Perfect.
She always avoided the local papers or the local radio station over a weekend. If there was tragedy she would learn about it soon enough via her job. And much as she loved her work as coroner, the weekends needed to be death-free.
But this meant she remained unaware of local events.
FOUR
Monday, 13 March, 9 a.m.
The ‘after the weekend’ prediction of the weather forecasters proved to be true. It was a fine morning, bright sunshine beckoning her towards the town, and as Martha pulled up outside her office she wondered whether the week ahead might, for once, be plain sailing. Sometimes they began that way but got trickier towards the end of the week; other Mondays began with a bang and that continued right through until Friday. Her job was as unpredictable as the grim reaper. She rarely had an entirely quiet week, although just occasionally, usually in summer, she was blessed with nothing more than a few elderly persons dying naturally and peacefully, surrounded by family and with doctors’ certificates present.
This proved to be one of the weeks when first thing Monday morning was calm and relatively quiet, and she had a couple of hours to sort through her emails, with coffee provided at regular intervals by Jericho Palfreyman, the coroner’s officer.
10 a.m.
Sometimes she learned about a death through Jericho. He had a keen (some might call it nosey) involvement in local events – particularly mopping up bad news via the papers or BBC Radio Shropshire. He considered it a coup if he learned of a death before the coroner. At other times Martha was informed by email or the telephone or simply a new set of notes placed on her desk. But there were occasions, usually cases of homicide or other violent or unexpected deaths, when she was informed either by phone or in person by DI Alex Randall himself. This was one of those mornings. He arrived, unannounced, a beige folder under his arm, frowning slightly as he knocked, but when she opened the door to him the frown was quickly erased and he grinned at her. ‘Good morning, Martha,’ he said. Then added with a hint of mischief, ‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything?’
She wanted to respond. You? Disturb? Never.
But it would have been unwise and a little presumptuous, so she simply swallowed the words and shook her head. ‘Come in, Alex.’
It must be something out of the ordinary to bring him here so early on a Monday. She was on instant alert.
But he didn’t speak straight away. Instead, after a quick glance, as though asking her permission, he crossed the room and settled into the armchair in the bay window as he had so many times before. For a moment he remained silent as he looked around at the room so familiar, lined with bookshelves, the books a random selection of titles from gardening to law, from medicine to natural history, fact to fiction. It was representative of her eclectic mind. He smiled to himself, thinking of the ragbag of subjects contained somewhere inside the unruly red hair, peering out from behind those witchy green eyes. The desk stood alone in the centre of the room, facing the window as though she kept watch over the town of Shrewsbury. To him the scent of lemons, roses, lavender, the room itself was all so familiar, so comfortable, so reassuring. So her. He said nothing, though his eyes, somewhere between hazel and grey, were expressive in their appreciation as they roamed the space.
It was up to her to begin. ‘So,’ she said briskly, ‘what brings you here this morning?’ She paused, adding, ‘Alex?’
He put the folder down on his lap. And in his eyes she now read pain.
He half smiled. ‘I take it you kept to your usual practice of avoiding any local news over the weekend?’
How well he knew her private life and foibles.
She nodded. ‘Absolutely. I have enough death, sadness, grief and mayhem in the week.’ Her eyes rested on the folder and she raised her eyebrows. ‘So?’
‘A suicide,’ he said, then, knowing her pedantry, he corrected himself. ‘It looks like a suicide.’ And almost to himself, he added, ‘I can’t see what else it can be.’
He handed the folder to her as he spoke. ‘Gina Marconi, thirty-six years old. Successful barrister specializing in criminal law. Divorced seven years ago, from Mr Marconi, due to be married for the second time in September. One son, Terence, aged eight.’
She lifted her gaze from the picture on the front of the file, a picture of a woman in a red T-shirt laughing into the camera, happy with shining dark hair which waved down to just below her shoulders. She looked as though she did not have a care in the world. Dark eyes shone out of the photograph, eyes full of merriment and mischief and fun. Which had disguised …?
