Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  And then Martha peered deeper at the next part of the report.

  Recently, she read, friends and family had said that in the month before his death he had become quieter, more reserved. ‘Perhaps frightened of somebody or something,’ his best friend, another geek, Saul Matthews, had suggested, but when questioned by the police, he had said he had no idea who or what was troubling his friend. In fact, no one could give any reason why Patrick had done what he had. He should have been at school that day. His completed homework had been found in his schoolbag as though he had intended going to school but for some reason had detoured. Piecing together CCTV and witness statements, Patrick had taken the bus into town and instead of walking up the hill to the school gates he had walked the two miles to the bridge, carrying his schoolbag heavy and full of books including the completed homework. At the bridge he had apparently stood for around twenty minutes, according to other passers-by, a couple of cyclists, some drivers and minutes of CCTV footage. Initial police investigation indicated that Patrick had been hit by a total of five cars and a lorry. Martha looked at the CCTV footage. Patrick was facing east, into the oncoming traffic heading west. His features were hazy except for an outline. He had hefted his schoolbag from his shoulder, dropping it down to the pavement. Zooming in, his manner appeared resolute but sad. His shoulders sagged. At one point he stopped and put his hands to his face. He appeared to watch the traffic for some minutes before climbing on to the first rung. There he had bided his time. Then he had stepped up to the second rung, reached the top rail, balanced for a second before stretching his arms out and dropping on to the carriageway. The footage bore out Eileen Tinsley’s statement. There was no sound to the film, which gave it an eerie, silent movie quality, but the pictures were good and clear. She could even see him bounce off the bonnet of the Tinsleys’ car, see it swerve, the body tossed, and then the consequences, cars careering into one another. One lorry driver three vehicles behind the Tinsleys had had a dash cam fitted. Martha switched to this. You could see the car lose control, the boy’s body tossed back into the air, frantic attempts to brake and hear the lorry driver’s expletive.

  Sickened, she switched it off.

  She would never show this film to his mother. Neither would she share with her the details of the boy’s injuries as reported by Mark Sullivan when he rang later that day.

  ‘Traumatic below-knee amputation of the right leg, multiple fractures, five ribs broken, a torn subclavian artery, skull fractures … Take your pick, Martha. I could go on. Skull injuries, eye sockets. The bloody lot really. There wasn’t much of his body left without something broken, damaged.’

  She could hear the catch in his voice and knew this post-mortem would be one that would stay with him. ‘There was one finding that was more unexpected and not anything to do with the vehicular impact.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Anal dilatation and some tears. Fairly recent. Could be the result of constipation, Martha. The trouble is if you ask his close family whether he suffered from constipation they’ll know full well what the implication is.’

  ‘He was underdeveloped for a twelve-year-old.’

  ‘Oh, yes, nowhere near puberty. But you never know. Anyway, you’ll get my full report in a day or two.’ He chuckled grimly. ‘When my lazy secretary gets her head out of the clouds.’

  ‘Lisa?’

  ‘Yeah – fallen in love.’

  She couldn’t resist it. ‘Rather like somebody else in the mortuary.’

  She could pick up on his embarrassment even in the brief, ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So how is Nancy?’

  ‘She’s great. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Mark, I’m glad.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He returned to the subject of the phone call. ‘Anyway, the poor boy died instantly. Difficult to say categorically which injury was the fatal one but at a guess I would say head injury plus shock from haemorrhage from the subclavian artery and the leg injury.’ He couldn’t resist tacking on one of his mantras: ‘Bodies and cars are a lethal combination when speed is involved.’

  ‘Quite.’

  She was thoughtful when the conversation ended. Like Gina Marconi, there could be no doubt that Patrick Elson’s death had been suicide. There had been no one else in those pictures. No one near enough to have touched him.

  She rang Alex and caught up with events. ‘Nothing so far,’ he said tersely. ‘We’re digging as hard and as deep as we can, but so far nothing. He had a pay-as-you-go mobile phone but there was nothing on that either. Texts to and from school friends, plenty to Saul Matthews, but mainly comments on schoolwork. Messages to his mother were almost all about times he would be home. Nothing else.’

