‘There isn’t any possibility she had a temporary loss of consciousness?’
‘The brain was normal apart from the result of the impact.’
There was silence for a moment and she could almost guess his next sentence.
‘I’m not trying to tell you your job, Martha, or influence the result of your inquest, but I can’t see that there can possibly be any other verdict but suicide.’
It didn’t help.
‘Tssch, Mark. I’m struggling here.’
‘Me too,’ Sullivan confessed. ‘Me too.’ Now it was he who hesitated. ‘I hate the term “temporary insanity” but I can’t see any other conclusion.’
‘Temporary insanity,’ she mused. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever used that verdict. A bit like you, I’ve always hated it. It sounds so – well – medieval. But maybe this time I’ll be forced into it.’
‘I’ll keep you up to date with any results or developments and you’ll get my full report in a week or so.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
She picked up the file again. More than one friend or acquaintance of Gina’s had been quoted.
‘Gina was really happy.’
‘It’s inexplicable.’
‘She had everything to live for.’
Nothing to die for?
She read through more friends’ statements emailed over by Alex. The police were working hard, busily turning over stones, searching for something, anything, crawling underneath the stones if necessary, but so far there was nothing.
No hint of indiscretion either in her private or professional life; no indication that she was anything but Caesar’s wife – beyond reproach. Martha suddenly smiled, inexplicably transported back to fourteen years ago, reading Little Miss Perfect as a bedtime story for a demanding Sukey.
Was anyone perfect? Really?
She scanned through further, trying to read between the lines. No dirty little rumours or expressed doubts about her forthcoming marriage. She picked up the phone, connected with Alex Randall, and took down Julius Zedanski’s mobile telephone number.
It was switched off. She left a message asking him to give her a call.
Then she rang the law practice and spoke to the secretary, explained who she was and requested an interview with Curtis Thatcher, Gina’s partner. He too was temporarily unavailable but the secretary assured her he would call back. ‘As soon as he’s got a minute,’ she said, her voice high-pitched and squeaky with a slight lisp. ‘We’ve had so many phone calls with Miss …’ she paused, then continued, trying to find the words, ‘… with Gina’s … accident.’
So that was the official line. It would do for now.
Martha forced herself to focus on some of her other cases. Gina Marconi had not been the only person to die over the weekend. And in the sight of the Grim Reaper all deaths are equal.
Ten minutes later the phone rang and Curtis Thatcher introduced himself in a very Patrician accent.
‘We’re struggling to understand why Gina’s accident happened,’ Martha said.
‘You’re struggling?’ He spoke with a frankness that was as refreshing as a peppermint.
‘Had you noticed any change in her lately?’
‘She’d been a bit quieter than usual, but she was busy. We both were.’
‘Tell me about her work,’ she said. ‘Detective Inspector Randall hinted that she had dealings with the underworld.’
Thatcher laughed. ‘She was a criminal lawyer,’ he said. ‘Of course she dealt with the underworld.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Plenty.’ He paused, adding, ‘You could line them up.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, I suppose the most high-profile was a case that began about five years ago with a fellow called Mosha Steventon. He was accused of money laundering. She got him off, which I thought was amazing considering the evidence and the tightening up of proceeds of crime laws. Anyway, he must have thought so too, because he basically sent all his criminal cronies straight to her. With some she was successful and with others not so. Obviously the ones who paid her fees but still went to prison took it badly.’ Again, he stopped speaking as though reflecting. ‘Though that might account for say a threat or even at worst an assault, it hardly explains how these various cases could incite her to suicide.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
‘The other point here, Mrs Gunn, is that …’ She could sense his awkwardness, even over the phone. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Mosha was in her debt. He’s an evil fellow with a lot of influence. He’s been mixed up with all sorts of stuff – murder, torture, bribery, organized crime. And Gina was a criminal lawyer with some very dark clients. If there was any threat to her, Mosha would have protected her.’