Martha looked across at DI Randall for explanation and he continued, his eyes on hers.
‘Inexplicably she gets out of bed at three a.m., drives north out of town, meets a sharp right-angled bend and doesn’t take it. Instead she unbuckles her seat belt – that’s if it was on in the first place – and drives her car at sixty miles an hour straight into the brick wall. Multiple injuries, dead more or less instantly. Certainly by the time the paramedics got there.’
‘Post-mortem?’
‘Sometime this week. Mark Sullivan will let you know.’
She nodded and, still looking at the picture, asked, ‘Why suicide? Why not bad driving? Loss of concentration – even loss of consciousness?’
‘The imprint of the accelerator was on her shoe. That is before she was ejected through the shattered windscreen.’
She winced at the inevitable mental image the words evoked. ‘Was there a note?’
‘No.’
‘So …? Was there a history of depression?’
‘No.’
‘So why suicide, Alex? The seat belt? Not conclusive. She might just be one of those people who don’t buckle up – or sometimes forget.’ She was already uneasy. Suicide was one of the verdicts she was always reluctant to give. It had such a knock-on effect on the family. ‘Couldn’t it have been simple insomnia with disastrous results? Maybe she’d taken something to help her sleep? Alcohol?’
He shook his head.
‘Maybe she couldn’t sleep because of excitement over her approaching wedding? Then maybe a moment’s distraction? A mobile phone call?’
This time it was his turn to shake his head. ‘She’d left her mobile at home. On the bedside table.’
‘So …’ She was aware she was running out of options. ‘Was anything wrong with the car? Faulty steering? Brake failure?’
Again, he shook his head. ‘We’ve had it looked at. So far they’ve found nothing wrong with it.’
‘But why would she commit suicide? You say she had a young son? A fiancée? A wedding planned? Have you talked to her close friends?’
Randall covered a smirk. He was well used to Martha’s interest in police work and their line of reasoning often mirrored each other. It was as though they worked together – two police officers rather than coroner and DI. ‘Give us time, Martha,’ he said gently, tempted to touch her arm to slow her rampant reasoning. ‘It’s early days yet but my initial instinct tells me Gina Marconi left home that night with no intention of returning.’
‘Gina Marconi,’ she mused. ‘Unusual name. Was she Italian?’
‘Her first husband was New York Italian.’
‘He is her son’s father?’
‘Yeah, but as so often happens he’s disappeared into the ether. Had very little contact with his son or Gina.’
‘Have you spoken to her mother?’
Alex’s mouth twisted as it did when he was finding something hard. ‘Yes. She’s distraught. I can understand it. One minute she’s discussing wedding plans, next thing measuring up for a shroud.’
‘Oh.’ Martha shuddered. ‘Don’t. Please.’
‘Well,’ he said, looking around him now and shifting in his chair, always a precursor to leaving. ‘You’ll be opening an inquest?’
‘Yes. I’ll speak to Mark Sullivan. Get the post-mortem findings when they’re ready and start gathering evidence.’
‘Right you are.’
She smiled warmly at him and for an instant, as he rose to his feet, he felt he would like to stay in this warm, sunny room all day until the sun set and then some, seeing Shrewsbury through plate glass rather than the reality.
But he heaved himself out of the chair.
Time to go.
FIVE
When he had gone the room seemed empty, although, as Martha contemplated, Alex was hardly an intrusive personality. He didn’t fill the room with loud jokes, a booming voice or a dominant presence. His voice was quiet – she’d rarely heard it raised. And he tended to think carefully before he spoke, hesitating as he searched for the right word or phrase. He was a man of quiet decency and strong convictions. For a while after he left she sat, thinking. Then she picked up the file, and as she read through it she began to see why Alex Randall had come to her to share his concerns.
It was baffling. As Martha read each page and began to form a picture of the dead woman, she began to realize something here was very wrong.
