“No, she didn’t ever say that.”
The Bradleys sat together but apart on the couch, the cups of tea that they had made untouched on the coffee table in front of them. Smith had left his too, as a sort of mark of respect, but he really fancied a sip or two now.
“It’s just that I noticed in her medical file that she has an advance directive – she had stated that she did not wish to be resuscitated. In my experience, people who have thought that far ahead have often considered the whole matter of how they will end their days more fully than most of us do.”
He had put it as delicately as he could. Mrs Bradley nodded, though she was obviously upset by the thought; it was her husband who looked angry on her behalf, as he had done more than once since the interview began. He spoke now, directing his words to the senior of the two detectives.
“Joan never hinted at any such thing to us. She was very happy in Rosemary House.”
Nevertheless, it was Smith who continued.
“I also noted that Mrs Riley’s medical condition was deteriorating. That might have been weighing on her mind – in fact, I’m sure it must have been as she was by all accounts quite alert and fully understood her situation.”
“We do not believe that Joan would have taken her own life. Somebody gave her that drug, Inspector.”
Reeve and Smith looked at each and somehow agreed that she would deal with this awkward point.
“Mrs Bradley. My officers have looked closely at all the forensic evidence. They have interviewed several witnesses and they have spent several hours discussing what happened to Joan. I have to tell you that there is no evidence that your mother was in any way forced to take the heroin that was found in her system. So we have to think carefully about what we mean when we say that someone ‘gave her the drug’. At the moment we believe that the most likely scenario is that someone procured and handed the heroin to your mother but that she chose to take it. It is not a substance one takes by accident or unknowingly; we are told it would be impossible to disguise the taste of a concentrated dose. I’m sorry.”
Mrs Riley’s daughter was determined not to cry, despite the nightmare of having to relive her mother’s death all over again, and Smith had a certain sympathy for her. Mrs Riley’s son-in-law looked from his wife to the officers, clearly uncertain about how to proceed in the light of what had just been said.
After a silence Reeve said, “I am not implying anything in what I am about to say, Mrs Bradley. It is obvious that serious offences have been committed but if a family member has been asked to end someone’s suffering and they do so, the law does take a somewhat different view of the matter than it does if the person assisting the suicide is unrelated or is a medical professional.”
“I think you bloody well are implying something! How can you suggest that my wife, that anyone in this family would – she wasn’t depressed, she wasn’t in pain, ask her bloody doctor!”
Smith said very quietly, “I’ll be doing just that at two o’clock this afternoon, sir.”
Then he picked up the teacup – it was obvious now that he and Tony Bradley would not be exchanging Christmas cards this year.
“These are very difficult cases, Mr and Mrs Bradley, and it’s natural to feel upset. My sergeant will not ask you anything that we do not feel is essential to the investigation. You have my word on that. Sergeant?”
Smith opened his notebook as if he had the list of questions prepared and written down.
“Did Mrs Riley manage her own bank accounts, Mrs Bradley?”
“No, not for the last year or so. I have full power of attorney.”
“I see – that’s pretty common these days, with the ageing population. Are your mother’s accounts held at the same bank as your own?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have any objection to us seeing those accounts, if we feel it is necessary? This is generally just a matter of elimination-”
“Eliminating what? Are you suggesting that we were after her money? Inspector, this is not acceptable at all. My wife has suffered enough.”
Smith was spending more and more time studying the face of Tony Bradley. He seemed to be losing the plot – Reeve might have to ask him to leave the room but it would be more useful if he stayed and got even more annoyed.
He decided to give that a try with, “It’s routine when we have to look for possible motives, Mr Bradley. Sadly there are some very unscrupulous people in the world. That’s why we do have the right in law to access anyone’s bank accounts in a criminal investigation.”
“Do you? We live in a police state, then.”
“And while we’re on the subject, sir, do you and your wife have a joint account?”
“Yes, we do.”
“What about your business accounts, Mr Bradley? Lake Bodyworks, isn’t it?”
For the first time, Bradley looked back into the gaze that was fixed upon him. Was the man smiling at him or was that just his imagination? Was the detective trying to frighten him?
“Yes – what about my business accounts?”
“We just need to know if they are separate from anything connected to Mrs Riley, sir.”
“Of course they are.”
“Thank you. And can I ask whether your mother left a will, Mrs Bradley?”
Yes, she had, and no, there had been no recent changes to it. When Smith asked her whether they could see the will if necessary, his eyes remained more or less on her husband but the man’s anger seemed to have disappeared, leaving behind an expression that was more concerned with personal survival than with the theoretical debate about whether Smith was part of a police state.
Alison Reeve asked how Mrs Riley had been on that last Saturday morning, and was told by Mr Bradley, with a look to his wife, that she had been her usual self. Then Smith asked Mrs Bradley if she had met any of her mother’s friends – he named the four people whom he now knew had been closest to her. Yes, she had met them several times, and had sat with them in the social room. They were delightful people who had made her mother very happy in her final years; she would go in to say thank you to them soon, when this business was over. They must have been upset by it, too.