‘Did she ever discuss this with you?’
‘No. There are some things, as a professional partner in a law firm, that it is better not to put into words.’
‘Quite.’ Even knowing she was barking up the wrong tree, Martha couldn’t stop herself from pursuing the point. ‘Did she ever appear nervous, threatened by her clients?’
‘Sometimes, but I can’t think of anyone in particular,’ he said. ‘She would sometimes express very private thoughts, say someone was guilty, that they were better off in prison, that even defending them put her in a tricky position.’
‘I think,’ Martha said, having glimpsed into Gina Marconi’s complicated professional life, ‘I may want to speak to you again as we proceed with our enquiries.’
‘But she committed suicide,’ Thatcher pointed out reasonably.
‘Suicides usually either leave a note or show signs of instability in the time leading up to the act.’ She realized she was leaving the door ajar for some agreement or statement, but none came, so she continued, ‘Perhaps you’ll email me the main cases Gina was involved with up until her death?’
‘Of course. But I can’t see what any of this could possibly have to do with her suicide.’ He sounded defensive, and she realized that he was already distancing the law firm from his partner’s death, so she hid behind the blandest of explanations. ‘We’re exploring all possibilities, Mr Thatcher.’
‘I can’t think she had a guilty conscience about something she did or did not do at work. If she did she never spoke to me about it. Maybe her mother …?’
‘I’ll be speaking to her.’
She thanked him and the conversation was over, leaving Martha very thoughtful. There was something about the violence of Gina’s death that particularly disturbed her. In general, it was men who killed themselves by violent means – knives, guns, high buildings. Women tended to opt for the gentler ways of ending their life – drugs, alcohol. This had been a determined bid for death. She had left her mobile phone at home. So that she could not leave a last message or be contacted?
Added to that, she had not written a suicide note, which left an element of doubt even after such an act. There was no doubt she had planned her escape. And even that word – escape – seemed significant. Escape from what? Escape from whom?
To Martha, the absence of a note meant she had not wanted to explain – not to her son, her mother or her fiancé. She would leave them wondering, even though she must have known questions would roll around in their minds – possibly forever. Was it this? Was it that? Was it something I did or did not do? Gina had given them no answers.
Martha stared down at the facts that she knew so far. What was she missing?
A connection with the criminals she worked with? Had she compromised her professional integrity? Or was it something closer to her?
Terence Marconi, Gina’s eight-year-old son, surely could have had nothing to do with his mother’s death. And Gina’s mother, Bridget, who was originally from Ireland, must be devastated. Preparing for a society wedding, she surely could not have expected her daughter to die.
Martha leafed through the file and picked up on another character. Gina’s ex-husband, Terence’s father, lived in New York. Accor
ding to DI Randall’s one brief reported telephone conversation with him, the divorce had been amicable. He had had very little to do with either Gina or their son and had not travelled outside the United States of America in the last five years. Contact with his ex-wife was minimal, limited to money paid into her bank account for the upkeep of their son. And that was really her close family.
Julius Zedanski, Martha felt, would be much more interesting. Perhaps her fiancé, who would have known her best, might have some explanation?
SEVEN
Wednesday, 15 March, 8.45 a.m.
Julius Zedanski finally rang her early on the Wednesday morning, apologizing very politely for the delay.
‘I’ve been travelling,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘I was … away when the news broke. I’m sorry. It must seem impolite.’
Martha was swift to assure him that there was no problem. ‘I take it you’ll be wanting to attend the inquest, Mr Zedanski?’
‘Yes. Yes – of course. I’ll be there.’
‘This is a shocking business.’
Silence on the other end. Martha sensed Julius Zedanski was reining in his emotions very tightly. ‘I could do with talking to you face-to-face before then,’ Martha said gently. ‘One or two things are puzzling me about this tragedy.’
He gave a sour laugh. ‘One or two things, Mrs Gunn? Puzzling? The whole bloody thing doesn’t make any sense. No sense at all.’
