River Deep (12 page)

“I was in the house less than ten minutes. I didn’t have time to murder anyone.”
Mark Sullivan had said it had taken Bosworth some time to die.
There was desperation in Humphreys’ voice. He was pleading to be believed.

“Did you notice whether the cellar door was open or closed?”

“Closed. I’m sure. I checked. There was a bloody big bluebottle buzzing around the place and I worried I was going to get infested with the things flying up from the cellars – what with all the flooding and that. So I particularly made sure. Thought I’d have to get some fly spray in. On Tuesday there was the floods and everything was chaos. And then you lot got hold of me.” A pause before he added. “My wife… She imagined …” She imagined him, hand up to rub his nose.

“Did you know the dead man?”

“I don’t know why you ask me the same question more than once.” Truculence was edging into Humphreys’ voice
now. He had the upper hand. That meant none of the questions had grazed him. “The answer’s the same however many times you try and shock me, ask me, question me, try to bully me.”

Alex – patiently. “No one is trying to bully you, Mr Humphreys. We’re just trying to encourage you to help us. A man was murdered in the house you rent and we’re anxious to find out who killed him. That’s all.” Again Martha smiled to herself. She could picture Alex’s deliberate, exaggerated, patronising calm. He switched the tape off and looked across at her.

“Well?”

“I have a picture of him. He doesn’t
sound
guilty so much as bemused. As though he can’t believe what’s happening to him. Almost as though he really is an innocent victim.”

“Well, in a way he was. If he’s telling the truth, somebody must have killed Bosworth before or after he went home to change. And then of course,” Alex couldn’t resist a smirk, “there’s the swipe taken by his wife at him.”

“He earned that one. Nothing innocent about that.”

“No – but if you saw him now.”

The Scream
flashed through her mind
. “I have,” she said shortly. “I have seen him. He walked across the bridge in the other direction to me.” Randall was looking at her enquiringly. “It was silly,” she said. “He spooked me. But I suppose you’re right. He did look a victim.”
As did the woman in
The Scream.
Overwhelmed by anxiety and tensions, neurotic, paranoid terror.
“You don’t think he did it?” Randall shook his head. Regretfully. “And I don’t suppose Haddonfield’s turned up?” Another shake of his head. “I have a feeling we won’t ever have an answer to that particular mystery.

She refilled his cup. “I suppose we’d better set a date to open the inquest on Mr Bosworth,” she said. “I shall want to speak to Frederica. I’ll get Jericho to contact her in the morning. She’ll want to arrange the funeral.” Alex nodded. He left at ten-thirty, still looking troubled.

The next morning she drew out the post mortem report on Gerald Bosworth and studied it in detail, hoping she could learn something new from Mark’s information. Under the heading of Shrewsbury Central Pathology laboratory, the date and time, the first entry:

Autopsy on: unidentified male. Address, date of birth.

At the time of the PM all this had been left blank. It was only recently that Gerald Bosworth’s details had been filled in. Martha cupped her chin in her hand and stared into space. Why had there been no ID on Bosworth? No wallet, credit cards, mobile phone, chequebook. In fact no documentation at all.
Why had he been dressed in Humphreys’ suit and not his own clothes?

She sipped her coffee, trying to answer her own questions. The identity of the victim often leads to the discovery of the killer but none of the usual steps had been taken to conceal it – apart from the empty pockets. The body hadn’t been hidden, at least, not effectively. Although you could argue that it had only been found through the intervention of the river. Martha shook her head. That wouldn’t really do. The cellar door hadn’t been bolted or locked. Apart from the removal of personal effects and the switching of the clothes the killer hadn’t tried to prevent identification by obliterating Bosworth’s features or removing his fingerprints. There had been no attempt to destroy the body – even to weight it and dump it in the swollen river. She took another sip of coffee, thoughtfully, and tried to imagine herself in the part of the killer.

Perhaps he had been disturbed by the rising river before he had had time to complete his plans. Whatever they were. Perhaps he had considered sinking the body in the
river, but had been prevented by the presence of the police and other emergency services. Depending on when he had committed the crime. Probably after Humphreys had called in after work and left. He had possibly seen Humphreys emerging from Marine Terrace and opportunistically used the empty property. After all, the police had said it would have been easy to gain entry.

