A Good Death

by Chris Collett

Jesson asked the next question carefully: ‘Did Talayeh indicate that she felt in any danger, either from her proposed husband or from the Shah family?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mai looked intently at Jesson. Clearly it was something that she had thought about. ‘When we spoke Talayeh was in the house of Mr and Mrs Shah. I don’t know if she could speak freely.’

  ‘What was the last contact you had with her?’

  ‘She tried to phone me on the night of the fire.’ Mai’s lip wobbled. ‘But I didn’t answer her call. The time in Yemen is two hours in front of here, so it would have been night time, maybe ten or eleven o’clock. Talayeh left a message. There was noise in the background and she sounded strange; upset.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’ asked Jesson.

  ‘I thought that perhaps she regretted turning Mr Rani down. Talayeh was stubborn. She would never have admitted it. But I think when they sent her to Bradford she realised she’d missed her chance. Talayeh always had dreamed about living in London or New York or Paris.’

  ‘Could she have gone back to Mr Rani?’ asked Jesson.

  Mai cradled the mug in her hands. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’

  When the detailed forensic report on Sam Fleetwood’s car was sent through to Millie, it confirmed the blood as his, but the quantity as inconsistent with the injury Gaby had described. Millie rang Sasha to check.

  ‘Yes, it definitely suggests more than just a graze, however severe,’ Sasha told her. ‘You’ll see too that we also found a scrap of thick polythene caught in the boot’s locking mechanism. It’s no more than a centimetre squared, but has got two layers, outer and inner. The inner layer is also smeared with blood. My guess would be that Sam Fleetwood’s body was wrapped in polythene and put in the boot, where the blood leaked out in several places.’

  ‘From the lack of blood at the deposition site, it’s not possible that he was killed there,’ Millie told Mariner. ‘There’s lots of polythene at the house, and that’s where we have the last definitive sighting of Sam. It all points to Sam being killed at the house, wrapped in polythene, then driven out to Wythall in the boot of his own car. We made the assumption that Sam was driving his car, but when Bingley looked back at the Gatso footage, honestly, it could be anyone.’

  ‘We’ve been caught out by that before,’ said Mariner, thinking back to a case the previous year. ‘So if Fleetwood isn’t driving, then who is?’

  ‘It’s impossible to see,’ said Millie. ‘The more we magnify the best image the grainier it gets. We need to do a more thorough search of the house on Meadow Hall Rise. One of the neighbours there also expressed concern about a van seen hanging around. I’ll go and get some more detail on that.’

  ‘Are you thinking about the Carters for it?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I’m sure they’d be capable,’ said Millie. ‘And they’d have the means to dispose of the body, so the question is whether someone else put them up to it, Figgis or Boswell?’

  Millie took Bingley with her to Meadow Hall Rise, and while he made a start on the house, Millie went to talk to the Kramers. She rang the bell of the large, rambling house and Mrs Kramer, a small, neat, middle-aged woman came to the door.

  ‘I understand you’ve had concerns about a vehicle hanging about on the street,’ said Millie. ‘Could you describe it for me?’

  ‘It’s one of those vans that workmen drive, a white one, though it’s not very clean,’ Mrs Kramer told her.

  ‘You mean a transit van?’ Millie checked.

  ‘No, not as big as that. It was the same size as a car, but with storage at the back.’

  Millie held up Bingley’s phone, showing her the picture he had taken of Danny Carter’s van. ‘Like this one?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s more like it.’

  Millie asked, more from hope than expectation, if Mr or Mrs Kramer had taken down the registration number.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t see it from here in the dark and my husband wasn’t going to risk going outside to check. There could have been anyone in it. You hear about people being attacked in front of their own houses for no reason at all, don’t you?’

  ‘So it could have been Carter’s van, but it could also have been about half a million others,’ Millie told Bingley, when she caught up with him back at the house. Bingley was on the ground floor, walking from room to room studying the floors, still covered in their protective layer. ‘Can you see the difference between the plastic in here, and in here?’ he asked, going from the living room to the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, the stuff in here looks a bit cleaner and newer,’ she said, standing in the living room.

