadn’t he told the police? Cressida must have given him some explanation and Humphreys must have gone along with it. No wonder he had looked stunned as he crossed the bridge again and looked again across the waters. She wondered what explanation Humphreys’ wife had given him for Bosworth being there.

  Oh, clever women, because while the women were keen on getting rid of their husbands and collecting their 100% widow’s share they had no intention of going down for the crime for a life sentence. Ergo they swapped murders, gave each other alibis. Made their cases watertight. Martha managed a thin smile at the word. Watertight it had not been. Thanks to the River Severn.

  She was sitting in Martin’s study, where she could think, ponder very carefully, structure events into some sort of order.

  So Cressida who had never needed an alibi because her husband had not been murdered had entered number seven, Marine Terrace, and stabbed Gerald Bosworth, a man she had probably never met before. Martha gripped the arms of her chair. Bosworth had been wearing Humphreys’ suit. When he already had plenty of his own? She hadn’t arrived yet.

  In fact, the case was wonderfully logical. Apart from this. And in her experience if an aspect of a case doesn’t fit then you have not yet solved it. Near she might be. But not spot on.

  How had Bosworth been lured to Marine Terrace? Lindy? Cressida? Even Humphreys with some sort of business deal? Pretend Humphreys. That would be the plump favourite. But there should have been a role for all the women. Otherwise they were not bound by the blood spill. The lovely Frederica must have had her role to play. She was wasted had she not been the honey trap. She should have been the silver lure dangling in bright, clear waters.

  Something else was not quite explained. The hitchhiker. The hiker who had kept his collar up, talked into a mobile phone to whom? Hidden his face from Watkins – Watkins, the fall guy, the innocent driver. Had it been Haddonfield? Or could it have been Cressida Humphreys who, having killed Bosworth, had walked across the Welsh Bridge, stuck her thumb out and claimed to be Clarke Haddonfield?

  Soft hands. Soft voice. The more Martha thought the more she liked this second option. So when had Haddonfield died? How could he or his body have been transported back from Shrewsbury to Oswestry? Had he ever been in Shrewsbury on that day? They only had the word of his wife – and the neighbour who had seen him through the window. But it had been raining. People huddle into their clothes in the rain. Mistaken identity was possible. When we see someone leave a house who resembles its owner and drives his car we make assumptions. And besides – even if the neighbour had seen Haddonfield he couldn’t have known where he was going – only that he was going somewhere.

  Maybe Lindy had told him later that her husband had been driving to Shrewsbury that day and the neighbour had transplanted the information from person to person and in time. Because in the police statements it did not say that words had been exchanged between the two men.

  How necessary had it been that Haddonfield’s body was not found straightaway? Had the delay had been important – vital even? Who knew? Cressida Humphreys could so easily have left her car somewhere in Oswestry – maybe even in the service station – and driven Haddonfield’s van into Shrewsbury. There to commit the murder before hitchhiking back (masquerading as Haddonfield) to collect her car. Leaving Lindy Haddonfield plenty of time to kill her husband and dump his body in the clothing store. This was not right either. Haddonfield had vanished from view on the Monday – not before.

  As she moved the facts around in her mind like Scrabble letters they were still not making a sensible word. It had not been like this. Something was still wrong. The suit. And not only that. Mark Sullivan had noted a centimetre-wide circular contusion over the mid-line of the sternum. What was the explanation for that? And why had Bosworth not been wearing his own clothes? Where had his personal possessions been? Had they been removed merely to delay identification of the body? But this had implicated the other two women. Had this been a necessary part of the plan?

  Then gradually, over the next few days, she combined Mark Sullivan’s telephone call with her own anomalies and came up with something even more audacious.

  Again she sat alone, in Martin’s study. When would she stop calling it that?

  Lindy Haddonfield had an alibi for the Sunday night/Monday when her husband had vanished. She had been working in Lilac Clouds, in full view of plenty of witnesses. Not only her younger boyfriend. She had had no time to return to Oswestry, kill her husband, dump his body and return to work. She had even shared a room. And this fact fitted like a handmade glove. She had shared a room with David Khan. But she had no such alibi for the earlier part of the weekend because she did not need one. Likewise, Freddie Bosworth had an e
xcellent alibi for the Sunday night when Gerald had been stabbed but she had been out of the picture on the Monday and no one had checked up on her movements on that day. And Cressida Humphreys – all she had had to do in this set-up fiasco was to play the injured wife, turning up at the mortuary and her payoff was that had Shrewsbury not been flooded her husband would have been implicated. At the very worst, squirming on the end of a fishhook. Nice touch, Cressida. And as Alex Randall had pointed out, she had not needed an alibi at all.