They had stood up and were preparing to leave when Smith seemed to remember another question. Had they ever given Joan any money, a sum of cash? It was Mrs Bradley who answered.
“No. We paid her money into the account in the office. They don’t like them to have cash.”
“Yes, they seem quite strict about that. You can see why. I just wondered – did Mrs Riley ever ask you to bring her any cash – even just a few notes?”
“No.”
Reeve was moving towards the door. He tried to get her attention but she was thanking Mr Bradley, thanking him for his patience and understanding at this difficult time, the usual platitudes. Smith caught Sarah Bradley’s eyes again, and again she looked away from him. She had wavered for the first time in her answers but the moment had gone.
As she drove back to the station, Reeve gave her verdict. She had thought that Mrs Bradley was straight enough and that Mr Bradley was a bit of a bully, probably taking some advantage of his wife’s emotional trauma. Smith was still thinking about that missed opportunity as they were leaving but said nothing. He might have been wrong – it had been known. But he made a mental note and tonight he would make a written one, for future reference, just in case.
He said, “Taking advantage how? Financially?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible, isn’t it, from what you told me about his company? But if it gets a cash injection in a couple of months, so what? It’s their money now.”
“We could check the will but no-one blinked when I mentioned it. I’m guessing it’ll look straight up if we do. It might be worth examining the old lady’s bank account, though, just to see if anyone has had anything substantial out of it over the past year. If they were desperate enough, that might show something.”
She nodded and said, “I had the same thought. Le
t me do it, DC. I need to stay operational at least part of the time. If I ever get another interview, all I’ll be able to talk about is staffing strategies, managing overtime budgets and six monthly reviews.”
“I’d ring her up at work with no Mr B around. Ask her nicely for her consent to have a look, even though she now knows we don’t need it, being part of a police state. See how she is on her own, woman to woman.”
The evasive look in Sarah Bradley’s eyes would not go away.
Reeve agreed, and they drove on into Lake. The early brightness had given way first to rain and then to sleet – Reeve switched on the wipers and other cars switched on their headlights although it was not yet midday. When they found themselves in the usual jam at the western bypass interchange, she switched on the radio, jabbed in a couple of station changes and then switched it off again – something was bothering her.
“DC, can I ask you something? It’s personal but sort of connected to this case.”
“You want to see my bank statements? Oh God, caught at last. All those bribes from Ma Budge. Why didn’t I open an offshore account?”
“Thanks for that. Trying to be serious about something a bit awkward…”
And she was, he could see that now. He told her to go ahead.
“Years ago, when Sheila was really ill, you said something. I’m sorry to bring this up… You said something about a conversation you’d had, the two of you.”
He could remember both conversations, the one with Sheila and the one with Alison.
“Yes.”
“Well, what I wanted to say was, if this investigation is difficult because of that, in any way… Or if it becomes difficult, you should tell me. You know what I’m talking about. I mean difficult personally or professionally, you should tell me.”
Smith sometimes assumed that only he had that sort of memory, and that was a mistake. He had made that mistake before, both with colleagues and with clients, as one laughable memo from on high had called the villains a couple of years ago. Clients! His mind was trying to draw him away from what Reeve had just said to him, and he took a moment to re-focus before responding.
“It’s not a problem. But thanks for thinking about it.”
“If it becomes a problem, DC, you need to let me know.”
So she was reading the case as he was, guessing which way this was likely to go.
“If it does, I will.”
“Sorry I had to bring it up.”
“Just doing your job. Well.”
“Thanks.”
They were almost at the top of the hill, could see the roundabout ahead and beyond it the view down into the old city. Through the thin, miserable sleet he could name every church spire, knew the businesses that occupied every commercial block and could detail the criminal records of occupants of every one of the towers out to the east. The cranes at the docks were skeletal and barely visible now but if you watched long enough from here you would see them swing loads onto ships bound for European ports, and no doubt some of those loads contained contraband that he would be able to find if he had the time and the men to do it. Priorities. Long ago, DCI Miller had said to him that it was a war – we advance, we retreat, Smith, but you’d better make sure that we never lose. The law is the wavy line between order and anarchy, between civilisation and chaos… The old bugger was a bit of a philosopher in the saloon bar after a big case. What would he have made of this investigation into the quietly dignified death of an old lady who had decided her time had come?
“There’s one more thing, David.”
David? Oh dear.
“I spoke to Allen about the idea of you going onto the Regional S.C.U. I told him that you were not keen on it.”
“Right.”
“But he wasn’t convinced. He wants to talk to you himself, see if he can’t persuade you to better yourself.”
At all times Smith tried to avoid swearing at or in front of ladies, even though Reeve was probably having a quiet smile to herself. He closed his eyes and muttered, “Joy of bloody joys.”
