Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  Courage, Martha.

  ‘I’ll authorise it and let him know about the change of coroner.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Talith put the phone down and sat for a moment, thinking.

  This was awkward and it was definitely not in his life plan. He liked working in Shrewsbury. It was a pleasant, peaceful town. His wife, Diana, was about to give birth to their first child and he wanted to focus on that. Truth was he was hugely excited and awed by the whole concept of becoming a father, whether it was a boy or a little girl. To allow for his new role he’d hoped for an easy ride for the next few months, working in a civilized town under an inspector who was fair and generous, and he felt would have been sympathetic to his altered circumstances. Now it looked as though that happy era might be drawing to an end. If there were any grounds for suspicion that his inspector had had a hand in his wife’s death, Talith knew it would be the end of Randall’s career. This was beyond a DS’s remit and he would be referring the case upwards and upwards until it reached the very top. He could hardly bear to think of the consequences. He’d had a vain hope that the coroner would deal with it and the entire event would be swept under the carpet, but the very fact that she had side-stepped the case told him all. These were dangerous and murky waters.

  He returned to the interview room.

  His inspector was sitting motionless, lost in some thought of his own. His face was pale and strained. Talith sat down opposite him. Whether he liked it or not, he had to do this. It was his job and better he did it, a sympathetic colleague and friend, than someone from a neighbouring force who wouldn’t treat DI Randall with the same respect and understanding.

  Buying time before he had to look into his DI’s face, he glanced at his notes. ‘Neighbours say …’ He cleared his throat. He knew just how much his boss had kept his wife and home circumstances far away from his position here. And now he was beginning to learn why.

  He swallowed. ‘Sir,’ he began. ‘A neighbour has come forward to say that she heard voices.’

  Alex didn’t respond. He couldn’t meet Paul Talith’s eyes either. Both men were finding this harder than they could ever have imagined.

  Even Talith had his doubts now. He pressed on. ‘Arguing, sir?’ This was at least as difficult for him as for his superior. They were going to have to bring in some top notch officers if this investigation was going to escalate.

  He met the inspector’s eyes. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened, sir? In your own words?’

  ‘All right.’ DI Randall lifted his eyes, squared his shoulders. ‘My wife was not an easy woman. She’s been extremely unpredictable ever since our son was born six years ago.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a—’

  Randall cut in. ‘I don’t. He died.’

  His clipped tone should have warned Talith.

  Randall continued. ‘He was born with a condition known as anencephaly. That means he was born without a head. At least without a cranium, a brain, et cetera, et cetera. The condition is incompatible with life. He barely breathed and was dead within an hour.’ Randall lifted his eyes with the faintest of smiles. ‘A blessing, the doctors called it. It turned out to be more of a curse. Within weeks of his death Erica began to show signs of mental instability. She …’ He frowned. ‘Do you really need to know all this?’

  Talith was uncomfortable. ‘Not really. I’m not sure. It depends. Sir.’ He appealed, ‘This is difficult for me too.’

  ‘I know.’

  11.30 a.m.

  Martha was already on the phone to Mark Sullivan, the Home Office pathologist with whom she had worked on numerous cases. He sounded jaunty and untroubled, as though he had no great concerns over performing his colleague’s wife’s post-mortem or doubt in Randall’s role in her death. Or perhaps, Martha mused, his new relationship was going so well and Nancy, an internet date with three children, was proving such a good swap for his alcoholic ex that Sullivan’s mental state was permanently optimistic and undamaged by others’ problems. He certainly sounded ebullient and unconcerned.

  ‘You’ve heard about Alex’s wife, I take it?’

  ‘Yeah. Nasty situation, Martha. Poor Alex. Trouble is …’

  She knew exactly what the trouble was.

  ‘In these sorts of cases, I mean, falling downstairs, it can be hard to piece together the exact sequence of events. I’ve got some background information but it doesn’t make things any easier and it’s possible the post-mortem won’t shed much light on the circumstances surrounding her fall.’

