River Deep (10 page)

Finton took another deep, thoughtful drag and his eyes were far away. “One evening I was walking along a path with the city on one side. The fjord behind me. I was tired and ill; I stopped and looked out across the fjord – the sun was setting – the clouds were dyed red like blood. I felt a scream pass through nature.” He scrutinised her. “Sounds like a hell of an evening out there. What exactly happened?”

“I saw only the picture,” she said. “That awful, unbalanced terrible nightmarish picture.”

“What precisely did you see?”

Before she’d said a word she knew how silly it sounded. “A man walking across the English Bridge – towards me.”

He took another deep, thoughtful drag from his cigarette. “Why did it remind you of
The Scream?
”

She shook her head. She could not say. She tried to explain the inexplicable. Rationalise.

“It must have been the light effect. As he drew level he put his hand up like so.” Her hand was shaking as she covered her ear, mimicking the action. “It was just a mobile phone. But it’s a very bloody sunset out there.” She wanted to use his name. “Mr Cley.”

Finton gave a humorous stare at his joint. She knew had she been younger he would have teased her about her formality before offering her a drag. But even as he looked up he had already rejected the idea and said, quite seriously, “Finton’s my name.”

She acknowledged with a nod.

“And was he dressed in dark clothes?”

“A suit.”

“Well – whoever he was – he’s certainly got to you. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

Was that what she had seen? A ghost? Was it not James Humphreys but the corpse, searching for his identity? Was there then some significance, some warning, in the vision?

She tried to change the subject. “You’re obviously familiar with the painting, and the painter.”

“I took a degree in art,” he explained. “Specialised in Symbolism. So, for fjord think River Severn?” He was still laughing at her. When she didn’t reply anything he lapsed into reverie. “I always thought the tortured subject was Munch himself. It would have fitted into his life. Bit of a mess like plenty of artists.”

His joint had gone out. He gazed at it with mild regret. “‘Fraid I haven’t any Munch to sell you, Martha Gunn.” His eyes gleamed with a hidden joke. He was laughing at her. “But if you can wait a couple of days I’ll see what I can knock up.”

She allowed her eyes to drift down towards his empty fingers and she smiled at him.

“That’s better,” he said. “Come on. Have a brew. I can spare you one. I think you need one. Now tell me all about it.”

She sat down nervously. The work of a coroner must of necessity take place behind closed doors. Newspaper headlines sit on the shoulders of violent, unexpected death, so coroners must be bound by the strictest rules of decency, privacy and confidentiality. She could not discuss any of it with this gypsy boy. Certainly not the reason behind the crazy, puzzling vision she had had on the
bridge, not five hundred yards from this shop. Not any part of it. But as she accepted the mug of tea and wrapped her chilled fingers around to steal its warmth she wanted, with an ache, to confide in someone. And if not to him to someone, some human being with sympathetic ears and a response. This is what you lose when you lose a partner. Someone to share secrets with. Someone standing at your side on the touchline, both of you cheering your own son. She felt a sick wave of isolation.

Obviously impervious, Finton Clay grinned across. “Then tell me about yourself,” he invited.

“Well, I work in Bayston Hill.”

“A doctor,” he pronounced.

It was true – in a way. “How did you know?” Not quite denial.

“Something about you. Something professional.” He watched her critically. “Something guarded. Warm, caring, but in a very controlled sort of a way. Clinical.”

She felt her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

But she was reluctant to tell him more about herself and instead curled her fingers tighter around the coffee mug before turning the conversation neatly around to him. “So. Tell me about you.”

It was a not unusual story. A father who had died (she picked up on something there), a mother who had “gone to pieces”, a struggle through art school, a sister long-term depressive, dependant on alcohol and drugs for whom Finton – to his credit – felt partly responsible.

She stayed and drank two cups of coffee and found herself telling him about Sam’s big chance. He gave the subject plenty of thought. “How old did you say he was?”

“Twelve.”

“Why not give him the choice?”

“Because any boy of twelve would choose football,
Finton, without even considering his long-term future.” She felt bound to add, “And you know footballers are more or less finished at thirty. And that’s if they escape serious injury when they’re younger.”

“They’re not finished at thirty. They just don’t play competitive Premier League football. But they can survive much longer than thirty.”

When she didn’t respond he said, “What does your husband say?”