  Motive? Murder is a big risk. OK – less so when you have an alibi for the crime which would have benefited you but no motive for the murder which you may yet be accused of. But it still takes a strong stomach and a certain amount of hatred. No one wants to be convicted of cold-blooded murder. Prisons are not nice places. But then most murderers believe they will get off scot free. No one thinks they will be caught or they would probably not commit the crime in the first place. So Martha worked around the question, worrying at it like a terrier.

  But she could go no further without the police. And she had still not arrived at an answer. She needed to speak to Alex face to face so she rang him and asked him to call round to her office – at his convenience.

  He was round two hours later and listened without comment, only raising his eyebrows periodically. When she had finished he took in a deep breath. “I think my best move would be to call the three women in for questioning,” he said.

  “At the same time.”

  He nodded. “Though it’ll really put the cat among the pigeons and the press will have a field day if you’re wrong. Possibly even worse if you’re right. I can already imagine the headlines. ‘Witches of Eastwick’.”

  “Please,” she pleaded, “Don’t drag witchcraft into it too.” “I’m already spooked by thinking I saw The Scream on the Bridge and Dafydd ap Griffith hanged, drawn and quartered by the High Cross. Oh, and someone’s stalking me with a 196’s record.”

  His features twisted in concern. “Are you still being bothered?”

  “I don’t know,” she said reluctantly. “I haven’t been threatened or approached. Yet there is some subtle warning – a message. I don’t know, Alex. Maybe I never will.”

  “Well –” He smiled, a warm, friendly grin. “Let’s get to the bottom of this one first and then we’ll tackle your little problem. Now, when shall I set up the meeting?”

  “Tomorrow? And is there any possibility that I could observe from behind a two-way mirror?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  24

  She dressed in brown – her least favourite colour – but she wanted to blend in with the background. Alex had warned her to arrive early, well before the three women. She parked her car around the back of the police station. He settled her down in the small viewing room. “We’ll be ushering the three of them in here,” he said, “leave them to stew for half an hour or so then see what transpires.”

  “What excuse have you made for bringing them in?”

  “Further clarification,” he said, humour warming his face. He’d lost weight during the investigation. His cheekbones looked more angular and he looked tired.

  “And have the press caught on?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.” She settled back in her chair.

  “You’ll have to keep still and quiet,” he said. “The setup isn’t a hundred per cent soundproof.”

  She nodded and smiled, sat down in the dark and fixed her gaze on the small, bright room. It was like sitting in a darkened auditorium, looking at a lit stage-set. Four chairs grouped around a small coffee table littered with magazines. The door opened.

  Cressida Humphreys was the first to arrive. The big, powerful, beautiful woman Martha had spotted emerging from Marine Terrace, a woman with a commanding presence, an almost regal bearing. The woman she had recognised at Gerald Bosworth’s inquest. Easy to see that she could impersonate a man without too much difficulty. She had broad shoulders, a wide stride. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a chignon making her appear taller than the roughly 5’9” Martha guessed her to be. She was not fat, not thin but of a muscular build and was wearing a fiercely flame-coloured Prada suit, affected ragged detail on an A-line skirt, black, patent high-heeled shoes. Martha grimaced and felt dowdy, watched as Cressida sat down in the chair on the left, heard her thank the police officer. The door closed behind her and Cressida pulled out a make-up bag, checked her lipstick and patted her hair. Martha had asked Alex to group the three chairs so all would be facing her but he’d objected. “Too stagy,” he’d said. “They’d smell a rat – I’m sure. Better this way.” So there were four chairs.

  “But I might not be able to see Cressida’s face when the door opens and …”

  “Take note of her body language, Martha,” he’d advised. “If you’re right I don’t want to bungle this or compromise the investigation.”

  Her own door opened. Wendy Aitken stepped in as quietly as a cat and sat down right next to her. Said nothing but stared straight ahead, hardly blinking.

  It was almost ten minutes later when the door opened again. Martha had spent the time watching Cressida with a tinge of respect. She had a talent for sitting still and doing nothing. Not fidgeting. She hadn’t picked up a magazine or hardly moved at all but had sat bolt upright in the chair, her profile to Martha, as still as a statue apart from when, periodically, her hand would stray up to her hair, to check it.

