River Deep (18 page)

She made a few phone calls quickly, before she could change her mind, told Jericho she would be away all day Wednesday and booked in for a day’s Anti Stress treatment at Lilac Clouds, making a special request that her allocated beautician for the entire day would be Lindy Haddonfield. Now Tuesday was simply a day to be got through.

She arrived at 10 am with a full day ahead of her and her heart in her mouth.

She was so nervous she could hardly park her car and ended up noisily reversing in then realising she hadn’t left enough room to open her door and spending another five minutes moving the car forwards then backwards and forwards again.

She stepped out. Her white fleece and cut-off black pedal-pushers gave her confidence. A brown hair rinse which promised to wash out in three shampoos, lots and lots of make-up, hair teased out like an eighties soap star, high-heeled strappy shoes. She tottered up to the imposing front door, following the signpost to reception.

Lilac Clouds was an Elizabethan black and white
half-timbered
house with a huge, modern extension dwarfing it
from behind. She slung her bag containing lycra and bikini (she’d been told Lilac Clouds would supply the towels) over her shoulder and felt a sudden rush of apprehension, elation and excitement. She was not only a coroner but emulating her fictional idols. She was Martha Rees, female sleuth.

Lilac Clouds was going to make her Stress Busting Day a smooth run. She was aware of that as soon as she stepped inside, greeted at once by a white-uniformed blonde wearing soft mules and the scent of patchouli and lavender clinging around her, strong enough to act as a major tranquilliser.

The blonde flashed white teeth and lifted heavy, bluemascara’d eyelashes. “You are?” Her eyes drifted across a white clipboard.

“Martha Rees.” Martha spoke with ebullient confidence. It was her maiden name.

“Oh yes – Ms Rees,” the blonde echoed in a Barbie-doll voice.

Relief. “Welcome to Lilac Clouds. To our Stress Buster Day. We are so glad to have you chill out with us in these beautiful surroundings. I’m sure you will benefit from the experience.” She had the speech learned word perfect. She crinkled her eyes, which Martha translated into a smile. She returned it.

The girl launched into her spiel again. “My name is Lucy. Would you like coffee or a visit to the powder room before I take you across to our salon so you can meet our team?”

The word ‘team’ threw Martha. “I’d asked for …”

The blonde dropped her eyelashes quickly down again towards her clipboard. “That’s all right,” she said smoothly. “We’ve made a note that you’d requested Lindy. You’ve been here before then?”

Martha had her answer ready. “A friend recommended
her.”

“Ri-ight.” No suspicion.

“I think I’ll leave the coffee. I’d really like to start on my treatments, if that’s OK, Lucy.”

“That’s fine. Uum maybe you’d like to sort out the …”

Martha handed the girl her money. Cash. All her credit cards would be in the wrong name. She felt ridiculously pleased with herself that she was already thinking like a PI.

The Stress Buster day included full body massage, Deluxe Non-surgical Facelift and seaweed wrap followed by a manicure with a detox lunch, optional pool, sauna and solarium and workout in the gym for the afternoon. And she didn’t feel a single tinge of guilt – even at the £250 currently being counted with the deft expertise of a professional gambler.

“Would you like a receipt?”

“Thank you, no.” Martha couldn’t begin to imagine explaining this as a tax-deductible expense – even to her long-suffering accountant. She followed Lucy down a long hallway, red-carpeted, timber-beamed, scented with lavender and expensive pot pourri, lined with convincing looking oil portraits and leather-look wallpaper, making conversation all the way, tossing back the comments when Martha lagged behind. “Lindy is one of our best and most dedicated beauticians.” Martha glanced at her reflection in a rococo gilt mirror and didn’t recognise herself.

Women are so lucky, she reflected. No man could ever disguise himself so efficiently. It simply went to prove that what we take note of are the superficial features, what her mother used to call ‘window-dressing’. She was almost tempted to wink at herself.

They passed buttoned leather seats clustered around tiny wine tables beneath leaded casement windows, chandeliers blazing above her as she followed Lucy’s footsteps,
silently sinking into the deep pile. As she passed a mirror she risked another peep at herself and noted her secret, excited smile, her hair dark rich brown, as the packet had promised, and wonderfully unruly despite Vernon’s attentions. She pushed it a little more out of place. Her eyes gleamed back at her, green and mischievous, her orange mouth curving. She forced herself to concentrate on Lucy’s swaying bottom.