“He’s not around to ask.” She let him think she was divorced, that Sam’s father was absent through choice. She didn’t want to “do the widow thing”. But it was twice in one day that she had had to explain.

“I see.”

He was quiet for a minute or two, staring into the distance. Then he picked his head up. “Martha Gunn,” he said, smiling, his hand on the move. For one awful moment she was sure he was going to cradle her own hand but it went no further than his lap. “There is no correct answer. Just two roads. Sam either takes the one or the other. Whichever road he chooses he will not know how his life might have turned out had he taken the other one.”

They stared at one another. Maybe the dope had got to her too. The simple statement seemed like a deep, timeless philosophy.

When she left the shop she still felt nervous, her perceptions heightened. The gloom had spread; the air was damp and cold. But years ago, when Martin had first been diagnosed, she had learned there is only one way to deal with insubstantial funks. Turn around and face them. Say
Boo
. And because the town was silent, holding its breath, fearing the Severn might isolate it yet again, she started walking up the hill, making the excuse to herself of a visit to the Barclays cashpoint on Castle Street although really
she relished the climb in the cold air. She would withdraw money and check on her balance. Striding out it would take her little more than fifteen minutes there and back and she needed to clear her head.

It was a mistake. Threading along Dogpole and St Mary’s Street she found herself standing in front of the High Cross and, not for the first time, wishing she knew less about the town’s violent history. When they had first arrived, she and Martin had taken one of the walking guides.

“On this very spot in 1283 Dafydd ap Griffith, brother of the last native-born Prince of Wales, was brought as a prisoner of Edward I and hanged, drawn and quartered.”
And he had not been the only one. In 1403 Harry Hotspur’s remains were left to rot here as a warning to other rebels that the might of King Henry IV was absolute, his response to treason merciless.

The town was now dark, deserted and quiet. For the first time she would have welcomed Saturday crowds. Noisy families, sweethearts, shoppers. Buskers.
Big Issue
sellers. She hurried uphill to the corner, let herself into the Barclays foyer and heaved a deep breath. The thirteenth century receded. She was back on familiar ground. But the walk had cured her. She strode, with confidence, back across the English Bridge and did not stare at people walking the other way, wondering.

It was late by the time she arrived home. The English Bridge was closed to traffic again and there was gridlock round the Abbey. Turning out of the Gay Meadows took precious minutes. She was anxious to get home now. It was only when she was on the ring road, driving steadily, that she returned to the encounter on the bridge. Had it been Humphreys or had she been deluded? If it was him, what had he been doing there? “Silly,” she said to herself.
“He practically
lives
there.”

But he had been heading away from Marine Terrace. He could have been going anywhere. To the pub, to a shop. Anywhere. OK then. Who had he been talking to on the phone? She narrowed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel. She didn’t even know that it was John Humphreys. It could have been anyone. But her mind was not listening to reason. It rippled on. What connection was there really between Humphreys and the dead man and Haddonfield, the window cleaner? Because she didn’t buy the story that it was all pure chance.

As she covered the last few metres of the drive she could pick out lights on the top floor. A silhouette crossing in front of the window. Sam’s curtains were closed and she could tell by the light from behind it that his television was on. But downstairs was in darkness. She pulled up outside the front door and switched her engine and headlights off. Something had caught her eye on the doorstep. Something red.

She locked the car and bent down. It was a wreath. Of red roses. She scooped them up, searched for a card and couldn’t find one. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, puzzling. If someone was leaving flowers why hadn’t they rung the doorbell and delivered them properly?
Someone
would have been in for most of the day – Vera all morning, Agnetha throughout the afternoon, joined by the twins after four thirty. How long had the flowers lain on the step? Both Vera and Agnetha would have noticed them. They always used the front door. They had to enter and exit through the front door to set the burglar alarm. Why had they left them there? She would have thought that Agnetha would have taken the flowers inside. She loved flowers. She would have put them in the sink to keep them watered, preserved the card. Martha
glanced upwards again. She should be running down the stairs to share the experience with her. Flowers delivered were not an everyday occurrence in the White House. They were special. She fingered the wire which bound the flowers to the circlet of moss. They must have arrived after four-thirty and Agnetha could not have heard the doorbell. But had no one been required to sign for them?

Once inside, in the light, she searched for the card and still couldn’t find it. It must have fallen off, maybe on the step. So, still holding the flowers, she went back outside with the porch light full on. And still couldn’t find it. She kicked the door closed behind her and carried the flowers into the kitchen. She put them on the draining board and splashed them with water. They still looked fresh. Agnetha and Sukey were running downstairs.

