River Deep (15 page)

It was a relief to re-enter the real world, to arrive home and be greeted by Agnetha, Sukey and Sam. The house was lively, full of light and music. Life. Sukey grabbed her hand the moment she walked in through the door. “Come and see, Mum.” Martha followed her into the sitting room. The furniture had been pushed back. Agnetha took up position centre floor, in bell-bottomed trousers and a tank-top.

“Right,” Sukey ordered. Agnetha took two steps, pressed play on the video. And the action began.

Super Trooper
filled the air and the pair of them did the dance routine in time with the foursome on the TV screen, arms swinging, back to back, one at right angles to the other, and turn to the front again, Sukey prompting occasional directions. They must have been practising this one for hours. When they had finished, breathless and exhilarated, Martha clapped loudly and enthusiastically.

Sukey tugged her arm again. “Agnetha’s going to make me a stage costume, Mum. What do you think?”

“I think it’s great.” She allowed herself a swift reflection. Had she been a stay-at-home mum would she have spent this amount of time with her daughter? Doing this? Was this, possibly, a recommendation for au pairs? She glanced around. “Where’s Sam gone?”

“Back to his bedroom.” Neither seemed interested. Agnetha pressed play again and they continued their dance routine. Martha climbed the stairs with the familiar heaviness of the burden of guilt. Life was so difficult for Sam. No dad, mum at work most of the time, sister and au pair practically forming their own tribute band.

Martha knocked on his door.

His “come in” sounded glum.

The room was festooned in Liverpool red and white, pictures of Michael Owen, Heskey, Redknapp and Babbel. But mainly Michael Owen. Schoolboy’s hero. Action shots rather than line-ups. In most of them he looked as though he was grimacing in pain. Sam was sitting on his bed, leafing through a sports magazine. He hardly looked up. “Hi, Mum.”

She sank down on the bed, next to him and he closed the magazine, looked at her, sensing she was about to say it.

She didn’t speak for a moment or two but searched his face, loving him terribly, knowing his father would have done too, yet here she was, a lone, perceptive witness to his growing up.

“Anything the matter, Mum?”

She just wanted to hug him. Tell him all these things. And more. Instead she laughed and made what the twins called ‘one of her faces’.

“No. I just wanted to have a word about this sports school your teacher’s so keen on.”

“Mr Grant?” He turned away.

“Mmm. Sam. Do you want to go?”

And Sam was, suddenly, disturbingly, a small boy again, vulnerable. “I don’t know, Mum.” He stared at his slippers now. Huge, red and white footballs made of foam with the Liverpool logo on. “I don’t know if I’m really good enough.”

Does anyone ever know the answer to this question. What is this movable goalpost of ‘good enough’?

His eyes were wide open. Asking her with an unchildish depth behind the hazel irises. “How can I know if it’s the right decision?” Another stare at the slippers accompanied by a gulpy swallow. “What would Dad have wanted, do you think?”

Martha shook her head. She could not know either. It was up to both of them to guess. To leave Shrewsbury and attend a sports school and then fail would be a double whammy. Family, friends, education would all have been sacrificed for The Game. If The Game then let him down the sacrifice would finally have been for nothing. Even to succeed in the luck-and-champagne world of professional sport could be less than the blessing it might seem. Success was fleetingly transient, and even at its peak not always the source of happiness. There was the spectre of injury at any time – in any game – in the fragment of a second. An unwise or unfortunate move could earn them revulsion from their ‘adoring’ fans. But the counter-balance was worse – not to have tried – to have waived the chance because of fear of failure. And so she helped her son to decide.

“Sam,” she said very softly, hesitating before putting her arm around him and drawing him to her. “I love you hugely. You’re my only son and I don’t have your dad any more. You and Sukey are all I have of him except memories and photographs. And that dreadful video of him taking the pair of you for a walk in the buggy. My temptation is to keep you close to me, to protect you from everything. Life. But that would be unforgivably selfish and I don’t think it would necessarily be the best thing for you. I don’t even think it’s what Dad would have wanted. If you’re that good, if Mr Grant thinks you may have a chance of succeeding professionally, I think you should at least try.” She was more decisive now she had voiced it. “Maybe you should give it your best shot. I would not be a good mum if I stopped you from fulfilling your potential for selfish reasons. It would be wrong.”