  ‘What about the fact that he’d appeared …’ She thumbed back through her report. ‘Quieter, more reserved, in the last month or so?’

  ‘Some people say that,’ he said, ‘but others deny it. You know as well as I do, Martha, that after the event people imagine all sorts of things.’

  ‘Mark Sullivan picked up on some anal trauma.’

  ‘Yes, we’re aware of that, but Mark said it could be the result of constipation. It wasn’t necessarily that he had been sexually abused.’

  ‘It’s something to bear in mind though, Alex.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She dipped her big toe in the water. ‘I thought I might have a word with one of Patrick’s teachers.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  Even though the issues were serious she could still sense the mischief behind his response and the challenge in his voice. He knew her. Martha did not like mysteries. She said goodbye, put the phone down and her green eyes narrowed. She preferred explanations. She preferred to understand.

  She hadn’t forgotten about Gina Marconi’s death. It was still there occupying the back of her mind. She wouldn’t let go until she understood a little more about that case. But at the moment she would focus on Patrick Elson’s death. And for that she needed to speak to his mother.

  Jericho arranged a meeting for the following day at noon.

  Amanda Elson, Patrick’s mother, was a slim woman of medium height. She had pale, perfect skin, shoulder-length brown hair, wore little make-up and was dressed in a grey suit. Work clothes, probably. She worked in an office in the town. She was accompanied by her sister, Melanie. Melanie was an altogether flashier affair in a short denim skirt and dark blue faux-leather jacket. But she too looked pale and shaken with grief, dabbing at her eyes with a floral tissue. She said nothing.

  Amanda looked as though she had been hollowed out. And though it had been Martha who had requested the meeting, she held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gunn,’ she said quietly, ‘for seeing us.’

  Her sister, following in her wake, said nothing but met her eyes briefly and nodded, adding her thanks to her sister’s.

  Martha guided them to the armchairs in the bay window and they sat down gingerly, eyes watchful. She knew that look. They were apprehensive, worried about what she might say, frightened they might find out more horrible detail about the death of the boy they had loved.

  Martha began, as she had with Gina’s mother and with all bereaved relatives who walked through the door, by explaining the formalities of death and the purpose of an inquest. So many people wanted her to point the finger, express their anger. On more than one occasion she had interviewed the perpetrator of the very crime she was investigating. But she treated them all the same – villain or victim. An inquest was a formal process of the law to answer the questions: Who? Why? How? When? And she was its mouthpiece.

  She began by asking them both whether they had formed any theory as to why Patrick had … she deliberately avoided the words ‘committed suicide’ or describing too graphically the sequence of events.

  When possible she tried to spare the family, minimize their grief. They already knew enough detail. So her question was, ‘Have you any idea why this happened?’

  ‘We can’t understand it.’ Melanie
spoke for her sister who was looking even paler – a bit stunned. Martha eyed her and was worried she was about to faint.

  The sisters exchanged glances.

  ‘I take it Patrick didn’t leave a note?’

  Both shook their heads. Martha frowned. Was she imagining it, that there had been something furtive about that look that had passed between them?

  It made her slightly less cautious.

  ‘Do you know why Patrick didn’t go to school that morning?’

  Then it burst out. ‘No.’ Amanda spoke now with real force. ‘It made no sense. The first lessons were double science. He was brilliant at it. He was a really clever boy.’ And then she lost it completely as she contemplated a lost future. ‘Even the teachers commented. Said he’d be a candidate for Oxbridge. They could see he was brilliant. He was way ahead of his years. I’d even started putting a bit by towards his student costs – just ten pounds a week. It wouldn’t have gone very far …’ She jerked her head, eyes wild now. ‘My boy,’ she said. ‘My boy. All I had.’

  Her sister put her arm around her, patted her head, said nothing.

