River Deep (11 page)

“Can I have a fag?” she said next. The three of them looked at each other. It was against all rules. But sometimes rules are meant to be broken. Alex led her into Mark’s cluttered office and opened the window and they all watched her drag on a cigarette for a few minutes without interrupting. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought he was in Germany.” The puzzlement carved more lines into her face so she looked old. “He never went then? You said he’s been dead a while. How long. What’s a while?”

She looked so pale Martha fingered a chair. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs Bosworth?”

Frederica sank into it, looking around at all three of them. “It’s been such a shock.”

They believed her. She looked genuinely shaken. Her hands trembled so she was finding it hard to put the cigarette to her lips.

“What’s he doin’
here
, do you think?”

They looked at each other.

“He doesn’t even
know
anyone in Shrewsbury. I don’t think we’ve ever been here. It isn’t our neck of the woods. We go across to Manchester if we want to shop. How come he told me he was in Germany? What was he up to?” Her blue eyes were pitiful. She wasn’t crying so much as shocked. They were staring wide open. “I don’t understand any of it,” she said again.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said. “It definitely
is
your husband?”

The blue eyes fixed on her. “No doubt about it, love.”

She lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one. “So what did he die of? The local bobby just said he’d met with an accident? Was it his car?”

Both men looked at Martha for their cue. “Freddie,” she said. “Mrs Bosworth. There isn’t an easy way to say this. Your husband was murdered.”

“What?”

“He died from a stab wound which entered his heart. There was a lot of bleeding.”

“What? You mean all over his clothes?”

“No. Into the lining around the heart. There’s a medical term. But it won’t mean anything to you.”

Freddie’s hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. “What is it?” she asked. “I’m going to be hearing plenty about it. You may as well tell me.”

“It’s called a cardiac tamponade.”

Freddie responded with a twitch of her shoulders. Alex drew in a long, deep breath. Martha could tell he was thinking up a list of questions.

“I’ll be holding an inquest,” she said, “but there are bound to be police investigations.”

“A funeral …?” Freddie said weakly.

“There are a few formalities to be completed first,” Martha said. She stole a swift glance at Alex Randall. “The
police will want to question you.” She turned her head around. “Alex, if you’d prefer to use my office …”

“It’s up to you, Mrs Bosworth.”

“I don’t care where,” she said. “But get me out of
here
.”

Mentally Martha tacked on the phrase, “
away from him
…”

The fight had gone out of Freddie Bosworth. She looked frightened. She was gnawing her lip like a hungry rat. And yet there was still a steeliness behind it, as though she was bracing herself for some huge pressure. Martha contrasted the woman who had bounced into the mortuary to the one who was subsequently led out. Maybe it was the shock of seeing her husband dead. Maybe as she had walked in she had half-hoped that it was not him and her husband really was somewhere else – alive. Maybe in Germany. Martha could remember denying that Martin was dead. It is only when you look down on a cold, empty face that you begin to accept death.

The pink Boxster followed Alex Randall’s Ford out of the car park slowly, Mark Sullivan watching through the window.

“Well,” he said, “what do you make of that?”

“I don’t know,” Martha answered slowly. “I just don’t know. But … Do you remember one of the old Agatha Christies?”

“Which one? There were quite a few as I remember.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I know the one. Something wicked this way comes.”

So now they knew who the man was. He had a name, Gerald Bosworth, a wife, an identity. And, from Martha’s point of view, they could proceed with the inquest.

Alex Randall rang her that evening, a little before eight. “Well,” he said. “That was a weird business.”

“I thought from here it would all be plain sailing.”

“So did I,” he said. “Instead I think I’ve got a whole host of other questions. There’s something very fishy going on here, Martha.”

Her curiosity was kicking in again. “Would you like to come round?”

“Would you mind? It’s unburdening myself really. It isn’t part of your – “

“I’m not doing anything special.”