“You won’t mind my not living at home?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ll mind. I’ll mind a lot. But I mustn’t
be selfish. If it doesn’t work out you can always come home. I’ll always be here but the opportunities won’t. They’ll pass you by.” She stared deep into his eyes. “If you don’t grab the chance now, Sam Gunn, it won’t come again. It will pass you by and you may regret it. Maybe for all your life. You’ll never know what might have been.”

He nodded, eyed one of the pictures of Michael Owen – the one where he looked the youngest – barely fourteen – and smiled at his idol. “When will you see Mr Grant?”

“I’ll ring him tomorrow.”

Sam jumped off the bed, his load lightened. “Great. What’s for tea?”

It was an hour later while they were tucking into salmon and asparagus pasta that Agnetha covered her mouth. “I don’t know where Bobby’s been digging,” she said, laughing, “but he has been bringing home the most extraordinary things.”

It was as though a stone had thumped on the table. For some reason Martha felt chilled. “Like what?”

“An old record. In his mouth. He must have found it in some old rubbish dump, or something.”

Martha put her knife and fork down. “There isn’t a rubbish dump anywhere near here, Agnetha. Anyway – Bobby doesn’t go out alone. Hardly.”

“Well it’s a filthy old thing. I put it in the laundry. It’s covered in mud. Absolutely disgusting. I left it in the sink. It’s an old forty-five though.” She winked at Sukey. “And I wish he wouldn’t bring dead little animals and put them on the doorstep too as though they were gifts.”

“Oh? I thought he’d stopped doing that.”

“Many days something is there. Uugh.” She gave a shake of her delicate shoulders. “I told him off. I said he was not to bring horrible, dirty things back to this house or he would no longer be welcome.” She gave one of her long
peals of laughter and Martha laughed too.

They spent one of their funny treasured evenings, all four of them playing a quiz game,
Who Wants to be a Millionaire,
almost getting their cheque for the valued million but they couldn’t decide which team had won the Ashes in 1987. It was ten before both Sam and Sukey had retired to bed and Agnetha left too, saying she wanted to send some emails home, have a bath, shampoo her hair and go to bed. Martha was abruptly alone. Awake and fidgety. She had some wine opened in the laundry and the thought of a glass beckoned her.

But instead she found the record, where Agnetha had put it, in the sink. It was, as she had said, an old forty-five, caked in mud. It must have been buried for a while. She turned the tap on and rinsed it.

The label read,
A Message For Martha.

This was no coincidence.
It felt a mystical threat, a promise, a tease, a lure, a tell, a warning. She held the record in her hand for some minutes. Knowing only one thing. Whatever the meaning was of this object it was personal. She could no longer hide behind her profession, her position, her anonymity or her status. Someone was directing thrusts at her, at her home, at her family.

Like the Mafia say,
“It’s all personal, baby.”

But there was no time to dwell. Whatever the message was, life must continue. Maybe one day she would understand. Until then she must be patient.

Wednesday, March 13th, was the appointed day for the inquest on Gerald Bosworth. And though it was currently a formality – the inquest would inevitably be opened and adjourned pending police enquiries – Martha took every aspect of her job seriously. To her nothing was a mere formality – or a foregone conclusion.

Usually family and friends of the deceased attended and, in cases like this, the police, the police surgeon, the pathologist, the press, witnesses and members of the public as well as any other interested parties. Inquests were rarely held
in camera
but were open to all and there were no reporting restrictions, which was why many coroners used their courts to broadcast statements and views. So far Martha had resisted the temptation to become a media star and make political comment. But maybe, one day, the temptation would seduce her.

It was her custom to speak to the bereaved family before the inquest opened, to allay their fears and address any concerns, also to tell them what would be expected of them. It was a sort of dress rehearsal. After all – to the police, doctors and other professionals this was an everyday affair. But to the relatives it was likely to be their only ever appearance in a coroner’s court. She did wonder how Frederica Bosworth would respond to her but she need not have worried. Mrs Bosworth was demure in manner as well as in dress, in a black suit, the skirt modestly reaching to her knees and black ankle-boots. She was wearing little make-up and looked pale and apprehensive. She was leaning
heavily on the arm of a suited man who introduced himself as Patrick Carpenter, family solicitor and close friend. He and Freddie exchanged a lot of eye contact but it was not up to Martha to surmise.