  ‘You know she was mentally unstable?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve already had a word with Alex and with her GP. She’d had problems for a few years. Alex must have had a very difficult home life.’

  She could tell from Sullivan’s tone that he had no suspicion that she felt emotionally involved or that this was anything other than an unhappy accident. He – and she – were simply discussing a colleague’s situation. That was all. No dark background.

  She tried to ascertain at least some facts. ‘I don’t know whether she was a drinker.’

  ‘We’ll be running through all the usual tests. We’ll do a blood alcohol test as routine drug screening.’

  ‘You’ve been out to his house?’

  ‘No. Not yet. Might do if the PM looks a bit ambiguous. So far I’ve just seen the photographs of the accident scene. It’s a fairly average semi.’

  She breathed out softly before continuing. ‘Mark, I won’t be handling the inquest. I don’t feel I could be impartial.’

  ‘Surely it’s going to be accidental?’ He sounded surprised and unsuspicious. Was it only she who had a mind open to a darker possibility?

  ‘I can’t – I can’t make that decision.’

  And that was when something must have clicked in the pathologist’s mind, a cog finding its ratchet. His manner changed, partly stiff, partly sympathetic, and now definitely detached and distanced.

  ‘OK, Martha,’ he said slowly, digesting this piece of information.

  ‘I thought I’d refer it to David Steadman. He’s a decent enough chap.’

  ‘You still want me to proceed with the PM?’ Definitely guarded now.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so. There’s going to have to be one and I can’t think of a pathologist I’d trust more.’

  ‘You don’t doubt my impartiality?’ She could feel the gap between them widening by the second. Everything she said seemed to be making it wider.

  ‘Your impartiality? No.’

  ‘So. Tomorrow?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I can do Erica Randall’s PM in the afternoon. I’ll keep my eye out for any further injuries, Martha, that might have contributed to her fall.’ There was a pause before he finished with, ‘I’ll do a thorough job, but I can tell you Alex Randall is not a man to have pushed his wife down stairs even in a fit of anger. It isn’t in his nature.’

  She couldn’t believe it. He was defending Alex to her?

  She tried to respond with a laugh but it sounded hollow and insincere. ‘Sure you’re not deciding the result before you’ve even done the PM, Mark?’

  ‘No.’ Mark Sullivan’s tone was deadly serious. ‘But in this case I know the man.’

  It stopped her in her tracks. Did he? Better than she?

  And he hadn’t finished but was scolding her now. ‘Goodness me, Martha, he’s the most controlled person I have ever met.’

  And that was what frightened her. What happened when that control snapped?

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Training over the years had taught her to regulate her voice as well as her manner as well as her clothes. In fact, her whole persona. Only Martin and then Alex had been able to peer beneath the surface.

  ‘Well, I suggest you proceed with the PM then. David Steadman will, I’m sure, be in touch with you shortly. OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. And Mark …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As far as the results of Patrick Elson�
��s post-mortem go, I think I’d prefer it if we kept the suspicion of anal interference back for the moment. We don’t know it has any bearing on his suicide and it’ll only distress his family further.’

  ‘I agree.’

  She put the phone down with a feeling of relief and warmth, but it was tinged with a bitter regret. She’d always liked Mark Sullivan and had felt unhappy at the way his life had appeared to be heading – an alcoholic wife, a drink problem himself which had threatened his career, manifesting itself with shaky hands and equally shaky judgements. But now he was through to the other side and she was glad. She trusted him. If only her own life could work out similarly neatly.

  She made her second call.

  David Steadman was coroner in the next jurisdiction. They knew each other – not well, but well enough to respect each other and, more importantly, well enough for her to be partly honest with her explanation. She got straight to the point. ‘I wonder if you’ll help me out, David?’

  He wasn’t her favourite person in the world – pompous, snobbish and arrogant – but one thing she did know about him was that he possessed absolute integrity. No one could buy him or persuade him. He knew the law and stuck to the absolute letter of it. He was one of those people who seem born honest, unable to lie or deceive. Maybe that was what made him so sure of himself, perhaps a little smug. She may not like him but she didn’t have to. She only needed to trust him. And that she did.