  ‘And what do you think about this?’ Bingley crouched down by the freshly painted skirting board.

  Millie squatted down beside him and peered at the paintwork. She could hardly see the row of fine specks. But it was definitely there, and next to it another, even finer.

  ‘It might not be blood,’ said Bingley. ‘But luminol will sort that out one way or the other—’ He stopped, as Millie held up a hand.

  ‘Wait. Did you hear that?’ she asked.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bingley had heard the noise too. Someone was speaking in a low voice, very close by. They got out on to the drive to find a man letting himself into the garage, singing tunelessly to himself.

  It was Ted, the plasterer Millie had met on her first visit, but today he was on his own. ‘Hello, bab,’ he said, recognising Millie. ‘You back again? I’ve just come to pick up the rest of my stuff.’ He was eyeing up Bingley’s uniform, so this time Millie showed him her warrant card.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘I thought there was something funny—’

  ‘Did your friend find his lighter?’ asked Millie pleasantly.

  Ted was a little wary now. ‘D’you know, I don’t think he did. He was hacked off about that. His girlfriend gave it to him and it was a nice one.’

  ‘He and Sam Fleetwood had a falling out, I understand,’ Millie reminded him.

  Ted was dismissive. ‘Ah, it was nothing.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Robbie annoyed Mr Fleetwood because he’d gone off a couple of times, of a weekend, to work on another job. So then Mr Fleetwood started nit-picking about the way Robbie had done some of the work; wanted him to do a better job. Robbie took the hump, so no surprises there. He knew he wasn’t supposed to smoke in here – standard practice these days – so he started doing it just to be awkward. Fleetwood caught him at it. He let rip but Robbie’s got a temper on him too, so he wasn’t going to back down, was he? He has a chip on his shoulder about what he sees as rich kids living off their parents.’

  ‘Well, he’s wrong about Sam Fleetwood,’ said Millie. ‘Do you know where Robbie is now?’

  ‘Nah, he’s finished here now, so he’s off on that other job, somewhere down south, I think.’

  ‘Does Robbie have a van?’ asked Millie.

  ‘Yeah, a beaten up old thing, on its last legs.’

  ‘Is it white, by any chance?’

  ‘If you’d call it that,’ quipped Ted. ‘He never cleans it.’

  Ted was able to furnish them with a mobile number for Robbie. When they tracked him down he was, as Ted had predicted, pleased that his lighter had been found, but his alibi for the night Sam Fleetwood had disappeared was unassailable. He’d been moonlighting on the other job in Sussex, which he’d been doing every weekend for the last couple of months. The most he could be accused of was not declaring the work for tax purposes.

  By the weekend they seemed mired in both cases. Clive Boswell’s revised alibi was also sound. ‘And I’ve checked his phone records,’ said Bingley, in the Friday afternoon briefing. ‘There’s no evidence that he made or received any calls that evening, which you might have expected him to do if he was orchestrating things.’

  All right,’ said Mariner. ‘Let’s come back to it fresh on Monday morning.’

  When Suzy’s mobile rang early on Saturday it took
her a few seconds to orientate herself. It was Tom. ‘Hi, I wondered if you wanted to go for a walk?’

  ‘I could after half past eleven,’ said Suzy. ‘I’ve offered to keep Gideon company while Rosalind goes to confession.’

  ‘Really? God-botherers too, eh? I’m surprised that a man with such a sharp intellect buys into all the religion nonsense.’

  ‘I suppose I was too at first,’ said Suzy. ‘But it’s true. And if it helps him cope with his illness, then I suppose it’s all to the good. I’ll see you later.’

  At the appointed time, taking reading matter and a notebook with her, Suzy went round to Gideon and Rosalind’s house.

  ‘I’ll be about an hour,’ said Rosalind. ‘Are you sure that’s OK?’ She seemed different somehow, and Suzy realised she was wearing a little make-up and had put her hair up, as if she was going to work.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Tom’s coming over a bit later, but we’ve got nothing special planned. Take as much time as you like.’