  ‘Why?’ It burst out of Patrick’s mother as huge as a tsunami, sweeping away everything in front of her. University, student life, loans, relationships, career. ‘What’s the point of my working, eating, saving, planning?’

  To still the turbulent waters, Martha said, ‘Tell me about your son.’

  They both looked now at the photograph in Martha’s hand, the school photograph, the one the papers had used. This was the image of Patrick Elson that would remain in the public consciousness. Big teeth, school tie, huge grin.

  But Martha held another picture in her mind. The pictures the police had taken of the accident scene on the A5, taken after his fall: the sweep of the bridge, the chaos, traffic facing this way and that, bemused and shocked motorists standing outside their cars, Eileen Tinsley’s voice squeaking as she recalled events. There was no need for them to see what she had, see those post-mortem pictures of his smashed face, smashed body, distorted broken limbs. There was no need for them to see any of that.

  Amanda’s chest was heaving.

  And then the stories spilled out, of him reciting The Lion and Albert, ‘with actions’, when he was just six years old, the shock when he had worked out complicated equations on the back of his schoolbooks, the fact that he was surfing the internet looking at space exploration, already picking up on NASA’s tweets. Martha’s ears pricked up at the mention of the internet. She would check with Alex whether they had looked at Patrick Elson’s computer.

  She approached the subject delicately. ‘He had his own computer?’

  Amanda nodded. ‘The police have taken it away,’ she said, and Martha relaxed. She should have known this would be one of the first things Alex Randall would do.

  Melanie chipped in. ‘Patrick had a mischievous sense of humour,’ she said, able to smile. ‘Remember that Christmas he wrapped up this enormous present for you, Manda?’

  It produced a smile through tears. ‘Yeah. I kept unwrapping it. It got smaller and smaller. In the end it was a pair of earrings. Imagine that. As big as a telly the box was.’

  Martha smiled. ‘A sense of humour then.’

  Both women dropped their faces into their hands.

  ‘What did he do with his free time?’

  Amanda shrugged. ‘Same as other kids really, went out with his mates, played endless computer games, kept up with his schoolwork. The police have been to the school and spoken to his mates.’

  Martha waited but Amanda shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just nothing. Everyone says the same thing, that Pat was well liked, kept himself to himself. He was a good boy.’ She stopped herself. ‘A good son.’ There was something defiant in both her words and her hard stare. ‘He would never have done anything he was ashamed of.’

  As with Gina’s mother’s observation that at least she hadn’t had to find the body the phrase held some resonance in Martha’s mind. Later she would roll it around her head.

  He would never have done anything he was ashamed of.

  But for now she decided to shift her emphasis. ‘One of the teachers said that Patrick had been unusually quiet lately. This change in his manner – his behaviour – did you have any idea what the cause was?’

  The two women exchanged another glance. ‘Umm.’ It was Melanie who made the response. ‘Pat had been a bit quieter,’ she said. ‘A bit less chatty … more thoughtful.’ Another look passed between them. ‘He’d lost some shoes,’ Amanda finally said reluctantly. ‘They were expensive ones. Christ,’ she said, ‘money’s tight, you know. I was angry and he just didn’t seem to care. They’d cost a week’s wages. I said money didn’t grow on trees. And for the first time it was as though he was shutting me out of something. He seemed to want to close the subject. When I asked him about them he got quite defensive. Surly. Only that. It wasn’t like him. I put it down to him just growing up.’

  Martha nodded but it was the first sign that everything in the garden was, perhaps, not quite so rosy.

  She leaned forward. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to mention at the inquest?’

  ‘Describe him as happy and clever. Kind and full of life,’ Amanda said, leaning forward, eyes pleading with her. ‘Without him I don’t have any point to my life.’ She looked away then. ‘If I had an answer – any answer – it would make things easier, I think. If I could only understand why it would help.’ But then her eyes slid away.

  Martha nodded.