Gina Marconi had been a high-profile, intelligent criminal lawyer and, looking at the photograph again, she had also been beautiful. In a town the size of Shrewsbury, she would have been well known. Martha stared at her photograph for a few seconds, trying to understand what on earth had driven this woman to such a violent act when she had, apparently, so much to live for. She searched her memory. Had she ever met her in real life? In the flesh? She shook her head. But she had been aware of her through pictures in the two local papers, The Shrewsbury Chronicle and The Shropshire Star, as well as pieces in Shropshire Life. Alex had photocopied a couple of them and inserted them into the folder. Martha read through them and studied each one of the accompanying photographs. Gina’s vibrancy shone from the pages, a brilliant smile, beautiful teeth, confidence lighting up every single picture. Not a hint of doubt or depression. She had been as photogenic as a supermodel with a huge, white-toothed smile on a perfect face, a curtain of dark, shining hair, a slim figure and confident air. Martha read more. Not many supermodels have an Oxford first degree in law, are articulate as a public speaker and are a partner in a flourishing practice in an affluent town. Gina had been everything a small girl might aspire to. She had both the gifts: beauty and intelligence. She had been admired in and around Shrewsbury, not only for her wit and skill in defending high-profile cases, or even because she was photogenic. The cherry on top of the icing on the cake had been that she’d been engaged to a BBC foreign correspondent who was equally charismatic, except his charisma had been augmented by bravery and a certain gung-ho spirit. Julius Zedanski had been filmed facing a Daesh member wielding an AK47 and had not flinched. That image alone would have been enough to ensure his place in the nation’s hearts. Don’t we all love a hero? Wasn’t that what everyone would like to have done when in real life their legs would have turned to jelly and their brains to water? But Julius Zedanski had somehow survived this encounter when so many others had not. He had kept his head, literally and metaphorically, continued with his broadcast, practically ignoring the bent arms, the clenched fists and the black flag waving behind him, and had coolly returned to his Jeep and left. Film intact. On another occasion, cameras rolling, he had grabbed a gun from a terrorist in Beirut and brandished it at the cowering and clearly terrified man, but not shot him. Oh, no. Julius Zedanski had handed the man (and the gun) over to the authorities, cameras still rolling. And then, to show his softer side, he had rescued refugee children from the waters around Lesvos, one under each arm. These pictures had given him the romanticism of a Robin Hood, a Black Prince, a defender of the faith. A saviour. He was what we all wanted: a real life superhero. Brave Heart – that was the epithet which had been applied to him.
Brave Heart.
Had Rageh Omaar not already been given the epithet of Stud Missile it could equally have been applied to Julius. He was devastatingly romantic and attractive, and with Gina on his arm they almost outclassed the Clooneys. They were a charmed couple.
In reality Julius Zedanski was a Politics, Philosophy and Economics Oxford graduate of Polish origin with an engaging grin and bright blue eyes. This was Gina Marconi’s fiancé. A wedding had been planned for September at St Chad’s Church in the centre of Shrewsbury.
Alex was right. This death was odd. Gina had had everything to live for … surely?
Martha picked up the phone to speak to Jericho, preparing to set the date for the opening of the inquest, which would be adjourned pending investigations. Monday, 20 March.
Then she connected with the mortuary, only to be told that Dr Sullivan was in the middle of the post-mortem and would ring her back.
Maybe, she thought, he would have some answers. But somehow she doubted it.
She looked at the pictures and articles scattered across her desk. She rarely had so much colour in her cases. Normally she couldn’t put flesh on bones or form living pictures because she never met her subjects living, only their ghostly shadows after death illuminated by the accounts of others, family, friends. Sometimes rivals or enemies, people who hated them as well as those who had loved them. She only ever saw the negatives, their imprint, empty footprints without feet or shoes. That is the nature of a coroner’s work. All she would have to work with would be the written and submitted statements about them, descriptions seen through others’ eyes, and watch the tears shed for them. The detritus of a life and death. Gina had been dead for just a couple of days. One week ago she had been a living, breathing person, with something bad growing inside her. And now the investigations had hardly begun. According to the preliminary police reports and interviews there had been no indication of Gina’s intention in recent days.