  ‘It’s so kind of you,’ said Rosalind. ‘I’m not sure if Gideon will be very good company. He’s been in quite a lot of pain overnight, so the doctor has been round to give him a morphine injection. He bucks up a bit at first but then it tends to knock him out a bit. Between you and me I’m not convinced that this doctor altogether knows what he’s doing. He’s a locum, you know, and his English isn’t that great.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be employed if he wasn’t up to the job,’ Suzy said, in an attempt to reassure her, though really she knew nothing about it.

  Rosalind’s calculation was entirely accurate. Gideon chatted to Suzy for around half an hour, mainly about the latest article he had been reading, after which he did indeed seem inclined to sleep. So having helped him to his room, where he lay down on the bed to rest, Suzy settled into the sunny lounge with her book. She’d barely sat down when the doorbell sounded. On the doorstep was a woman of about her own age, her greying hair cut severely short. Naturally she looked surprised to see Suzy, who explained that Rosalind wasn’t there. ‘Well, I’m Kirsten, Gideon’s daughter,’ she said abruptly. ‘And as I expect you are wondering, I’m the product of my mother’s marriage to Gideon; the one Rosalind wrecked.’

  ‘Oh.’ Suzy was at a loss about how to respond to that. But, as seemed to be expected, she held the door open so that Kirsten could come in.

  ‘Rosalind seduced my father; that’s all there is to it,’ Kirsten went on, pressing home her point. She took off her waxed jacket and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall. ‘And now she’s made her bed, hasn’t she?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not how she sees it,’ said Suzy tactfully.

  Kirsten didn’t reply. ‘Is my father awake?’

  ‘Not really, he was dozing when I looked in on him a few minutes ago. We spent some time talking, but that seemed to tire him.’

  Kirsten fixed her with a stare. ‘Sorry. And you are?’

  ‘Suzy Yin. I’m a friend of Rosalind’s. That is, we work together at the university.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Kirsten, managing to sound utterly insincere.

  ‘I’m just sitting with Gideon while Rosalind goes to confession.’ Suzy was annoyed with herself for sounding defensive.

  ‘Oh, she still keeps up with the charade, does she?’ Kirsten scoffed.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Rosalind only converted because it was one of my father’s requirements when they married,’ said Kirsten. ‘As a matter of fact, she did it at about the same time as Tony Blair, so that tells us something, doesn’t it?’

  Kirsten, clearly at home, went through to Gideon’s room and Suzy heard her greeting her father: ‘Hello, Daddy!’, before their voices dropped to a murmur. Shortly afterwards, with a curt ‘goodbye’ to Suzy, Kirsten left again.

  Suzy went in to Gideon, to see if he needed anything. He seemed half asleep, but as she approached he mumbled something that sounded to Suzy like ‘scheming witch’ but she must have been mistaken. Seeing Suzy, he seemed to start. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, and drifted back to sleep.

  When Rosalind came back Suzy began to wonder if there might be something to this confession business; she seemed brighter and more relaxed. ‘Has everything been all right?’ she asked.

  ‘It has,’ said Suzy. ‘I think it took a while for the medication to kick in, but after that he was fine. He’s sleeping.’

  Rosalind’s face clouded a little. ‘He’s in so much discomfort. It’s no life for him.’

  ‘That’s not true, and you know it,’ said Suzy. ‘Oh, and Gideon’s daughter stopped by. She said she was passing.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to have missed her, but Gideon will have been pleased. Did she stay long?’ The acrimony Kirsten held towards Rosalind didn’t seem at all reciprocal.

  ‘About twenty minutes, I think,’ Suzy told her. ‘I left them to it. There seemed to be things she wanted to discuss.’

  ‘I’m sure there were,’ said Rosalind. ‘Kirsten always prefers to talk to her father when I’m not around. She must have been delighted. I expect she managed to convey her disapproval of me.’ It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. ‘Well, I’ve kept you long enough,’ she went on. ‘Your date will be here soon.’

  Mariner was already waiting at the cottage when Suzy returned. By prior arrangement she’d left a key for him under a pot, even though he’d chided her for lax security. ‘Just because you’re in a village, you’re not immune, you know,’ he said. ‘I saw Rosalind as I drove through, just coming out of the church. She looked a bit different from the last time I saw her, but then it probably offends the Almighty to go into church not wearing a bra.’