She ignored the bitterness and the anger and continued smoothly. ‘You’re in this country?’
‘Yes. I got back as soon as I heard.’
‘Shall we say three o’clock this afternoon then? Can you get here for then?’
‘Yes. I’m staying with my …’ A pause. ‘Mother-in-law.’
‘You know where my office is?’
‘I’ll find it,’ he said shortly, and the conversation was at an end.
Speaking to Gina’s fiancé had set Martha’s mind whirring again and she rang the GP.
Stuart Milligan was an elderly doctor with whom Martha had had dealings on numerous previous occasions. He was a traditionalist who put his patients first and spent as little time as he dared on targets, directives and flow charts. ‘Instinct,’ he’d barked once down the phone. ‘Instinct and experience. They’re what count in General Practice.’ But she saw a different side to him today. He responded to Martha’s questions with quiet, thoughtful answers and she heard real sadness behind his responses.
‘I was shocked when I heard. She was the last person I’d have expected to kill herself.’
He continued almost without a break, answering all her questions in one go. ‘No, Mrs Gunn. She wasn’t a drinker; she didn’t do drugs. She wasn’t depressed. She was happy.’
Martha swallowed the retort that happy people don’t leave their beds at three a.m. to drive their cars into a wall at sixty miles an hour.
He was as puzzled as she was. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, Mrs Gunn. She had everything to live for. She’d found love again. She was marrying a wonderful man with integrity, a world-class journalist. She had a big heart. The warmest heart and the kindest nature. She had a career she loved and was brilliant at. A man she loved. A son she loved. A mother she loved. So many people she would hurt that she couldn’t have wanted to kill herself. She couldn’t have wanted to hurt them.’
But she had. Deliberately.
A thought flitted through Martha’s mind. Unless she thought or believed that by living she would hurt them more.
The thought struck home with some resonance, tumbling around in her mind as Dr Milligan continued, ‘She was an open, friendly, intelligent, beautiful young woman. It makes no sense, Mrs Gunn. When I heard about the tragedy I thought they must be referring to someone else. It couldn’t be her. It wasn’t her.’
This phrase also resonated with Martha and it would continue to bounce around inside her head. It wasn’t her. But it was. She had been identified by the mother she had virtually destroyed by her action.
Dr Milligan was still speaking. ‘She had no money worries. She was beautiful. I cannot, cannot understand it.’ He sounded personally confounded.
And Martha too was floundering. ‘She’d not been on anti-depressants or …’ And now she was stuck for words, questions, avenues to explore. Sensing all of them led to a blind alley.
‘Absolutely not.’ He was vehement, but then something must have snagged his mind. ‘Although …’
It was the first chink of light, the first hint that maybe, just maybe all was not as it appeared. Martha held her breath – and was disappointed.
‘Hearsay,’ Dr Milligan said quickly. ‘Just gossip.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in, Doctor Milligan.’
According to DI Randall there was nothing in the public domain.
He had his answer ready then. ‘Not if it isn’t the truth, Mrs Gunn.’
She bit her lip. She didn’t want clouds covering even this tiny glimpse of veracity. She skipped around his hesitance. ‘She was looking forward to her wedding?’
‘Oh, yes, excited about it.’ A pause. ‘Have you met Julius Zedanski?’
‘No. Not yet. I’ve spoken to him on the phone but we haven’t met face-to-face. He’s coming here this afternoon.’
‘He’s quite a chap.’ The doctor’s admiration shone through. ‘I’ve met him once or twice. He’s very, umm …’ The doctor sounded embarrassed. ‘Charismatic.’
‘And her mother?’
‘Lovely woman. Highly competent. Intelligent. Ex-teacher. Widowed. A character. A personality. You could see where Gina got it from.’
‘Her father?’
‘Died some years ago, I believe.’
‘Her son?’