  She was well known for her independent streak. She could picture his face, gleeful at her having to ask him for help, blowing out his plump pink cheeks in pleasure at her plight. But underneath she also knew he would listen to every word she spoke and weigh it up, evaluate it, think, plan and act. Honestly and carefully.

  This was why she had turned to South Shropshire for his help.

  He got to the heart of the matter in one slick move. ‘Why do you need my help?’

  Only the truth would suffice. ‘I’ve worked with DI Randall over a number of cases. I feel we’re friends as well as colleagues. To be honest, David, I would find it hard to be completely impartial in his wife’s death.’

  His response was a noisy blowing out of his cheeks. A moist-sounding harrumph.

  ‘And I’m sure you can appreciate that his wife’s falling down stairs is hardly a clear-cut case?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I’ve authorised a post-mortem.’

  ‘Who’s the pathologist?’

  ‘Mark Sullivan.’

  ‘Good. He’ll do a thorough job without resorting to the usual play-acting and conjecture.’

  Martha smiled to herself. David Steadman and she might not agree on many points, but this was one they were in perfect harmony with.

  ‘I don’t know the full facts, David’ (she could have added yet, confided in him that while she might be handing the case officially to him she would be continuing with unofficial investigations of her own), ‘but I understand that his wife died some time on Saturday night slash early Sunday morning following a fall down the stairs. I know nothing more than that. Jericho said her neck was broken but I think we’ll wait for radiological confirmation before we decide on that.’

  She heard him snigger at Jericho’s diagnosis. ‘What do you know of his home circumstances?’

  She knew his antennae were already up, twitching in her direction, picking up electrical signals like aerials. Steadman was astute enough to have picked up on the vibes she could hardly stop herself from giving out – even over the phone.

  ‘I understand it wasn’t terribly happy.’

  ‘How much do you want to be kept in the picture?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The question was unanswerable but Steadman seemed to understand.

  ‘OK, Martha.’

  She felt she needed to add something more. ‘There will inevitably be a police investigation alongside the inquest. I’m anxious that the truth is not hidden behind spurious facts.’

  His response was sharp. ‘Spurious facts?’

  ‘Rumours, David. Hearsay. Malicious gossip.’

  There was a long pause, then he asked the hundred-thousand-dollar question. ‘Is there any possibility of homicide here?’

  Homicide? A possibility? She recalled an afternoon spent last summer in the quarry, a warm, sunny day they had shared and the words that had burst out of him. I hate her. I hate her. I wish she was dead. Martha wished he had not spoken them but had kept that to himself. And if he had needed to say the words, she wished she had not heard them. But now she needed to know the truth as far as it could be uncovered. And so her response was blunt and honest. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think DI Randall is capable of murder, but I don’t know the full facts. Please, David. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  Something in him must have melted. ‘Of course I’ll take over the case, Martha.’ Said with real warmth and friendship now. Maybe she needed to revise her harsh judgement of him.

  And as she thanked him again he said with an even gentler note in his voice. ‘I take it you would like me to keep you informed?’

  And now she felt she could afford to be honest. ‘That would be really kind, David. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, my dear. Just tell them to refer the case to me and I’ll take over. I’ll be happy to help you out.’

  Yet again she thanked him – profusely, told him she owed him one and knew he wasn’t going to forget that anyway.

  And so that was that. She had detached from the case. Cut free. It was not her responsibility any more. She need not learn all the dirty sordid details, each quarrel and spat, reports of late-night arguments and other tittle tattle. As she put the phone down she stared at her hands, at the small diamond engagement ring and the gold wedding ring she still wore almost twenty years after Martin had died. She’d worn it longer for a dead man than when he had been alive. Time to move on, Martha Gunn, she thought. But it isn’t as easy as all that. Moving on is a cliché. It does not reflect real life. People do not move on. They move to a different place dragging their baggage behind them like wheelie suitcases and bearing their scars. Martin was a distant memory now, a memory kept alive by her own recollections and his two children – Sam in particular, who had a look of his father about him and a certain pensiveness that evoked Martin.