Through two double doors and they were obviously in the modern extension. The smell changed. Beneath the lavender and pot pourri was a vaguely threatening odour of chlorine. They must be near the pool. The sound altered too – from subliminal easy-listening to echoing shouts and strains of gluppy whale-music. Lindy Haddonfield was standing behind a wooden counter, a little plump, the buttons of her white uniform gaping slightly to reveal a lace-covered cleavage and beneath that a roll of fat. She wore a name badge and illustrated ‘window dressing’ at its nadir – skin sunbed orange, with vivid red lips, sparkling blue eyes neatly outlined in lilac kohl, impressively neat eyebrows and a wonderful complexion framed by enviably neat, straight brown hair sunstreaked with blonde. A woman who would like money, Martha thought, as she greeted her with the warmth of a
long-lost-
friend and the same Barbie-doll voice as her colleague. She too had learned her lines.

“Miss Rees, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful day. Now we do want you to relax.” Even, white teeth a dentist would be proud of. thoughts flashed like stars through Martha’s mind.
She didn’t look like the wife of a window cleaner.

Lindy Haddonfield babbled, “We don’t call it the Stress Buster for nothing.” She had a pleasant Shropshire burr, which blended nicely with the high-pitched tone. “Now
then. I suggest we do the facial first and then I can wrap you in seaweed while you have a fruit tea and after that the massage. Later – after lunch – you’re free to do as you wish until the manicure at four.”

She handed Martha a white towel then discreetly left the room while Martha stripped down to her knickers and wrapped the towel round her, hovering uneasily, waiting for Lindy to return.

She was seized with the sparkly, excited feeling again, looking around. It was clinically clean; the room smelt of antiseptic and Aloe Vera. Trolleys lay neatly side by side – almost surgically laid up on white towels: tweezers, antiseptic, strips of material, bowls of viscous liquids, blue, green, clear. She dipped her finger in the blue bowl and found the substance gelatinous. A thick film stuck to her fingers.

“Now then. It’s best if you lie on your back.”

She hadn’t heard her return. Guiltily Martha climbed up on the couch, clutching her towel around her and lay back to the order. Tilted – as in a dentist’s chair. Lindy flicked a switch and she was lying flat, on a couch.

“Close your eyes.”

Martha obeyed and surrendered herself to the strange sensation of soft hands massaging her face, using rotary movements to rub in cream then swabbing, still with the same gentle, circular movements, with cotton wool pads. Something clean and fresh, scented like rose-water, was next and Martha relaxed even further under the sensation while Lindy Haddonfield rubbed on tightening masks, astringents, special collagen-containing moisturisers, some tightening, some relaxing, some dream-making. It was like being hypnotised and all the while the
Barbie-voice
explained what she was doing like the blurb on the back of a make-up bottle.

“This closes the pores.”

“You can feel the collagen working.”

“This is guaranteed to reduce the bags under your eyes.”

If she noticed the dark patches where too much dye had remained on Martha’s scalp she made no comment. Probably thought it was simply a clumsy hairdresser. Sorry, Vernon.

Hours later from a distant planet she heard Lindy’s Barbie-doll voice say, “There. You’re done.”

She opened her eyes. The face staring back at her from the mirror was, to put it politely, zonked, eyes unfocusing, relaxed. It didn’t look anything like her normal face. Lindy Haddonfield would never recognise her. She didn’t even recognise herself.

“Oh.”

Lindy pointed out the brightness of her eyes, the soft texture of her skin, the vanished pores, the lack of bags underneath her eyes and all Martha could think was that she had wanted it to go on for ever.

But it was time for the seaweed wrap. “Drawing toxins from the skin.”

This time it was evil-smelling mud on strips of cloth which tugged as it dried to a dusty film. Relaxing music played for twenty minutes before Lindy returned, rinsed it off and slapped oil noisily on her palms before kneading her flesh. Starting with her shoulders. She made more encouraging comments as she worked.

“Nasty bit of tension here.”

“Don’t mind me. Oh – got a tender spot?”

“I can feel your stress going away under my very fingertips.”

Martha closed her eyes and drifted again.
Soft hands but strong. She’d never before realised that to massage you needed such muscular, powerful fingers
. She was lying on her
stomach, her arms down by her sides, soft music playing. Hump-backed whales this time. Now Lindy was silent, tossing out only the occasional comment. “There’s a stiff bit here. Now, Miss Rees. This leg is …”

Martha let her mind drift on. Something was bothering her. Oil was slapped on next, a chipping rhythmic action from the sides of her masseuse’s hands.

Lindy’s talk became more personal. “Got a partner then?”

Instinctively Martha sighed. “Sort of.”

“Men – all the same. Waste of space if you ask me. We’d be better off without them. Have more fun.”

Martha agreed, aware at the same time that she was taking a significant step. Moving beyond something. Towards something else. But she did not know what.

“OK. Roll over onto your back.”

“And of course divorce – lose the lot.” A cynical laugh. “And these days the age of chivalry really is dead. However hard a woman works her husband’s quite happy to take half.”