  As soon as the two women had left Martha rang Alex Randall again and detailed the points that had been made. ‘They thought he’d been a bit quieter lately, a bit more thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Was there anything on his computer?’

  ‘We’re having a real problem there,’ he said. ‘Clever little lad had wiped out all his browsing history.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The morning he jumped.’

  FIFTEEN

  Friday, 31 March, 5 p.m.

  The morning began with another phone call from DI Randall. It was as though he had spent the last twenty-four hours chewing over the facts of these two violent but incontrovertible suicides.

  ‘How many suicides are there in a year in Shropshire, Martha?’ Her mind had been tracking along the same path so she had her answers ready.

  ‘About fifty.’

  ‘And how many of those are elderly, bereaved, divorced, alcoholic, have a history of mental illness?’

  ‘Practically all of them.’

  ‘So suicide is rarely completely out of the blue?’

  Her professionalism made her cautious. ‘It’s unusual, yes.’

  ‘And now we have two, within a month, both from Shrewsbury – one town – and a town that does not have a particularly bad track record as far as suicide rates go.’

  ‘Correct.’ Still she was cautious. ‘But you can get clumping. A few together and then none for the rest of the year.’

  DI Randall agreed. ‘I know that.’

  And then she was curious. ‘You’re linking them together? A twelve-year-old boy with a professional woman in her thirties, when there’s no evidence they even knew each other? I don’t understand your thinking.’

  ‘Surely you can see some similarities?’

  ‘Yes and no. Incontrovertible self-destruction, apparently no notes left. No explanations. Both appeared to have much to live for. Both suicides appeared to be planned but also came out of the blue. Yes, Alex, I can see similarities, but I can also see big disparities too.’

  ‘Well … you’re the logical one,’ he said. ‘And I should be the one to use the bare facts.’

  ‘Are you serious that you think someone is picking on random people and somehow tipping them into suicide?’

  That brought him down to earth. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘put like that it does sound a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Even so, I think there is something here. I’m almost waiting
for the next one. And if there is some sort of link, who will be the next victim?’

  ‘You’re putting shivers up my spine, Alex,’ she said. ‘Stop it. You’re spooking me.’

  He was silent and she didn’t know quite what to say next, but the silence between them wasn’t awkward.

  Eventually he broke it. ‘I need to let you get on with your weekend,’ he said. ‘Have you anything planned?’

  ‘Sam’s playing away,’ she said with the touch of maternal pride that usually clung to her somewhere. ‘And I think Sukey’s coming home with her boyfriend.’

  ‘How I envy you,’ he said, his mood patently lifting. ‘Though do I take it from the sucked-a-lemon sound that you’re not especially fond of Sukey’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, no. Is it that obvious?’

  ‘To me, yes.’

  ‘Without going into detail, Alex,’ she said, ‘he’s a singularly unpleasant young man who appears to believe that the world owes him a living – and acting parts.’

  Martha would have liked to ask the DI what his plans were for the weekend – if he wasn’t working – but she had learned to be circumspect and skip around a subject she knew he found both excruciatingly embarrassing and distasteful. His personal life? If anything, he tried to pretend it didn’t exist, and so that was the plan she fell in with.

  SIXTEEN

  The weekend passed peacefully. Even Pom seemed to have simmered down for the occasion. In fact, he was a little quiet. Rain didn’t stop play and Sam seemed particularly pleased with a couple of passes he’d made and had even taken a shot at goal – which hit the post and bounced back on to the pitch. Martha celebrated the team’s draw with a Sunday roast – lamb and rosemary with accoutrements, followed by rhubarb and ginger crumble with custard which Sam and his friend Tom, Sukey and Pom all wolfed down with the silent appreciation that goes with a good dinner and hungry youngsters. They all helped her load the dishwasher afterwards, which was a bit counterproductive. Each passing a plate, stacking and restacking was actually not very efficient – she’d have been twice as quick doing it all by herself – but hey ho. They were trying to help and there was something about the jolly comradeship which felt like the family they should be.