As they waited at the surgery’s reception desk, the thought occurred again to Smith that Waters had grown into the job quickly. He was relaxed as the two secretaries behind the receptionist exchanged knowing looks because the police were here, wanting to speak to one of the doctors – a few short months ago Waters would have blushed. Now he spent the time examining the noticeboards, particularly the one that detailed the names and qualifications of all the surgery’s staff. At some point in the future, something there might come in useful.
Dr Tremewan appeared and invited them into her room as if they were an odd pair of patients, and Smith wondered what some of the others in the waiting room made of it. Once inside and seated, he said to her that he guessed she knew why they were there – an invitation to say what she did know, which she accepted. She had received copies of the results from the laboratories, and she expressed surprise that she had waited this long for a visit; when Smith commented that the reason was that she was not top of their list of suspects, she seemed to take that seriously – at least, she didn’t smile. It was then that he sensed this might not be as straightforward an interview as he had been assuming.
She told them where she had been when she received the phone call that Saturday, how long it had taken her to drive to Rosemary House and what she had seen on entering Joan Riley’s room. Smith asked her to be precise about the time that she entered the room, and she pointed to her notes which lay open and ready on the desk in front of her. Then she described her examination of the body, mentioning that she had taken its temperature.
“Did you? Why?”
“Because it can sometimes help to establish the time of death.”
Considering the potential seriousness of the case, they didn’t seem to have sent a very knowledgeable detective. They didn’t even seem to have sent one who looked much like a detective – he reminded her of Mr Wood, her first chemistry teacher, a shy, ineffectual little man.
“Well, it can if later readings are taken at measured points in time. Were they? No mention of it in any of the reports.”
She looked down momentarily at the file. She could search through it but knew that he was right – there was no mention of further checks.
“So as far as we know, other readings were not taken. Did you ask for them? Have you followed it up at all?”
“No, I didn’t and no, I haven’t. I-”
“Never mind. As it happens we have a pretty narrow time frame on it. It was a good idea though…”
Not quite like Mr Wood, after all. It might be a mistake but she gave in to the temptation to justify herself a little.
“I apologise, Sergeant. I have only worked in the area a few months and things are done quite differently here to the way they were in my previous authority. And I’ll admit that despite appearances, I haven’t been in the job that long. I haven’t dealt with many sudden deaths.”
Appearances? She must be all of thirty.
“Well, despite appearances, I’ve been in this job for far too long and I still make mistakes every day. We’ve got the very man to confirm that sitting here with us. Any questions, DC Waters?”
This time Smith hadn’t primed Waters at all.
“Thank you, DS Smith.”
Cheeky sod.
“Can you tell us about Mrs Riley’s state of health? You examined her on the Friday, the day before her death.”
“No, I didn’t examine her. I chatted to her and asked her if she had any problems.”
“And did she?”
“I’d say she was more or less her usual self.”
Smith was watching the doctor but he sensed Waters simply raising his eyebrows. At that point he would not have said anything and neither did Waters.
“I would say that Mrs Riley was becoming weaker. In addition to the ongoing osteoporosis, she had less energy and had lost some weight, I imagine. The most likely cause was deterioration in her kidney function. She was an intelligent w
oman and aware of this. Mentally she was still alert and did not seem unhappy.”
Smith said, “When you had that chat, were you alone with her?”
“No. We were in one of the shared side rooms. At least two other residents were there. Why?”
“But presumably you were alone with Mrs Riley when you had examined her previously?”
“No, never. There is always a carer present in an examination – it’s the home’s policy. And a good one.”
“I agree. We have to ask these questions, Dr Tremewan. They don’t always seem very polite or even to make sense to people outside, a bit like some aspects of your own job. Sorry, DC Waters…”
He took it up again without hesitation.
“In PC Ford’s statement, he says that you picked up a glass from the floor beside Mrs Riley’s body and handed it to him. Presumably the glass was empty?”
She coloured a little – like Ford himself, she now realized the potential significance of the glass on the floor.
“It was, and on its side. I am sorry about this. As GPs we get about half a day’s training on crime scene investigation and police procedures. It never occurred to me. If it had been a younger, fitter patient then it might have done.”
“We can be pretty sure that’s how Mrs Riley took the heroin, from the autopsy results. The glass might have told us more but you were not the only person to miss it, Doctor.”
In their interview techniques, detectives tend to specialize either in nasty or nice – Smith wasn’t sure which way Waters was going yet but he was doing alright. And the next question was a beauty.
“May I ask why you were unwilling to complete the medical certificate? I’m right in thinking that you could have done so?”
She thought longer about that question than the others she had been asked.
“I wasn’t – certain, that’s all. She had medical conditions that were in the end going to be life-threatening but, as you know, I had seen her just the day before, and… Well, look, it seems very unscientific but one of my very first cases here a few months ago was also at Rosemary House. Another old lady found in her bed in the morning. She had more serious heart problems, and I signed that certificate. There wasn’t an autopsy.”
But For The Grace: A DC Smith Investigation Page 14