She put the mug back on the desk, her mind still busy. She’d been a coroner for a number of years and she could never remember a mix-up like this where women had twice been summoned wrongly in the hope of identifying what had been assumed were their husbands. One mistake was very, very unusual in this age-group. Teenagers were more common. She had frequently dealt with the parents of runaways who had shaken their heads, partly in relief that this was not their errant offspring, and partly in puzzlement over their actual fate. But she had never before witnessed the fiasco of mistaken identity over a man of Bosworth’s age. It was strange. More than strange. Almost a sick joke which had, in turn, led to a double farce. She recalled Alex’s account of Cressida Humphreys’ expression as she had denied that the corpse was her husband. And the fiasco had been repeated when Lindy Haddonfield had also shaken her head. The same emotions. Mirrored. And finally Freddie Bosworth had identified the man. Her eyes slipped out of focus. So many thoughts were racing round
her
mind:

How much of a part had the rising river played in the three-act-farce? Aid or hindrance or had it made no real difference? Had the killer
utilised
the property emptied by the flood or had the waters
foiled
his plans either by exposing the body early or bringing the property to the attention of the authorities? After all – it had been the police who had discovered Gerald Bosworth. Had
Coleman not pushed open the door of the property, Bosworth would have remained undiscovered for a while longer. What difference would there have been had the Severn not played Joker? What would have happened if Humphreys had been home? Would Bosworth
still
have died? What had he been doing there, anyway? Waiting for Humphreys?

Her mind fixed on just one of the facts. Bosworth’s body had been hidden in the cellar. No one would leave a cellar door open to a living room in February. Particularly when the cellar was damp and beneath the level of a flooding river. So almost certainly the cellar door had been closed but not properly latched and the force of water had pushed it open. Otherwise Humphreys might not have discovered the body until the scent of putrefaction alerted him. Unless he had innocently had occasion to visit the cellar, which he denied. Then what? Well, surely he would have told the police. It was a blind ending.

So Martha’s mind tracked along another path. Why had Bosworth come to Shrewsbury? To meet Humphreys? Had there been a connection between the two men? She finished her coffee and sat, motionless. Something was stirring.

She continued searching the PM report. If anyone should be capable of discerning evidence from this cold, clinical document, she should. After all – she read post mortem reports all the time. She was well-used to the jargon. If there was evidence to tease from the corpse Mark Sullivan would have done it. And she should be able to read it.

Appearance: Well-nourished, muscular male.

Apparent age: early forties

Body weight: 82 Kg Rigor Mortis partly dispersed

Apparent sex: Male. Crown-heel length: 6ft1inch.
Crown-rump length: Blank

Hypostasis: Dorsal, Purple.

External features:-Well-nourished middle-aged man with gaping 2 centimetres wound, one centimetre below left nipple. Evidence of post mortem wounds on face, lower limbs consistent with contact injury. One centimetre circular contusion over mid-line of sternum.

Consistent with Bosworth’s body bumping on the cellar steps and against the cellar wall.

There was a lot of other detail in the report, largely irrelevant but legally required, relating to the state of Bosworth’s general health – lymph nodes, muscles, skeleton, skull circumference and so on. Largely normal. Martha’s eyes skipped to the words beneath the heading, heart. Penetrating knife wound to the left ventricle causing leakage of blood into the pericardium, causing cardiac tamponade.

At the bottom of the page: Cause of death.

In my opinion the cause of death was:

1. a) shock, due to 

b) loss of circulatory blood due to

c) cardiac tamponade due to

d) penetrating wound to the left ventricle.

She stopped reading. As far as forensic pathology was concerned it was a well-done, efficient post mortem report. But it was such an incomplete picture. The wound had been skilfully or luckily inflicted. She knew it was not up to the pathologist to make stabs at the facts, merely to report the clinical findings but, even so, she was disappointed. What was missing was how long had it taken Bosworth to die. The reason it was missing was because a pathologist could only guess at the answer. No one knew – except the killer.

So had this killer sat and calmly waited for Bosworth to
die from the fatal stab wound? Had his victim tried to call out? To summon help? How weakened had he been by the initial blow? For how long had he remained conscious? And where? The cellar or elsewhere in the house? How had his murderer prevented him from escaping? Forcefully?

Jericho had thoughtfully attached more details. Deceased identified on March 7th by his wife as Gerald Bosworth aged 42 of 16 Gawton’s Way, Chester.

She sat and did nothing for a minute. Then she picked up the phone.

It was time to speak to Frederica Bosworth. A man answered with an ever-so-slight Liverpool accent. When she asked to speak to Mrs Bosworth he asked politely who was speaking. She explained and there was a brief pause. Then Freddie spoke with a tentative, “Yeah?”.

Martha reintroduced herself, realising as she did so that Bosworth’s widow had no recollection of her at all. “We’d like to set a date for the inquest on your husband’s death,” she began and went on to explain that it would be a formality, would be adjourned pending police enquiries, but would enable the funeral to go ahead. She would be able to release the body for burial.

“Oh.”

There was an awkward pause so Martha continued. “I wondered if there were any questions you’d like to ask me.”

Freddie’s response was confused. “Like what?”

“Sometimes relatives want to try and understand the circumstances surrounding their loved one’s death.” She paused. “It can help them to grieve.”

She waited for some response to give her a clue how to proceed.

“All I want,” Freddie Bosworth said fiercely, “is for you
to catch the bastard what did it. He was a good bloke, my Gerald.” The line went quiet. “Not perfect – I grant you. But he didn’t deserve that.”

Martha made an expression of sympathy.

“What’s the purpose of the inquest?”