  Suzy told him about the visit from Kirsten. ‘She seemed fairly bitter about Rosalind, although it wasn’t mutual. Funny how affairs are always perceived as the woman’s fault, aren’t they?’ she said. ‘As though Gideon had no control over his actions.’

  Suzy put together a hasty picnic and they set off on a walk around the village. Mariner had brought along his OS map of the area, and they turned into an expanse of deciduous woodland. ‘Shakespeare’s Forest of Arden,’ said Suzy. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve invited Mum and Dad to come and stay with me for the weekend after next. You’ll be able to finally meet them. Mum in particular wants to go to a play at the RSC, though I’m not sure how they’ll get on with the Bard.’

  Mariner pulled a face. ‘Nor me. Do I have to come?’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Suzy. ‘Don’t be such a philistine.’

  ‘That’s always supposing that these latest cases don’t get any more complex,’ said Mariner. ‘It’s almost certain now that Sam Fleetwood has come to grief. We’re treating his disappearance as suspicious.’

  ‘That young man we saw at Charlie’s?’ said Suzy. ‘But that’s horrible. What do you think has happened to him?’

  ‘His line of work has brought him into contact with some undesirables who he’s rubbed up the wrong way, so that’s where our focus is now. Millie’s handling it, along with our new boy, Kevin Bingley. She’s very thorough.’

  ‘You’re pleased to have her back,’ Suzy commented, wandering off the path and into the woods a little way.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mariner. Suzy was almost out of sight. ‘Are you scouting?’ he called. It was something she hadn’t done in a while, partly because the weather had been too cold, even for her, but also for other, less palatable reasons.

  ‘Of course I am. And this looks perfect.’ He caught her up as she was taking a rug out of her backpack. Spreading it on the ground, she sat down on it and completely unselfconsciously took off her top.

  ‘That Rosalind’s a bad influence on you,’ said Mariner, sitting down beside her and starting to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘I’ve got rather less to worry about than she has.’

  Mariner cast an anxious look around. ‘We’re not that far from civilisation here, you know.’

  ‘All the more reason to get on with it then,’ said S
uzy, turning to help him.

  They got back to the cottage pleasantly weary, and after they’d eaten, Mariner struggled to stay awake for the TV programme they were watching.

  ‘This is stupid,’ said Suzy eventually. ‘We’re both shattered, let’s go to bed.’

  The plan had been to get some much needed sleep, but once in bed another more interesting alternative presented itself.

  ‘I really must move this bed away from the wall,’ Mariner gasped.

  Suzy froze. ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said. ‘Listen, it’s still going. There’s someone banging on the front door.’

  ‘Christ, what time is it?’

  Suzy reached for her phone. ‘It’s after eleven,’ she said. ‘I should go and see.’

  ‘No, I’ll go.’ Mariner sighed, rolling on to his back. Pulling on his jeans, he went downstairs and opened the door to find Rosalind, her hair all over the place and her eyes wild, an oversized robe pulled around her and Crocs on her bare feet. ‘It’s Gideon,’ she said, panicked. ‘I can’t wake him up!’

  Shit. ‘Have you called the doctor?’ asked Mariner, grabbing his jacket.

  ‘He was here, just a couple of hours ago, to give Gideon his evening morphine injection. He said everything was fine. Gideon dozed off, as he often does, but I’ve just gone to get him ready for bed and I can’t rouse him.’

  By now Suzy was halfway down the stairs. ‘Call an ambulance!’ Mariner shouted back to her. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do.’ Leaving Suzy to make the call, he followed Rosalind round to the house. Gideon was lying fully clothed on the bed in his room, his eyes closed, and Mariner was experienced enough to know from his pallor and the feel of his skin that they were probably already too late. Nonetheless he began putting his training into practice by administering CPR, while Rosalind stood silently by, wringing her hands.

  Suzy appeared, breathless. ‘The paramedics are on their way.’

  Even then it seemed to Mariner that he was pumping on Gideon’s lifeless chest for an eternity, until suddenly there was another pair of hands there, and a young female paramedic said: ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll take it from here.’