  The door opened. Martha stiffened, Aitken tensed up. Freddie Bosworth walked in warily. Tight jeans tucked into cowboy boots. Fringed brown, suede jacket. She gave Cressida a vague smile, thanked the police officer and sat down, cross-legged, picked up a magazine, pretended to read. Leg swinging. Martha glanced across at Wendy Aitken. The police officer didn’t move.

  Now, she noticed, Cressida did pick up a magazine. Whereas she had previously been content simply to sit and relax, the presence of the other woman made her uncomfortable. Even through the mirrored glass Martha sensed this. The women exchanged not one word, not one look – yet they were uncomfortable in each other’s company. It struck her as significant.

  Freddie put the magazine down, crossed and re-crossed her legs, picked another glossy up. Eyes scanned across down the pictures, peeped over the top to sneak a glance at Mrs Humphreys. There was no response. The other woman was sitting back in her chair, eyes cast down.

  Minutes later the door opened again and Lindy Haddonfield walked in, also in tight jeans and a lime green sleeveless beaded top. In the darkened room they could hear the faint jangle of the beads, the squeak of the vinyl cushion as she dropped into the chair right opposite the mirror. To the watchers it seemed a calculated, challenging action. Lindy glanced at both woman in turn and Martha sensed it all. Lindy had been the instigator, the organiser. The other two women had never even met. Yet they were aware of each other. They knew about the other’s existence.

  It was as though someone had stage-directed them, as though the three women had deliberately grouped themselves to face the mirror. Cressida to the left, Freddie to the right, Lindy square on. Lindy gave both women a smile which could have been interpreted two ways – woman greeting two strangers or woman tightly reining in a potentially dangerous situation. Martha studied their entire demeanour and couldn’t work out which. Then Lindy appeared to drop something on the floor and simultaneously muttered something and Martha knew, beyond doubt, that her hunch had been right. The door opened and Alex Randall walked in. All three women turned towards him.

  He handled it well. Performing introductions. “I don’t think you’ve met each other, have you?” At her side Wendy Aitken stiffened. Martha could read her mind.

  “What is he doing?”

  Even Martha felt nervous.

  He began, wisely, with Lindy Haddonfield. “This is Mrs Haddonfield. She was unfortunate enough to lose her husband, violently, at round about the same time as your husband died, Mrs Bosworth.” The women gave each other a watered-down smile and polite hello, before both tu
rning across to look at Cressida Humphreys. “It was in Mr Humphreys’ house that your husband’s body was found, Mrs Bosworth.”

  Cressida found her tongue. “And I’m wondering what possible reason you could have for summoning me to the police station.”

  “Not summoning,” Alex said with all the charm he could muster. “Only asking. Inviting.”

  For the first time a flash of temper crossed Cressida’s face. She contented herself with a hostile stare at the policeman.

  “We’ll be with you ladies very shortly,” he said. “If you’ll just bear with us.”

  He left the room and seconds later was in with Martha. “Well,” he said softly. “I’ve got them here. Now what do I ask them?”

  “Ask Freddie Bosworth why she identified the wrong man as her husband,” Martha said calmly. “Ask Lindy Haddonfield likewise. Before you ask Cressida Humphreys what she was doing in Marine Terrace at around four thirty on Sunday afternoon, the 10th of February and on Monday, the 11th of February, hitchhiking from Shrewsbury to Oswestry, impersonating a man who was already dead before you charge her with his murder.”

  25

  “What?” She could tell Randall was stunned but at last she was sure of her facts. She’d worked them out. Right from the beginning. Only now could she see the triptych of pictures, separately and as a whole. Each one was now complete, each piece in its place. Now she understood everything, each injury, the timing, the reason the investigations had been so distorted.

  “That’s why identification, face to face, was so important even though Sullivan was right. It was inappropriate,” she said. “Misleading us – setting us all on the wrong trail. The sequence of events was, I think, this. Bosworth was lured to Oswestry by Lindy Haddonfield. His car was here so possibly she picked him up from Shrewsbury, moving the car sometime later. She killed him, probably on the Friday, soon after he’d left home and left his body somewhere – probably in her garage. As to how she managed to cut his throat, I suspect bondage was involved. His hands were tied.