‘Ah, yes, young Terence. Good chap. They had his name down for Shrewsbury School. Good runner, I think. Sporty boy.’
This woman had a Teflon life, Martha reflected. Everything perfect? One big bed of roses? Did she have none of life’s little frustrations and anomalies? She dug again.
‘What about her ex-husband? Is he on the scene? Even for the boy?’
‘To be honest I don’t know. I never heard her mention him. I think he was an American – as far as I remember. They were divorced years ago. Long before I took her on as a patient.’
Which backed up Alex’s version and sealed off that line of enquiry. Gina’s personal life appeared flawless. A carefully constructed fable, or the truth?
‘There’s nothing more you can add?’
‘No.’
She sensed the doctor was dying to put the phone down – she could hear voices in the background, heard a door open and close and a whispered response. Reluctantly she ended the conversation.
She moved to other work, but Gina Marconi’s suicide was never far from her thoughts.
Jericho rang through at three o’clock to say Julius Zedanski had arrived, ready to talk to her. A punctual man.
Strange, she reflected, how we all feel a frisson at meeting someone famous, whatever the circumstances. She was excited, feeling like a teenager about to meet her superhero, her pop idol, her favourite film star. She even found herself checking her appearance in the wall mirror, trying to damp down her unruly red hair, checking her eyes for mascara smudges and trying to cool her cheeks down.
She shook her head at her reflection and, by the time Jericho had ushered him in, she had composed herself.
Like many celebrities only ever seen on television or screen, he was smaller than she had imagined, thinner, and he looked older, unless that was the result of his grief or a lack of TV make-up. But his features were familiar. He had an olive complexion, an angular, bony face, hooked nose and lovely teeth, but his smile today was cynical, twisted into an expression which was almost painful and his eyes, dark as jet, were pained and restless as though he too searched for an explanation. As she shook his hand Martha reflected that this recent tragedy would forever be nailed to his cross. Or maybe painful cynicism was his habitual expression. Journalists were well kn
own for their objectivity. It was a necessary part of the job. When broadcasting from some war-torn hotspot Martha guessed viewers wouldn’t see much of that lovely smile, even twisted as it was today. She had watched his war reports many times on the television but reality was not quite the same. His eyes were just as dark and unfathomable, his presence commanding, and yet she had the feeling he was also capable of merging into the background rather than standing out. She’d seen pictures of him in camouflage with the military, desert fatigues in Iraq and Iran, a djellaba in Morocco, a suit in London and country tweeds. Today he wore beige chinos and an open-neck shirt.
What she hadn’t realized from the flat screen in her sitting room was that Julius Zedanski exuded a hot charisma. He was positively sexy. He fixed his eyes on her, held out his hand and gave hers a firm handshake. Very precise and, under the circumstances, businesslike.
‘I’m glad to have the opportunity to talk to you about Gina,’ he said in a low voice, not the authoritative tone he used when broadcasting. His accent wasn’t quite English. Maybe the Polish roots weren’t quite so far removed as she’d thought.
She invited him to sit down, asked Jericho to bring tea and sat opposite him, in the bay with the long sash windows which overlooked the spires and town of Shrewsbury. But the view had a disadvantage she hadn’t considered. From this angle it was impossible not to recognize the dome of St Chad’s where their wedding would have been, soon to be the venue for Gina’s funeral when the body was released. Zedanski saw it too as his eyes swept the view. His mouth hardened and his eyes screwed up. He jerked his head away from the window and angled his chair away from the view, even though one’s natural instinct would be to embrace it. On a shining day like today it was lovely. The town of Shrewsbury rises on a small hill enveloped by an oxbow in the River Severn. It looked exactly what it was, the modern-day version of a medieval stronghold, a safe refuge within the river’s hug, although in the past the river had done its mischief too, cutting the town off by flooding its access routes and swamping both main bridges, the Welsh Bridge to the north-west and the English Bridge to the south.
Bridge of Sighs Page 3