The doctor was filling in the form with a silver pen, one of a pair that he had in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“I understand, of course, sergeant. But also I do not understand – he had new painkillers, yes, but nothing that could do this, or that he could have used to – I do not wish to pre-judge all the tests, but…”
“Why new painkillers, doctor?”
Again that hesitation, that notion of confidentiality, causing a fleeting look of irritation on Smith’s face before he mastered it and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
“It makes little difference whether you tell me now or in the inquest, Doctor. There will be an inquest, a very thorough inquest, and I will be there. I will hear every word that you say to the coroner. I don’t suppose there will be a trial as well, but you never can tell.”
Waters had sat down at the table where the laptop was still running, not looking but listening to the conversation.
“Mr Greenwood had been ill for some time. Very ill, and recently the pain had worsened. I accompanied him to hospital a few weeks ago. The news was not good and I was advised to give him strong painkillers, which I did.”
“Morphine?”
“No. We do not allow patients to use such a thing without close medical supervision.”
Smith looked again at the body of Ralph Greenwood before he said, “Well, if it’s any consolation, I think your patient had a back-up plan of his own.”
Doctor Ibrahim continued filling in the form.
“One more question, Doctor – you don’t have to answer now. What was wrong with him?”
For the first time, the doctor allowed himself a thin smile.
“I am filling in the pertinent box as we speak, Sergeant. Mr Greenwood had cancer of the pancreas. One of the slower forms but no less final, I’m afraid.”
“How long had he suffered from that?”
“More than a year.”
Smith nodded, recalculating the chronology of the investigation. It made sense.
The doctor said, “I think that only his closest family knew. A man of considerable will-power, I would say, to get this far.”
Smith said, “Well, that’s something we won’t disagree on, Doctor.”
He had seen the wave from Waters before the doctor had completed all he had to do but waited until only the two of them remained in the room before going across to the laptop. He could see a Word document but had left his reading glasses in Interview Room 3.
“He wrote it this morning, DC.”
“A suicide note? A suicide deposition?”
“I don’t know – it could be. But…”
“But what? Show me.”
“At the top, look. It’s addressed to you.”
Chapter Twenty One
The further north he travelled from the town, the worse the roads became. The coast road itself was clear enough, the snow heaped up at the sides in long, slumped ridges by the ploughs, but the traffic was only a tiny fraction of what one would usually see on a Saturday morning, even in the winter. Most people had heeded the advice on the local news and stayed at home. At times the Peugeot was the only car in sight, and as he drove on towards Burnham Staithe, where they had agreed to meet, he became more and more convinced that she would not be foolhardy enough to drive across the county in such conditions. Fresh snow had not fallen since Thursday evening but more was forecast for this afternoon and on through the night.
It was something of a relief to see that The Wildfowlers’ Arms was still open – he had not fancied sitting in the car park for an hour, and that’s how early he was. Only three other cars and one or two of those probably belonged to the staff. He looked into each one as he headed for the door, thinking that she might have arrived early herself but all of them were empty – and none of them were the sort of thing you’d want to drive forty miles through snowed-up back-roads. No… Hopefully the coffee would be alright, a couple of cups and then head for home before the next lot comes down.
They had called in here a few times over the years, on the way to the beaches and then, later on, up to the caravan. There had been changes, it looked more shiney than it used to but at least there was no music playing, and on the counter were some daily papers ‘For the use of Patrons’ a little sign said, and that was a homely, encouraging sort of touch. He ordered an Americano, hoping for the best, and picked up the only broadsheet. Over the top of it, he watched the landlord working the controls of a coffee machine in a tiny galley that led off the bar – it looked complicated, more as if he was landing a light aircraft than filling a small cup with liquid, but the smell was promising.
It was dear enough, still summer prices in February here, and when it was finally handed over, the man, who must have been pushing eighty, asked Smith if he would be partaking of breakfast – orders closed at 10.45. He declined but the lunch menus up behind the bar looked decent, and he hadn’t had a full English breakfast since a long time ago.
He leafed quickly through the paper. There was plenty to interest him, to keep him occupied, and he knew that he would not be able to focus on any of it. Folding the paper in half, he laid it on the table and looked around the bar. In the opposite wall there was a fire, a proper open fire with burning logs, and that made you feel warmer straight away. At the other end, two elderly ladies sat, with two elderly dogs under the table, and Smith approved of that – a pub that allowed dogs in these days could not be all bad. The women were nattering away – he couldn’t hear any of it but they must be good friends, old friends, often taking their old dogs out for a walk along the beach. And that was it… He drummed fingers lightly on the table, and looked at the clock that ticked on the mantelpiece above the fire.
Then he reached into the pocket of his only outdoor coat, took out a folded sheet of paper, unfolded it and placed it on the table in front of him. He looked at it and told himself that there was no reason why he should have asked Waters for an extra copy and no reason why he had put it into his coat pocket this morning. Then he put on his reading glasses.