“Well, in that case I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

This is the nice thing about Shrewsbury. It masquerades as a big, important, town. But this is half a fallacy. Important it certainly is. And not only to the people who live here. No fan of medieval buildings or ancient towns would deny it is that. But big it isn’t. Despite the burgeoning housing estates, Gains Park, and so on, it is a village with delusions. It may have its own football ground, its own prison, the best hospital for miles around but it really is still a village. Nowhere in the town can be farther away than ten minutes. Provided the bridges are open and the traffic allowed to run freely. So she set up a tray of coffee things with a few biscuits, confident that Alex would be with her while the coffee was still hot.

He was. A few minutes later she heard his car crunch over the gravel and opened the front door. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a navy sweater and looked tense.
There was a tightness around his eyes and mouth, and his forehead was lined with underlying worry. She hadn’t realised the investigation would weigh so heavy on him.

She led him into the study. This seemed the appropriate room for him. This was not a social call. She poured the coffee while he settled himself in the one upholstered leather chair. Martin’s chair.

Alex accepted a couple of biscuits and leaned right back, sprawling his long legs out in front of him, as Martin had not done in his last few months of life. She had not realised she had missed such a small thing.

“It was a rum do, Martha,” he said finally. “Our Mrs Bosworth is a nervous woman. Eyes darting everywhere all the time we were taking a statement. Nearly jumped out of her skin when PC Coleman knocked on the door. Skittish as a cat.”

“Well, take into account she’s just found out her husband’s been murdered and she may just know a little bit more about it than she wants to let on.”

“I know. I know.” His hand moved in front of him as though broadly taking this into account. “I realise this must have been an unbearable trauma for her. But it isn’t the first time I’ve interviewed family who’ve just been confronted with tragedy. Grief I anticipate. But so much of my job is interviewing people who are trying their hardest to pretend they’re innocent when they’re not. And she reminded me of them.” He was silent for a moment, frowning, his eyes moving around the room. “There was something in her manner. Something furtive.” He seemed to feel the need to defend himself. “You know me, Martha. I’m a practical man. I hate ‘instincts’ and ‘feelings’, ‘tingling of the toes’ and …”

She smiled. “… pricking of the thumbs.”

He looked up. Their eyes met. “Exactly. That is
exactly
what I mean. But Freddie Bosworth was terrified. Believe me. And she acted as though she had a part to play. More like an actress than a wife who’s just found out her husband’s been murdered. This was something more. I swear she was very frightened we wouldn’t believe her.” He thought for a moment. “And when Coleman walked in she looked as though she was seeing a ghost. I thought she was going to collapse.”

Something wormed its way into the back of her mind. “Have I met Coleman?”

“He was at the PM.” Randall was puzzled but polite.

“Which one was he?”

“Dark hair. About six feet tall.”

“And well-built,” she finished.

Suddenly she could picture the scene. Freddie Bosworth in the interview room, Coleman walking in. For one fragment of an instant of a second, shadowed against the door.

For that moment Freddie Bosworth had thought it was her husband.
But her husband was dead. And she’d just identified his corpse.

“Don’t despise your instincts, Alex,” she said firmly.

His face relaxed. “My sentiments exactly.” He drank his coffee. “Guilty conscience.” He held the cup up. “Nice coffee.” He set his cup back down on the tray with a surprisingly dainty gesture and leaned back again in the chair, legs splayed. “If I’ve learnt anything in this job it is to stop believing statements. She says her husband had no enemies. It’s bloody obvious he did. A knife through your left ventricle is hardly the work of a best friend.”

“Mmm.” She had to agree.

“I’m sure she’s going to be the key to this affair but finding a chink in her armour is going to be difficult.”

“Mmm,” she said again. “So tell me a bit more about this Gerald man who makes his wife nervous even after he’s
dead. What was he supposed to be going to Hamburg for?”