Freddie spoke first, as soon as they were inside the room. “I’m sorry, Doctor Gunn. I was a bit off with you the other day. I was upset.”

Martha made a soothing noise, assured Freddie that it was natural – under the circumstances – and Freddie returned a half-smile. “Thanks.”

They spoke for a few minutes and Martha led the way into the court. She never entered it without a feeling of both awe and pride. It was formal, 1920’s oak pews, a witness box as beautifully carved as a pulpit, a long bench behind which she sat. The jury, when there was one, sat in an enclosed set of oak seats reminiscent of a Welsh chapel and the public in a galleried courtroom. Full, it could seat three hundred people but rarely was called to do so. Today it was almost empty. She spotted a cub reporter from the local paper, a tall blonde woman, and a few familiar faces. In the second row Freddie Bosworth stared straight ahead, as though wishing herself elsewhere. The solicitor-friend looked unmoved and uninterested, picking his nails halfway through. The front row included Alex Randall, Mark Sullivan and Police Constable Gary Coleman who looked as nervous as though he was the accused. Martha smiled inwardly. The first appearance in a coroner’s court was very nerve-wracking for a young police officer. At the back of the court, a stocky man in a black puffer-jacket sat with his arms folded.

Jericho opened the proceedings, giving the name of the deceased, the date of the discovery of the body and the place. The rest would be ascertained during the hearing.

Martha gave one of her short, introductory speeches,
explaining the format very gently and simply to the court. Coleman was the first witness to be sworn in.

He used his notebook to prompt him and when he wasn’t reading stared at his big black shoes as though he wished he could climb inside them and hide from view.

“It was Tuesday, the 12th of February. The River Severn was bursting its banks and I’d been detailed to make sure everyone was out of the properties along Marine Terrace. About four o’clock, as I approached number seven, I noticed the door wasn’t quite closed.” He flicked the page over. A fly was climbing up the courthouse window.
Calliphora
.
“I,” said the fly. “With my little eye. I saw him die.”

“I called out. No one answered but I was concerned the property was not secured. I pushed the door open, flashed the torch around. There was a swell in the river so the door opened further and something bumped into me. I saw the body of a man.”

“And what did you do then?”

A helpless glance around the courtroom. Martha felt sorry for him. “I touched him. He was cold. I called for help.”

Jericho interrupted to address the court. “The emergency call was logged in at 4.05.”

Coleman wiped some sweat from his forehead. Martha smiled encouragingly at him. “Thank you, PC Coleman.”

He stood stock-still, not understanding that this was a dismissal. Jericho came to the rescue. “You can step down now.”

And Martha caught the faintest tinge of disappointment from the young constable.
He would learn.

Alex was the next to take the solemn oath. Not for the first time. He was well used to it and needed no prompting.

“Detective Inspector Alex Randall, Shrewsbury Police. When the emergency call was put through to me I was about to go off duty but realising this was likely to be a serious and unusual case I decided to attend Marine Terrace in person.” He did not need the benefit of notes. “I arrived at four-twenty to find, as Constable Coleman has just said, the body of a man lying face down in shallow water. I ascertained he was dead, informed the coroner’s officer and summoned Doctor Delyth Fontaine, the police surgeon. She arrived at five-twenty.” He paused, knowing, for now, that would be the sum of his evidence.

Delyth Fontaine was called next. She was a vastly overweight, experienced police surgeon in her fifties who worked part time as a GP in the town. Martha knew her very well. She had long, straggly grey hair, a wide, warm smile and perceptive intelligence. She also had a palpable no-nonsense attitude to her work. Martha had only ever seen her upset when dealing with the death of children. Otherwise she did not allow emotion to get in the way of facts.

“I arrived at Marine Terrace at six pm,” she said crisply. “There was a certain amount of turmoil around the place because the Severn was still rising and there was some threat from the river. Attendant were Detective Inspector Alex Randall, Police Constable Gary Coleman and Detective Sergeant Barry Klisco.” She paused, glanced down at her notes, tucked a strand of long grey hair behind her ear. “In the corner of the room was the body of a man. He was quite cold and rigor mortis was beginning to wear off which led me to believe he had been dead for more than thirty-six hours. I could see no external wounds and no obvious case of death.”