It began, ‘Dear Sergeant Smith – I hope that you don’t mind the conventional term of address. It might seem over-familiar but I do feel that in our few conversations, we did reach a kind of understanding. Forgive me if I am completely wrong about that.’
Can you forgive a dead man? Perhaps they had understood each other a little – does that qualify as an understanding? Smith twisted his mouth in thought and nibbled at the inside of his cheek; those were precisely the kind of questions that Ralph Greenwood would have delighted in if he had been sitting here in The Wildfowlers’ Arms on a Saturday morning.
He read it through again for what must by now have been the twentieth time. It was about half a page, closely typed in a small font, and already he could have quoted a few phrases from memory. ‘I must also apologise for writing so hastily but time, as you will appreciate, is a little short. And I do not know quite how short, for despite researching the subject at some length, the exact time that it will take really isn’t clear. So I must err on the side of caution…’ As far as Smith could see, the entire document contained not a single error.
‘But to business. The substance that concerns you was obtained by me for my own use some time ago. You will know by now that I am unwell. When I was given the diagnosis, I looked into the matter and realized that at some point it would become rather uncomfortable, and so I made the necessary preparations. No-one else at RH was involved in that. If you check the records of the Post Office you will see that I received a package at about the time under consideration. It was sent by recorded delivery but obviously the sender’s address given will lead you nowhere. You know the world in which I worked – I met all sorts of odd people and stayed in touch with a few of them.’
Nice touch, thought Smith, but why bother with that sort of delivery? Because, came the answer, Ralph Greenwood was a master planner; thinking far into the future, he had constructed a story that would account for his possession of heroin in a way that
involved no-one close to him – a perfectly manufactured dead-end but one which would throw doubt on the pursuit of anyone else who might be questioned.
‘Not long after that, one of my good friends began to suffer terribly. We all talked and discussed the matter but only I suggested to her that if she wished to bring things to a conclusion, I had the means. She took that choice – again, only I was involved. Recently, as you know, a similar situation arose. I sat with Joan that evening and she was at peace when I left her. Again, no-one else was involved. I realise that this does not explain some of the details that seemed to bother you but I do not imagine that your superintendent will be too concerned once he is in possession of this document!’
Absolutely right, of course. Even if Smith himself wanted to pursue it further – and he could make a case for the prosecution that others must have been involved at some point – on Monday morning Superintendent Allen would seize upon the explanations that Ralph Greenwood had offered and sign the whole business off. Martin Collins and Nancy Bishop knew something, and perhaps everything; in fact, had Ralph left them as a legacy the means to fulfill whatever strange pact they had made? Should he suggest to Irene Miller that their rooms be searched? Were these legal questions or moral ones, or some peculiar hybrid of the two that he was no longer capable of confronting? Then there was the girl, the granddaughter.
‘Finally, I must, of course, make it clear to you that my granddaughter Astra had no knowledge of any of this. We had talked in general terms about the question of individual freedom versus state intervention as one approaches the end of life but that is all. I had already decided that I would conclude matters soon when I received her phone call this morning, and in an odd way I am grateful to you for that final chance to speak to her. Your intervention only served to force the moment to its crisis, and you must not feel badly about any of this. That my mind was tending towards making its quietus you, of course, can confirm if you recall our last conversation…’
Brilliant, thought Smith – he made me a part of the story; if I stood in the witness box, I’d have to say that he was indeed somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of death that last evening! Perhaps the judge would direct the jury to read the short story.
‘…As much as rational people like ourselves resent the notion, coincidence does seem to play its part in our lives, sergeant. I hope, for the sake of those I leave behind, that you are able to accept this. Sincerely yours, Ralph Greenwood.’
“And you must be David Smith.”
She looked a little older than her photograph but was still no more than forty two or forty three – skinny beneath the Shetland jumper and jeans, blonde hair tied back in a short pony tail. The second thing she had said was, “Shall we go?” and Smith had had to point to his full cup of coffee, the second, before she relented, smiled and sat down. Then she said she would fetch one of her own. They argued briefly before Smith concluded it by standing and walking towards the bar – he had no idea whether this was a terrible start or an excellent one.
When he got back to the table, she pointed to the paper that he had left there, and said, “Work?”
He nodded.
“It’s OK, I haven’t read it, just a wild guess!”
So, he thought, either you are telling the truth and were a useless DI or you are happily lying through your small, white, even teeth.
“Anything interesting? It’s alright, as long as it’s not murder you’re perfectly safe. I only do murder.”
The latter, then; she had seen enough to be interested and couldn’t pass up the chance to find out more, but her eyes, more green than blue, looked frankly into his own. And so he told her the whole story, without names, places and dates, and she listened well, saying very little.
When he had completed it, she pointed and said, “Why bring that out of the office? Why are you walking around with it?”