“Simply to state who has died, when, where and how.”

“So what’s the point of it then?” Truculent now. “It’s bloody obvious who’s died. I’ve identified him. We know when and where he died. And as for how. Someone stuck a knife into his heart. I take it you’re not going to make any contribution to find out
who
stuck the knife in so I can’t really see the point of your involvement. Thanks very much. But no thanks.”

“The inquest is a formal, legal requirement,” Martha said icily. “It is
not
a police enquiry. It
will
take place whether you can see the point or not, Mrs Bosworth. In fact, usually relatives welcome it.”

“Oh.” Freddie sounded mystified. “All right then.”

“We’ll keep you informed.”

“Thanks.” She could have been acknowledging a mail order delivery. “But that’s just what the police say. Trouble is there’s nothin’ to really tell me, is there?”

Martha put the phone down in a fury. She would let Jericho liaise with the woman and the police to set a suitable date for the inquest. He could organise her diary.

Martha had a pile of work to do but she couldn’t shift her mind back into gear. It was stuck in the Gerald Bosworth groove, spinning round and round like a broken record. She felt fidgety and restless. It felt like very unfinished business. She dialled Oswestry Police and asked to be connected with the Senior Officer investigating the disappearance of Clarke Haddonfield. After a lengthy pause she was put through to a woman. “Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Wendy Aitken. I understand you wish to talk to
me about Clarke Haddonfield’s disappearance.” The voice was brisk and not inviting.

Martha introduced herself and began by asking how the investigation was going. Wendy Aitken’s voice changed. “Not very well, I’m afraid, Coroner. We’ve spoken to the van driver on numerous occasions as he was apparently the last person to see Haddonfield alive. We’ve shown him photographs and so on but he couldn’t positively identify Clarke. He hardly looked at the guy he picked up. It was dark and rainy. He needed to concentrate on the road. Added to that Haddonfield had his coat collar pulled right up around his face. Our driver had the radio on and Haddonfield didn’t speak much apart from into the phone. Watkins, the van driver, claims he deliberately didn’t listen in to the conversation because he assumed Haddonfield was speaking to his wife. We’ve put a board up on the A5 appealing for people with information to ring in but as yet we’ve got nothing. In fact we’ve drawn a complete blank. We’ve had the SOCOs clean the cab out for DNA, blood, hair – anything really – and drawn another blank. Looks like Watkins often picked up hitchhikers on their way through to Wales. There’s an absolute wealth of forensic evidence but nothing that takes us straight to back to Clarke Haddonfield.”

“I take it the van driver’s clean.”

“As a newborn baby. He hasn’t even had a speeding ticket in the last fifteen years.”

Martha was frowning into the phone.
When did innocence become suspicious?
“Haddonfield was dropped off by a service station. Didn’t anyone there see anything?”

DI Wendy Aitken gave a loud, hopeless sigh. “It’s as though the elements conspired against us. Everyone in the service station was busy doing their own thing. Reading the paper, buying sweets, paying for petrol. It was
chucking
it down with rain and, of course, very dark. The cashier
thinks
she
might
have seen a lorry drop someone off but she isn’t sure. She half remembers someone sheltering under the tree but didn’t take much notice and she couldn’t tell us anything other than that if she
was
right and there was someone sheltering underneath the tree he
must
have been picked up later because she didn’t notice anyone there at nine o’clock when she finished her duty. And of course to add to everything traffic was heavy that night.”

“What was the van like?”

“Big, white, eighteen hundredweight, long wheel base.”

“Any markings on the side?”

“No,” DI Aitken said crisply. “Original white van man with no distinguishing features.”

“What was in it?”

“Car spares.”

“Taking them to where?”

“Watkins Garage. Great big place on the A5. Family business – does MOTs, services, tyres, silencers. All perfectly above-board. My granny’s got more to hide than they have. It was the Watkins’ son, Evan, who picked up our hitchhiker and dropped him off. He says he did offer to take the man all the way home as the weather was so foul but he was refused. Apparently Haddonfield assured him his wife would be along in a matter of minutes. The last he saw of him he was sheltering underneath a tree. Watkins drove off and never saw him again.”

“A public-spirited guy,” Martha commented. “I don’t suppose for a second that Watkins knew Haddonfield already, did he?”

“No. They weren’t acquainted. I’m convinced he’s speaking the truth.”

“You’ve interviewed
Mrs
Haddonfield again?”

“Lindy – yes – again and again. She sticks to her story
that her husband did not ring her after lunchtime on Monday. Neither did he arrive home on Monday night. She claims she didn’t get a phone call to go and pick him up. What’s more, I believe her. I don’t think a call was put through to her. The whole business is extraordinary and a bit of a brainteaser. I don’t know where he’s gone. I mean – the obvious answer is some sort of parallel life. Not a wife but a mistress whom he phoned and picked him up.” She gave a short, huffy laugh. “And window cleaners do have a bit of a reputation.”