“The flowers, Agnetha,” she said. “On the front doorstep. Why did you leave them there?”

The two Abba lookalikes stared at each other.

“I did not see any flowers when we came home, Mrs Gunn. Someone must have left them since we arrive back from the school. But why they did not ring the doorbell? Who are they from? Are they not …?” She glanced at Sukey, obviously puzzled.

Yes, Agnetha. Wreaths are sent in sympathy. After bereavement.
Our customs are the same as yours.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see a card.”

“But Mrs Gunn.” Agnetha peeled back one of the roses. “It is here. Look.”

The card was damp and as inappropriate as the flowers.
With
Loving Sympathy
, and a flowered cross at its right upper border. The message inside was handwritten.

“Message for Martha.”

There was no signature.

She fretted over the incident for days, feeling threatened by the mystery behind it. Someone must have driven up the track and left the flowers there. She had questioned Sukey, Sam and Agnetha but they had seen nothing. They could only reiterate that they had not been there when they had returned from school. They seemed unconcerned but Martha could not dismiss the gesture so lightly. She didn’t know where the flowers had come from and she didn’t understand the significance of the message. What message? At night she tossed and turned, asking herself the same question. What message? It felt more like a threat.

She took the wreath out of the laundry and dropped it in the wheelie bin, but the next time she put some rubbish in it, it was still there. The card she placed in a drawer where she saved old Christmas cards and other useless oddments. She locked and bolted the doors very firmly at night. There was not a lot else she could do. But like the unidentified body it was another story without an ending.
A message for Martha.

Then Alex called in at the office one week later, on a fine, bright day in early March. The warming weather had exploded the town into sunshine daffodils. The town of flowers was living up to its name as spring finally came and the threat of floods diminished with the drier weather. People were scurrying around with renewed energy. It was the traditional time of new beginnings. Except that she made the mistake of blurting out her simple mystery.

“You have a secret admirer,” he said smiling. “Most women would feel flattered.”

“Maybe I would if it hadn’t been for a wreath, the With
Sympathy card, the cryptic message. I don’t feel flattered, Alex. I feel … exposed. Is that silly?”

“No. Not considering the high-profile work you do combined with the fact that you live in a remote area and alone. Well, I mean alone with the children.”

“And Agnetha,” she said, suddenly wishing the flowers had been from an admirer, meant for the au pair. But the message had been addressed to her, personally.

At last Alex took her seriously. “You could always have brought the card, flowers and their packaging in to us,” he offered. “We could have fingerprinted it.”

“Oh,” she protested. “I’d feel silly. I’m sure you’re right. It’s nothing.”

He nodded dubiously. “Well, I don’t know. If you read the gift as a threat … And none of them saw a car arrive.”

“No.”

“Or heard the doorbell?”

“No.”

Now she felt it was he who was making a fuss and shrugged. “Forget it.”

“Well,” he said finally, “you know where we are.”

“Yes.” It was time to change the subject. “I think I saw Humphreys,” she said slowly. “About a week ago, crossing the English Bridge.”

“Very possibly. He’s still around. Back in Marine Terrace, in fact. His wife’s gone back to Slough.”

Her eyes gleamed. “And Sheelagh?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She isn’t really part of the investigation – apart from giving Humphreys an alibi.” He was chewing his lip. A sure sign that he wasn’t quite happy with that last statement.

Martha waited but he wasn’t going to enlarge. “So how is the case going?”

“We think we have an ID for John Doe.”

“Really? You should have said. Who is he?”

“We haven’t actually got a positive ID yet which is why I haven’t let myself get too excited.”

“OK – who do you think he is?”

“I’m saying nothing,” he said. “After two false alarms I hardly dare hope.” He was teasing her.

“Alex …”

“We
believe
his name is Gerald Bosworth.”

“And how did you get on to him?”

“His wife saw the pictures flashed on the TV and rang her local force.”

“Which is?”

“Chester. They’ve faxed up some photographs and it does look like our man. However his wife said he was supposed to be on a business trip to Hamburg so if it
is
him goodness knows what he was doing in Shrewsbury. There’s Humphreys not at home when he should have been. Haddonfield vanishing into thin air. And now a guy turns up murdered in Shrewsbury when he should have been out of the country.”