The question took him by surprise simply because of its directness and because he had asked it of himself several times since yesterday. It wasn’t easy to answer, and so he opted for the truth.
“It got to me a bit. The whole thing, age, sickness, dying. You don’t get to my age without losing a few people, and you can feel so hopeless – and helpless. This old boy decided to do something about it, right or wrong at least he took some action. You end up asking yourself exactly what it is you are investigating. This is a cheerful start, isn’t it?”
Jo Evison didn’t answer straight away. She drank some coffee and stared across the room at the log fire. Smith looked out of the window and saw that the sun was shining.
“I lost my mum last year. I went home and nursed her for the last few weeks – one of the blessings of working the way I do. But it was horrible. I expect you know what I mean, but… Medicine is amazing, doctors are fantastic but sometimes I think that all we’re doing is not so much extending life as prolonging death. Does that sound ungrateful?”
“No. I do know what you mean, all too well.”
She looked down at Ralph’s final words again.
“So he broke the law and ended heaven knows how much suffering.”
“Up to fourteen years for each offence.”
It annoyed her, just as he had hoped that it would.
“Well, all I can say is, there but for the grace of God.”
“You’re absolutely sure that you want to try this?”
They hadn’t left the car park yet and Smith was already calculating how many hours of daylight were left if they got stuck somewhere out in the dunes and had to walk back.
“I mean, I could just give you a more detailed description, probably even send you some photos.”
She started the car and shook her head.
“You must have faith – if not in me then in the car. There’s more to her than meets the eye.”
He had had a look as they came out from the pub; it was an estate, a Volvo XC70. They are pretty rugged, he thought, Swedish, built for these conditions, but even so. Reaching across to push warm air onto the misted windscreen, she pressed in the stereo button as well, and guitars, drums and a voice suddenly filled the car.
“Ooh, sorry! Do you listen to music?”
“Yes, a bit. I prefer to do it with my ears though, not as a whole-body experience.”
She was smiling as she pulled out onto the road.
Smith said, “Van Morrison.”
“Very good – ‘Brand New Day’.”
“Old hippy music, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. I expect you can remember it – 1970, I think. I got my musical tastes from my dad…”
This time he took a longer sideways look and eventually her smile became a stifled half-laugh before she said, “Sorry. No music now, not where we’re going. Show a bit of respect, I think,” and then she turned it off.
As soon as they turned left off the coast road, she pressed a button for four-wheel drive. The dunes road was snow-covered, several inches deep in the sides, and Jo Evison took the car slowly down the centre. They were not the first to drive this way, there were other tracks, but to Smith they all seemed to belong to much larger and heavier off-road vehicles. Hopefully they also belonged to some that had managed the return journey as well. But the car was stable on the corners, and the only slides were minor ones which she corrected easily and without any appearance of panic. He let her get on with it and said little during the ride.
The little summer car park was a flat oblong of white space amid the rise and fall of the sand dunes that surrounded it. Other vehicles had made it that far but it was empty now apart from the Volvo. The sun was weaker but still shining, enough to make Smith squint a little as he pulled on his crime-scene wellingtons – at least he had remembered those. Jo Evison had donned outdoor gear, waterproof trousers and a windproof jacket – Patagonia, the proper stuff – and then she sat in the open tailgate and laced up some serious-looking, well-used hiking boots. To complete the picture, she hung a small pair of binoculars around her neck.
She saw
him watching and said, “You should get some proper clothing if you’re going to bring women out to places like this.”
As he did up the anorak-cum-duffle thing that had served him for far too long, he said, “Would you believe I’ve got some somewhere in the attic?”
“Not doing you any good there, is it?”
It seemed an oddly personal remark after such a short acquaintance; he thought about it, wondering if he felt offended by it before deciding that the answer was probably no, he did not.
She said, “How far is it?”
He pointed up across the nearest dune and said, “Allowing for the snow, about ten minutes.”
Now the snow in front of them was untrodden. He had wondered yesterday whether he would be able to find the exact spot, and whether that actually mattered – he could always have invented a place and she would never know. The snow wipes out little features and could conceivably have made the whole exercise even more difficult – but he knew that they were heading unerringly to the place the first of the girls had been found. What he was less certain about was exactly how that made him feel.
She was a little ahead of him as if she knew the way too, at a pace just fast enough to make the wellingtons feel clumsy and inappropriate. Then, as if she had read his thoughts of a moment before, she stopped, turned and said, “Have you been back here since?”
Smith stopped too and took a breath, grateful for the rest.
“No.”
She nodded, understanding, and said, “People don’t realise what it does to you, do they?”
“Other coppers maybe, some of them, not all. A couple of my team had gone within a few months.”
“But not you.”
The sun was still faintly there in the south, behind them, and their two shadows lay close together on the snow, motionless, corpse-like and a little ghostly.
But For The Grace Page 26