“She describes him as a businessman. He imported cars, mainly from Germany, Holland, Belgium and Spain, all models. The prices are significantly cheaper there than here. It’s a nice little earner.”

Martha nodded. “When did she last see him?”

“On the Friday before he died – the eighth. He said he’d be away for ten days or so but apparently he often extended his business trips, roamed around the continent, meeting manufacturers and striking deals with them so she wasn’t worried when she couldn’t contact him.”

“On his mobile?”

“It was switched off, she says, which is unusual. He’s got a dual band phone but there are blind spots all over the place. She left messages. She says she last spoke to him on the Saturday and he’d told her he was in Hamburg, meeting up with clients and suppliers. We’ve had a printout from the phone company and no calls were made after Sunday afternoon. As far as they can make out his phone was switched off – or ran out of batteries – then and, surprise surprise, he wasn’t in Germany but somewhere in the Midlands. Between Telford and the Welsh border.”

“The handset itself?”

“Has disappeared.”

“Is there any record of him flying?”

“He was booked on a flight from Heathrow to Hamburg on Friday but never checked in.”

“Where are his offices?”

“Saltney. It’s a couple of miles outside Chester towards Wales.”

“And what do his local force have to say about him?”

“They had their suspicions that he was involved in some sort of tax fraud. Probably VAT avoidance. He could have
been involved in drug smuggling. He made lots of trips abroad. Was known as a “flash” guy. Lived in a house patrolled by guard dogs. But they had nothing on him. He was either perfectly clean or clever.”

“Or lucky.”

“Well if he was lucky it finally ran out.”

Alex continued “They were called there once. A domestic.
She’d
been beaten up. But, as is usual with these sorts of cases, she refused medical treatment and when it came to it declined to make a statement or press charges. They never heard from her again.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About a year.”

“Alex.” She hesitated. He was a DI – well-versed in his job. He didn’t need
her
to teach him how to ‘suck eggs’. She had her own role to be getting on with. To satisfy the law that surrounds death, the relatives and her own conscience when it came to the inquest.

“Humphreys was in the car business too, wasn’t he? Is there any evidence the two men knew each other?”

“On the surface no but we’re looking into it. Gerald Bosworth didn’t import Jaguars. They’re in short supply abroad so there are none for the export market. Besides – there’s little difference in the price you pay for a Jaguar over here and the continental price. It isn’t
worth
importing them. If we could find a connection between the men – Humphreys and Bosworth – we’d at least have a start. After all, Bosworth died in Humphreys’ house.”

“Have you asked Freddie whether …?”

Randall nodded. “She denies knowing him.” He frowned. “And oddly enough I would say she seemed to be telling the truth when she said she didn’t know him, that she’d never met him.”

“Mmm.” Martha was silent for a while. Something was
tugging away in her mind.

Something to do with the river flooding. It had
diverted
events somehow. But she didn’t know how. All she knew was when the river had altered its course it had changed events.

She stared out of the window at the black night. Wrapped in the river, this town was clinging on to its secrets. The body had been stowed in the cellar of Marine Terrace without the killer knowing its occupant would not be at home and that the river would flush it out. “Have you spoken to Sheelagh Mandershall again?”

“We’ve interviewed her twice – yes.”

“What’s she like?”

“A peroxide blonde. Early 40s. Well-dressed. Just a little plump. Watchful sharp eyes.”

“I take it she vouches for James Humphreys.”

“Oh, yes. She vouches for him all right. Says her lines like an actress. If what she says is the truth Humphreys was only in Marine Terrace for a few minutes. He could have stabbed Bosworth then but, according to Mark, Bosworth took a while to die. The cellar door wasn’t locked. He could have stumbled outside onto the walkway. There were plenty of people milling around. Humphreys couldn’t take the chance. Sheelagh assures us he would have finished work after four and that well before five he was with her. Sheelagh lives on the other side of the town. Humphreys’ Jag was parked behind the
Lion & Pheasant
. He would have had to have walked to her house, which even at a brisk trot, would have taken forty minutes. He can’t have done it unless they were in it together and she’s covering for him. And I don’t think her devotion runs quite that deep. He’s still with his wife, after all. No. She and Humphreys were having a flirtation – an affair. It wouldn’t have been a strong enough bond for
them to share the secret of a murder.”