Again Martha agreed. “Yeah.”

She couldn’t have said exactly when she first began to feel uneasy, to lose that completely relaxed feeling. Or how. Only that there was something about the competence of these hands, of the precision, the familiarity with anatomy, that made her uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the very softness that reminded her of Watkins’ statement.
Soft hands. Soft voice.

She was lying still, on her back, practically naked except for a towel over her, nipple to thigh. It was hard not to stare up into her face, to read determination, ruthlessness, cruelty? Martha closed her eyes then opened them again. And met those of Lindy Haddonfield. Closed them again, against a coolness of dislike that chilled to something akin to fear.

To dislike is a deep instinct but it threw no light on this case. What was she saying anyway? That she did not like Haddonfield’s wife. So what did that mean? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Lindy Haddonfield could not have been implicated in her husband’s murder. She had an alibi for the time he had gone missing. She had been at work all day Monday when her husband had driven to Shrewsbury.

What had really happened to Haddonfield? How had he returned from Shrewsbury to Oswestry? When had he made the journey? Dead or alive? Where had he been killed? When had he been killed? When had his body been dumped in the ragbank? And who had been the hitchhiker Watkins had picked up? Not Clarke Haddonfield, according to Watkins.

Martha frowned. Surely, Watkins was mistaken. It must have been Haddonfield. But even in this theory there was another big flaw. Wendy Aitken was no fool. She would have checked out Watkins’ story thoroughly as well as Lindy Haddonfield’s alibi – and looked for any evidence that she could be connected with her husband’s murder – however tenuously. So should she mistrust her instincts? Martha felt her scepticism grow.

Lunch was a paltry affair, a tiny mackerel salad, prettily set out on the plate, with drizzles of
fromage frais
and herbs enough to stock a garden centre and consisting of microcalories. She shared a table with another of the beauticians and two middle-aged women who were terribly jaunty and suggestive. The rest of the day passed in a hazy sort of nightmare although the contact with Lindy Haddonfield was not so personal during the afternoon session; with her
clothes back on Martha felt less vulnerable. The swim in the pool almost restored her to her normal self so while she lay underneath the sunlamp, sat in the sauna and plunged in the jacuzzi, she tried to plan her next move. The trouble was she didn’t have a clue what her next move should be. She didn’t know anything. She felt an instinct – that most derided of sleuths’ intuitions. And dislike alone didn’t make a person suspicious.

And again returned full circle to her original thought. Both investigating officers were very capable. And now they were working together. Both would know as well as she did that in 40% of homicide cases the spouse was responsible. They would have considered both Lindy Haddonfield and Freddie Bosworth very carefully before deciding they were innocent. Besides, where did James Humphreys fit in?

Surely, surely she must be wrong. Her instincts were taking her to silly-land.

Her final contact with Lindy Haddonfield was the manicure, which took place in a large, bright room noisy with the chatter of other women having their hair set or their nails done. Lindy Haddonfield was friendly and invited her back but by the time Martha left Lilac Clouds she still felt confused, wondering why she had taken such a strong dislike to a perfectly pleasant woman and why the voice still nagged away behind her. She had looked into Lindy Haddonfield’s eyes and read behind them some steeliness. A hardness mixed with ruthless determination which pointed her towards mistrust. She could not believe she had imagined this. Worse she had no idea what bearing it had on the dual murders. She did not know how to proceed except to try and encourage Alex Randall to at least consider that this woman might be connected with her own husband’s murder.

At this point she began to understand, that whatever the portrayal in popular fiction, there were some very real shortcomings for the PI. She was powerless. She had no authority. She could not break the law. She had no jurisdiction. She had no access to police records or to their findings other than those that affected her role as coroner and likewise she had no access to witness statements or interviews. She could not tap into the Police National Computer and learn who drove what car or who had criminal records. But what put her into an even weaker position was this: Randall sensed her interest. Interest was OK – as a coroner. Anything beyond that could be construed as prejudicial. In fact, her ‘investigation’ should stop right here.

She caught sight of her face in the mirror, at the vivid lips and teased-out hair and smiled. Should was not necessarily would. She drove home in reflective and frustrated mood. Until she turned into her own drive when her habitual resolution came to the fore again.

“Stop whingeing, Martha,” she scolded herself. “Just stop it. OK – so there are disadvantages in your position. There are also advantages. Use them.” Goading herself further she tapped the side of her forehead. “Get smart, woman. You can talk to Alex Randall and he may be less guarded with you than with anyone else. Ask him things – innocently.”

She was within sight of the front door. The car roof was down, the weather fine, but cold. She sat quite still for a moment, listening. Heightened senses. Furthered by guilt. A whispering in the trees that did not seem to be simply the wind funnelling through pine needles or evergreen leaves. It whispered words.