“I just hope you have the right man this time,” she warned. “When are you bringing her up to view the body?”

“Later on today. The trouble is our John Doe has now been dead for more than a month and he’s had a post mortem. It could be a bit of a shock.”

“You could use dental records.”

“She wants to see him. I think something in her simply doesn’t believe any of it.”

“I can understand that – particularly as he wasn’t even supposed to be in the country.” She frowned. “What on earth was he doing
here
?”

Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t suppose you’d like to be around when she comes, would you?”

“I should if there’s a likelihood it really is this Gerald Bosworth.” She smiled. “He sounds awfully upper class.”

“Well the wife doesn’t.”

“So when …?”

“In the morning? Ten?”

“I’ll get Jericho to look at my diary.”

The morning bloomed, bright, clear and cold. Frost had visited again. She could tell that before opening her eyes. The bedroom seemed unnaturally light and chilly – even with the central heating on. She threw back the duvet and crossed the bedroom to open the curtains. The sky was a clear, Wedgwood blue, the fingered branches of the trees thrown into silhouette against such brilliance. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the woods. In summer this brought hoards of flies who buzzed around the sap-scented trees. But in winter the view was even more special, a far panorama back towards the town, the spires of which peeped over the top of the branches: St Mary’s, St Alkmunds and St Chads. RSPB enthusiasts had nailed bird boxes to the trunks, large and small, so owls had made their homes there and swooped and hunted through the clear winter’s nights, and blue tits fussed around the feeders full of nuts. In spring the woods were as overcrowded as a council estate with every nesting box noisily taken. And, in autumn, sometimes when she drew back the curtains her breath was taken away by the vivid colours of the dying leaves. Another few weeks and the trees would be wearing their spring best.

She had awoken early for some reason. Maybe because the sunlight had penetrated her curtains and acted as nature’s alarm clock or maybe it had been the cold or perhaps because the thought of an unseen watcher who lay flowers at her doorstep still disturbed her. Tantalised her with a phrase.

What message? She had even questioned Agnetha again and had a vehement denial. “There is no one, Mrs Gunn. I have a perfectly nice boyfriend back home in Sweden. I do not want to meet a man here, in England. The flowers – they must have been for you. It was your name written. The Sympathy card … well.” Martha guessed the phrase had a different meaning in Sweden than here.

She threw back the duvet and crossed the bedroom. The house was still peaceful. In minutes the day would begin with footsteps, music and voices. But for now she treasured the silence. Even Bobby hadn’t started scratching at the door of the laundry where he slept. A blackbird, perched on the forsythia bush outside, was singing. It was a moment of rare peace.

Then abruptly the day began. Somewhere, probably in Sukey’s room, the music started playing. There was the heavy thump of Sam clomping to the toilet, Agnetha’s light step tripping down the stairs. Running water. The spell was broken. Martha was under the shower in a moment and wrapping a towel round her by the time Agnetha knocked with some welcome morning coffee. Agnetha would take the children to school while she took Bobby out for a walk.

She left through the back door and started walking briskly, at first, only aware of the cold. The morning was more comfortable from the inside. The air vaporised her breath. She thrust her hands deep into her pockets, ignoring the nip around her ears, and planned to wear the dark wool suit with a cream blouse. One of the worst aspects of being a coroner was that more days than not she felt obliged to wear funereal clothing when her favourite colour was red and her special outfit a very snug pair of jeans which fitted her with a pull yet felt comfortable.

Bobby scampered on ahead, his nose pressed into the
ground, his breath noisy in puffing, steamy pants. She felt overwhelmed with affection for the furry black hound and walked quickly to catch up with him. The woods were almost always empty at this time of the morning, the branches hoary with frost. Her feet crunched across frozen clay. She could almost convince herself that this was her own private forest. She rarely saw anyone else using the footpaths. The RSPB volunteers threw out dark hints about coppicing and thinning, of woodland management and control but she loved to think of them as wild.

Today was one of the dog’s naughty days. He scampered after rabbits and eventually she lost him. She didn’t worry. He’d find his own way home. She stood at the highest point, turned and stared back at the house, suddenly registering how visible her bedroom window was from this point. She stared for a long, long time. Thinking. Anyone standing on this spot could see right into her bedroom. She shivered. It did not do to stand still and think. One must keep moving in such chilly weather. Particularly when she had unwelcome thoughts. But even striding back towards the house the image continued to disturb her. She pictured herself standing, as she had only minutes ago, at the window, staring out. Undressing without
quite
pulling the curtains together. And being at the back of the house she had never shrouded her windows in net or voile. She hated the stuff anyway. But it did leave the windows exposed.