Again she paused, licked her lips, glanced again at her notes but Jericho knew better than to prompt her. “Given
the circumstances surrounding the death I asked DI Randall to summon the Home Office Pathologist, Doctor Mark Sullivan.” Her clear eyes met those of Martha and again Martha smiled her thanks. Delyth Fontaine sat down heavily.

Now it was Sullivan’s turn. He took the oath and also read from notes. Martha knew Mark’s need for precision. He left nothing to chance. His evidence concurred with Delyth Fontaine’s but he was able to add the results of the post mortem. The stab wound, the injuries, the bleeding into the pericardial sac.

Martha stole a swift glance at Freddie Bosworth.
These were harrowing facts to learn about your husband’s death.
The widow was leaning forward in her chair, her lipsticked mouth slightly open. Something more than pain but less than anguish passed across her face. She was frowning, chewing her lip, concentrating. More distressed and anxious than Martha had realised. Jericho handed her a glass of water and Freddie gulped it down gratefully. And to her amusement Martha could have sworn the attention from the deceased’s wife had made Jericho blush right to the roots of his hair.

She dismissed Mark and called Freddie Bosworth to the witness stand, watched while she took her oath. Freddie was waxy pale. “Would you like to sit down, Mrs Bosworth?” Jericho was there with a chair and Freddie Bosworth dropped into it gratefully. This was an obvious strain.

“When did you last see your husband?”

“On Thursday, the seventh of February,” she almost whispered. “He was setting off for a business trip to Germany, packing his suitcase with a spare suit and other clothes. He often went abroad. I didn’t think …” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’d never …”

Martha nodded encouragement.

“I didn’t think there was anything unusual that morning.” Freddie’s blue eyes swept around the courtroom to meet a wave of sympathy – except for the stocky man at the back who had now removed his puffer-jacket and was staring at the widow with visible dislike.

The sympathy from the courtroom appeared to have a recuperative effect on Freddie Bosworth. She continued with a stronger voice. “It was the same as lots of other mornings. Gerald was planning to drive himself to the airport. If he was planning to be away a long time he’d normally have taken a taxi or asked me to drive him in. The airport charges. They’re really steep. I thought he’d be back in a couple of weeks.”

“But you didn’t worry when you didn’t hear anything from him?”

“No. It was like Gerald not to phone. He forgot everything when he was away. Out of sight …” The brave attempt at a joke added pathos to her statement.

“You have no explanation for how he came to be in Shrewsbury instead of Germany?”

Freddie’s wide blue eyes stared back at her. “No,” she said. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“And you were summoned to identify your husband?”

Freddie nodded and threaded a hankie out of her pocket. She sniffed into it loudly, dabbed her eyes carefully to protect her mascara and put it back again.

Although Martha knew the answer to the next question it was a formality.

“You’re sure it was your husband?”

“Yes. It was him.”

“Thank you, Mrs Bosworth.”

Martha next addressed the court. “Police enquiries are ongoing,” she said, “and it is the custom to adjourn the
inquest until the investigation is complete. If anyone has anything to add I would be grateful if they would contact my office. The date for the final inquest may not be for some time. Today’s proceedings mean that Gerald Bosworth can be buried, his business affairs completed and his widow grieve without hindrance. Thank you.” She stood up and most of the people in the courtroom stood too. Except the stocky man at the back whose arms were still folded. Her eyes flickered over him curiously and he stared back, insolently.

She watched as Freddie Bosworth and Carpenter made their way towards the exit. The stocky man was pushing towards them, shoving the tall, blonde woman out of the way quite rudely. Martha halted, anticipating an altercation. It wouldn’t be the first time in a coroner’s court for emotions to erupt. Investigations of death could bring all sorts of old resentments and bitternesses to the surface. She noticed that Alex Randall was watching the scene too. In the end Freddie, the solicitor and the stocky man exchanged words but there was no violence. Only rumblings. Then they filed out with the others leaving Martha staring after them, Alex Randall at her side. “Did you know who he was?”

“No.”

“It might be worth you finding out,” she suggested and Randall grinned at her. He knew exactly what she was up to.

And suddenly only she and Jericho were left in the empty courtroom. “What did you make of Mrs Bosworth?” she asked him curiously.

“I don’t think she’ll grieve long,” her assistant observed.