Martha scanned the statements. According to Gina’s traumatized son and her equally traumatized mother this was totally – totally, they’d repeated more than once – out of character.
So what was all this about?
She picked up the phone and connected with Alex Randall. ‘What do you know about her professional life?’
‘Huh. Murky, Martha,’ he said. ‘She was involved with some high-profile cases and defended some very nasty pieces of work, but if you want more detail you really need to talk to her partner, Julius Zedanski, and her law partner, Curtis Thatcher. They’ll know much more.’
‘I will.’
She could picture his frown.
‘Why are you barking up this tree? She wasn’t murdered, you know. It just isn’t possible given the facts. She took her own life which, as you can imagine, means it isn’t really a police matter, so it’s over to you. None of those idiots she was happily defending would have had the brains to get the better of her.’
‘I’m only digging around,’ Martha defended. ‘Just digging. And her GP?’
There was a pause, probably while Randall looked this one up, finally coming up with: ‘A Doctor Milligan.’
‘Stuart Milligan.’
‘Yes, that’s the guy.’
‘I know him, or rather I know of him. A trusty and experienced Sheffield graduate with years of experience behind him. I’ve had a few dealings with him.’
‘Did you ever meet her, Martha?’
‘No.’
As she put the phone down, she knew she had two good starting blocks.
She returned to the file and read through two of Gina’s friends’ statements, both of whom expressed shock and knew no reason why their friend might have wanted to end her life. No clue there.
She closed the file and caught the picture again. Stared at it, searching for something.
But what she actually felt were the stirrings of guilt, a memory. What she’d told Alex about not knowing Ms Marconi wasn’t strictly true. While she hadn’t been familiar with her, she had met her.
Two Christmases ago Martha had attended a charity ball in aid of the NSPCC. It had been held at the Albrighton Hall Hotel, an upmarket place with lovely grounds to the north of the town, coincidentally within half a mile of the road on which Gina Marconi had decided to kill herself –
if that was the truth and there was no other explanation. Martha smiled. She had been with Simon Pendlebury that night – since both were widowed they tended to attend formal occasions together, simply as a way of going at all. They had arrived late, around nine p.m. Simon had been concluding some business deal and had apologized profusely. When they had entered the ball had been well under way – crowded and noisy even in the anteroom but not too noisy to hear, just as she walked in, a loud, earthy laugh. There had been something sparkly about it.
She had searched for the source of the raucous merriment and had seen a woman in a short gold dress standing in the centre of a group of men and women. She had been tossing around her head of long, shining dark hair with its hint of a curl, and her animation and warmth had reached right across the room. She was obviously relating some funny story and had her audience’s rapt attention and mirth. The man on her arm, olive-skinned, was also suitably glamorous. Martha had been intrigued.
She’d turned to Simon. ‘Some lawyer or other,’ he’d said, reading her mind. ‘Don’t really know her. Not personally, anyway.’ And then the evening had gone on and Martha had forgotten the encounter.
Until now.
And this was the same woman who had apparently driven her car straight and deliberately into a brick wall?
SIX
Martha picked up the phone and this time connected successfully with Mark Sullivan. She got straight to the point. ‘You’ve finished the PM on Gina Marconi?’
‘Oh,’ he groaned. ‘That’s an awful one.’
‘Conclusions?’
‘Where do you want me to start? She died from a ruptured aorta and a nasty collection of other injuries, at least five of which could have proved fatal. Other than her injuries she was a perfectly healthy young woman.’
‘Any sign of excess alcohol? Drugs?’
‘Just the equivalent of a small glass of wine and no evidence of drugs so far. Obviously I’ll have to wait for the toxicology but it looks as though there was nothing abnormal except the results of the impact.’
Bridge of Sighs Page 2