With Deepest Sympathy?
She practically ran all the way back to the house. Three-quarters of an hour later she was changed, made-up, her hair brushed and tidy. Temporarily. The fierce Irish inherited from her mother kept it wild. Like the woods. Bobby had turned up on the back doorstep not even looking penitent. Just panting and tired, his flanks rising and falling. She made a pretence of
scolding him and he handed her his paw to shake. She put him in his basket in the laundry. Agnetha wasn’t back yet from taking the children to school. She sometimes stopped off and browsed around the record shops and today was not Vera’s day.

She set the burglar alarm and stepped back out through the front door, stooping. “Oh, Bobby,” she scolded. He’d caught a mouse and, dog-like, had presented it as a peace offering on the front doorstep. He’d often done this before; he was only obeying his instinct. Scolding and smacking made no difference though Martha still felt she should show disapproval in some way. She threw the mouse into the bushes trying not to look at it. A little blood had been trickling from the corner of its mouth. Freshly killed. Poor little thing. A field mouse, tiny and inoffensive. Nature could be so cruel. She put the incident behind her.

It was nine-thirty. She wasn’t due at the mortuary until ten so she had time to call in the office, collect some papers and have a swift word with Jericho. He stood in the doorway, a grizzle-haired clerk, watching, while she leafed through her letters. There was nothing too desperate. She told him where she’d be for the rest of the morning and arrived at the mortuary with a second to spare.

At the same time as a pink Porsche Boxster. A pair of long legs extended out, black skirt, split almost to a tiny rump and an impossibly small waist. Then a skin-tight red sweater encasing disproportionately large breasts.
High-heeled
boots completed the outfit. Obviously Mrs Bosworth, if this was who she was, did not share scruples about wearing suitably funereal clothes. Martha watched her with fascination.
A real live babe
. She walked behind her, invisibly observing and breathing in the scent of cigarettes and expensive perfume.

Mrs Bosworth bounced towards the door, rang the bell with a red-painted finger nail which Martha noted, again with glee, exactly matched her sweater. Wow. Martha noticed these things. They did not happen by chance but by womanly design.
She
may have planned her
outfit
but this woman had paid proper attention to
detail
– right down to the fingernails. And the scarlet boots with pointy toes and spiky heels.

Mark Sullivan opened the door himself. His eyes widened as he scanned the woman from head to toe before noticing Martha standing behind her. But it was Martha’s hand that he grasped and she was glad of that. “Hello, Martha.” Then he turned his attention to the woman. “And you are …?”

“Freddie Bosworth. Frederica really.” Her thick lashes dropped slightly as she spoke. Martha assumed a suitably grave face and waited for Mark to perform the introductions.

He did it perfunctorily. “Martha Gunn, our local coroner. She’ll be conducting the inquest.”

The woman’s eyes flickered across her with a tinge of disdain. (Martha may have approved of Frederica Bosworth but
she
hadn’t passed the return test). However, tucked behind the female appraisal was a clear spark of worry.

The three of them stepped inside just as Alex Randall pulled onto the car park, tucking his tie inside his jacket as he climbed out of the fluorescent squad car.

“Hello … hello.” He strode over. “Sorry I’m a bit late.” His eyes rested on ‘Freddie’ with a faint air of confusion. Sullivan filled in the gaps. Alex introduced himself formally as the senior investigating officer and they all moved inside to the viewing room.

Freddie was digging the blood red finger-nails into her
palms as Mark Sullivan drew the sheet back. Her small shoulders twitched. She hardly looked at the face but stared, unfocused, around the room. She looked very shocked, her skin yellowy pale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’d have said earlier …”

“Is it your husband?”

Martha could read the bones in the woman’s hands, strong, practical hands, with dry skin and long nails. She peered closer. Intriguingly, the nails were stuck on. She studied the woman’s face even closer and read habitual, old tension, a few smoker’s lines sprouting around the mouth. Grief hadn’t kicked in to join them yet. Her eyes met Freddie’s wide blue ones as she nodded. “It is him,” she said. “It’s Gerald all right though none of it makes any sense at all.” She frowned. “I don’t understand. I didn’t think …”