“A Message for Martha.”

Not whispered.
Breathed
.

“Message for Martha.”

It was one of the few times in her life she had ever been really, physically frightened. In the next second the car must have inched forward without her realising. The outside security light suddenly flooded the area. But that only made it worse. It cast a circle of light, like a lit stage, beyond the auditorium of a rim of blackened trees. Her pupils constricted and however hard she peered into those trees she could see nothing and nobody. She could almost have convinced herself she had imagined the episode.

Until she heard the words again. Quite clearly.

“Message for Martha.”

“Who’s there?”

The silence that came now was even more threatening. Had the wind suddenly dropped that it no longer formed a hundred thousand musical instruments as it blew through the trees? Because now there was no rustling. No whispering. Nothing but an awful silence which told her what she had to know.
It never was the wind.

She let herself into the house, glad of the light, the locks, the telephone, the twins, Agnetha who made her a coffee with whisky in it and commented how strained she looked. So much for the Stress Buster Day!

After dinner of pasta and bacon, Sam and Sukey seemed to sense she needed to be alone. They said they had some homework and vanished into their bedrooms. She took herself off to the study and sat in the dark.

Years ago, when she had still been practising medicine she had been discussing a complicated case with Martin. She could picture him now, sitting in that very chair, steepling his fingertips as he listened to the bizarre collection of symptoms, her own fuzzy interpretation of them. “Stick to the facts, Martha,” he had said. “Never mind all the adjectives that accompany your patient’s symptoms.
Just list them.” So she did.

Now. Two men dead. The first, Gerald Bosworth, a businessman from Chester, had been stabbed during the evening of Sunday, February 10th. On the very next day, Monday, February 11th, the last sighting of another man, Clarke Haddonfield. Who had also died violently.

Gerald Bosworth had died in the rented cottage of James Humphreys, a car salesman from Slough. No one knew where Clarke Haddonfield had died.

Apparently there had been no connection between the two men, other than the town of Shrewsbury. Bosworth had died in the town, Haddonfield had last been seen heading away from the town. Humphreys temporarily lived in the town. There any similarities ended – except for maybe age. Haddonfield had been in his early forties, Bosworth, 42 Humphreys, 47.

All three had been married men.

So the connection between the three men was, at best, tenuous. Circumstantial. And being realistic, probably nonexistent. She narrowed her eyes and forced her mind to track in a different direction, one which she could not ignore.

What if the river had not flooded?
A different scenario. Almost certainly Humphreys would have been the one to discover Bosworth’s body while Haddonfield would have driven home in his own vehicle and not been picked up by the lorry driver. What difference would that have made? She could not work it out.

On impulse she dialled Randall’s mobile number. And immediately wished she hadn’t. He answered, sounding hassled. Preoccupied. Had to explain to someone – she got the impression a female – that he was speaking to the coroner. She felt awkward and intrusive. So instead of opening a discussion on the dual murders she simply asked
whether they had investigated Lindy Haddonfield for the disappearance of her husband. He answered her testily. You see another side to people when you burst in unannounced.

“She was at home all night. We’ve got witnesses. She rang her mother to say she was waiting for Clarke to arrive.”

“From a mobile?”

“No. From her landline.”

She wanted to ask how he knew this important fact which anchored her in her house. Surely police mistrusted every statement anyone said, tested it for watertight-ness? Particularly when the person questioned should be suspect number one.

He answered her unasked question. “Her mother’s got caller ID and we’ve got the BT printout.”

How far do you take simple dislike? As far as an accusation? On no grounds? Would a mother provide an alibi for her daughter? Even if the crime was murder?

It was as though Randall was reading her mind. “Besides – a neighbour’s car was blocking hers in. As I said before there’s a problem with parking. It’s a very tight cul de sac. She could not have gone out later that night, not without the neighbour letting her out. And he didn’t.”
So he says, she thought
. But even she knew her suspicion was beginning to look foolish.

Lindy Haddonfield was off the hook. She had an alibi for the time that her husband had disappeared. She
couldn’t
have picked him up. Ergo she had had nothing to do with his murder. Unless … And this wasn’t even a worm of an idea. Nothing formed at all. Just another feeling. She didn’t like Lindy Haddonfield.

She thanked Randall politely and apologised for having disturbed him. Surprisingly he laughed. “It’s all right,
Martha,” he said, almost jokingly now. “Any time. And I mean it.”

She put the phone down with a feeling of cheated petulance. Had her instincts about Lindy Haddonfield been wrong then? Out of kilter with the facts? Was her prejudice illogical? She sat in the empty room and resolved. Maybe she had better stick to being a good coroner rather than a rotten PI.