  But the fact was that since he had died she had not really felt anything for another man. She had had a few dates, dinners and even days out, but they had always felt strange, wrong, a betrayal, and she had bolted her front door behind her, glad to be alone again. Both her mother and her mother–in-law urged her to marry again, find someone else, but it just hadn’t happened – until DI Alex Randall had inched into her life, invaded her mind and stolen her affection.

  There – she’d said it now. Affection.

  It took an immense effort to focus on her other cases. Back to the two suicides. And Patrick Elson’s inquest was due to take place soon. Focus on that, Martha, and Gina’s death too. You owe it to them and it is your job.

  And Alex? Out of your hands.

  There was a soft knock on the door. It was Jericho with a cup of strong coffee and two chocolate biscuits. She eyed him speculatively. Jericho Palfreyman, coroner’s assistant, was famously nosey. He knew everything about everyone and revelled in that knowledge. How he acquired so much she didn’t know but suspected that he didn’t quite close the door when she was conversing with relatives or colleagues, whether it was on the phone or in person, and that he lingered just outside, picking up on crumbs of details and squirrelling them away in his sharp little brain. However, in this case she could use that inquisitiveness to advantage. ‘Close the door, Jericho,’ she invited. Eyes bright and alert, he did just that and then stood, waiting.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Mrs Randall’s death.’

  He started to say, ‘Just hearsay,’ before realizing that she already knew this. She wanted this hearsay so she could make her own judgement.

  ‘Apparently on Saturday night, or rather in the early hours of S
unday morning, Mrs Randall, the inspector’s wife …’ She resisted the temptation to respond with an impatient, I know who Mrs Randall is, merely pressing her lips together and listening to Jericho’s halting account.

  ‘People heard them rowing late into the night.’

  She couldn’t resist a little skip of joy in her heart, a trickle of honey.

  ‘They heard her screaming. Then silence and a bump, bump, bump and then nothing.’

  How on earth did he know these things?

  Jericho stopped before continuing. ‘He called for an ambulance, but she was dead at the foot of the stairs. Her neck was broken according to the police doctor. That’s all I know so far, Mrs Gunn.’

  Her mind started to work furiously. ‘His house is …?’

  ‘Just on the outskirts of Church Stretton – a semi. The neighbours said they heard the noise through the walls. And not for the first time.’

  Church Stretton was a well-known beauty spot, the Stretton Hills made famous by Malcolm Saville and the town which had a character and unique identity of its own. There was something mysterious about the place, bordered by myth and legend and sporting its very own Devil’s Chair. It was quiet, off the beaten track. Yes, that was exactly where Alex would live, in an anonymous house with the wife he was ashamed of.

  ‘I understand that they’re questioning him down at the station now.’

  It was normal procedure but Martha felt unnerved. The thought of Alex being questioned at his own police station by his colleagues … And there was nothing useful she could do. She could not help him. She drew in a deep breath. ‘Anything else?’

  Jericho Palfreyman shook his head sadly. He would have loved to have the whole story to lay at her feet. But …

  Even he could only go so far at stretching the truth like a piece of elastic.

  ‘Umm,’ she began, wondering how best to put this. ‘Jericho. I’m not going to be handling Mrs Randall’s case myself. I’ve asked David Steadman to hear it instead. He’ll keep me …’ She corrected herself. ‘He’ll keep us informed.’

  ‘Oh, right you are then.’ It was his only response and casual, almost gleeful at that, but she felt she should further justify her decision. ‘I know Inspector Randall too well. It wouldn’t be right for me to hold the inquest. I could be accused of a lack of impartiality.’ She met his eyes and realized he understood this only too well. She continued, ‘I am, however, interested in the outcome, any facts that you find out, and in the result of the post-mortem. If you can just keep me informed?’ She felt she needed to add some justification and found it. ‘I consider DI Randall a friend. A good friend.’