She poured him a second cup of coffee and they drank companionably, yet she was aware their conversation skirted around their personal lives like a black hole. As the thought formed she looked up to see Alex Randall watching her. “I’ve had a copy made of the tape of Humphreys’ questioning,” he said, hesitating. “I don’t suppose …?”

“I’d be very interested.”

He’d brought a small tape recorder. There was a moment while he set it up then they both listened. She couldn’t resist a smile. Humphreys’ voice was unmistakably nasal – probably a result of his wife’s revenge for his infidelity. Alex Randall’s voice was calm and controlled. Detached and unemotional. It was obvious he was reading from a written set of questions. This was not unusual. These days forensic psychiatrists frequently directed the questioning. It saved precious time, gave the investigating officers an idea how to structure their queries to gain the greatest quantity of information and saved them from repeating themselves. The PACE clock ticked away inexorably no matter how close you were to a confession. Rules were rules.

The questions began innocuously enough. Name, address, everyday circumstances.

“Why did you decide to move to Shrewsbury?”

Some shuffling in the chair might indicate unease. “The garage where I worked in Slough lost the Jaguar franchise. We weren’t making the sales so they pulled out. I knew someone in Shrewsbury.”

“Would that be …” A pause while Randall must have been checking his facts, “…Mrs Mandershall?”

“No. Someone else.”

“Another woman, Sir?” Randall was finding it hard to keep mockery – contempt – out of his voice.

“Yes, for your information. She was a secretary I’d worked with in Slough. She’d moved away some time ago. Anyway, she heard about our garage losing the franchise and told me there would be a vacancy for a sales manager in Shrewsbury. I applied and got the job. I wasn’t sure my wife would want to move.” The emphasis he put on the word ‘want’ was interesting. Randall picked up on it too.

“Why wouldn’t she … want to move down here?”

“We’ve got children. Two girls. They’re in a local school. A good one. It’s a big thing to uproot teenagers. They weren’t going to be keen. I wanted to be sure.”

“And were you?”

A pause. Humphreys must have caught the sarcasm in Randall’s voice. His rejoinder was quieter, more humble. At last Randall was penetrating the armour and finding the real man. “As far as the town was concerned I love the place. As far as bringing the family up well –”

The silence was so long Martha glanced at the tape recorder. It was still running.

“How did you find the house in Marine Terrace?” Alex’s voice again.

“Through an estate agent.”

“Did he warn you it was prone to flooding?”

“Only the cellars.”

Martha smiled. An estate agent was hardly going to advertise the fact that the property had a problem.

“You didn’t mind about that?”

“It didn’t seem a problem. I wasn’t going to use the cellars.” Some of Humphreys’ confidence had leaked back into his voice. Martha knew he had
wanted
to answer this question.

There was another brief pause before Alex’s voice broke in. “Tell me about the weekend of the 9th and 10th of February.”

“All right.” he said resignedly. “I was at work all day Saturday and Sunday. It’s busy at the weekends. I finished after four. Takes a bit of time to lock up, set the alarms, put the cars away. You know. I got stuck in traffic. Couldn’t get near my house. I could see the river was rising fast. Police around. I left my car at the local pub. I’ve got an agreement with the landlord. I went into the house just to change into something more casual, pick up a toothbrush and things and I walked straight round to Sheelagh’s.” There was a defensive note in his voice. Maybe he had anticipated the disapproval from the detective. Martha heard a little click of annoyance from Alex Randall and knew he was bored with domestics, with infidelity, with James Humphreys’ sordid little story. It wasn’t interesting to her either.