And Martha wasn’t going to supply it. She didn’t want to hide behind euphemisms or meaningless words. She did not have the time to play games. What she wanted was the truth. Pure and simple. And then she could work with that, mould it like soft Plasticine.
‘And you wonder if this Pete Lewinski …’
‘I only wonder,’ Thatcher said firmly. ‘Just wonder. It’s the only time I’d seen her rattled. Frightened.’ His eyes clouded. ‘Defeated. We were at a party a few months ago. He was there and he just stared at her. Even I felt the chill. It felt like a threat. Though it was a warm night and the place was overheated, Gina actually shivered. She looked cold.’
‘So what’s happening with him?’
‘The trial’s yet to come up. Date’s not been set. He’s currently on remand but initially she thought she’d win it.’
‘On what evidence?’
‘The police notes,’ Thatcher said reluctantly. ‘Bits had been added. She got some expert in forensic dating ballpoint pen entries and found that the notes had been tampered with. They weren’t all contemporaneous. She thought the CPS mightn’t proceed and the judge would throw it out of court but it didn’t happen. Now the odds are stacked against Gina. Lewinski is suspected of knifing a man in a road rage incident on the A5 but the witness “couldn’t remember”. The police knew their case was weak. The CPS might still throw it out. I think that’s why they tampered with the evidence. All that work and he’d get off?’
Martha pointed out the obvious. ‘Lewinski surely wouldn’t have driven her to die. He needed her.’
‘That’s what I’d have thought but there was something weird going on.’
Martha looked up, her mind busy digesting these new facts. ‘Were you surprised at the effect Lewinski had on her?’
He nodded and then sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was. She’s dealt with these people practically all the years she’s been in Shrewsbury. I’ve never seen her like that, Mrs Gunn. Never.’ He thought for a minute before adding, ‘I didn’t really understand it.’
She decided to take a leap in the dark. ‘Do you know anything about some photographs?’
‘Photographs?’ Thatcher shook his head and looked blank.
She took another leap. ‘Do you know or have you heard the name Patrick Elson?’
Again the question drew a blank.
‘Or Amanda Elson?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Is there anything else you think might help me understand Gina’s death?’
Thatcher kept shaking his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’ve told you everything I think could have a bearing on that night. I wish I could help you. I wish I could understand, but I can’t. Sorry.’
She stood up and the interview was at an end. They shook hands and Curtis Thatcher left.
Martha sat for a while trying to thread together the various strands he had spoken of. So what was she left with? Gina Marconi played with fire. And it looked like she’d burned for it.
And now it was time for lunch.
THIRTY-THREE
Simon Pendlebury was already at the pub when she arrived. His maroon Rolls-Royce was parked ostentatiously right at the front of the car park. A look at me, I’m rich statement which only served to irritate people. Why did Simon constantly feel he had to rub everyone’s nose in it? Inferiority? She felt like kicking it as she passed. Who the heck drives a Roller these days? Maybe she’d suggest he bought himself a Smart car. She stifled a giggle. Now that was one thing even she couldn’t quite conjure up, Simon peeping over the wheel of a Smart car. But here it was, his status symbol, shouting to people that he was here. Rich people eat here. And yet she didn’t kick it. Instead she felt an unexpected pang. There was something almost vulnerable about Simon. He had to have the money, the car, the house, the designer suits, the trimmings. Take it away from him and she knew he would feel he was nothing. So all the flashy trappings were, in actual fact, a sign of his vulnerability, of his feeling that he had to be better than everyone else. Because if he wasn’t better, richer, more successful than everyone else, he was nothing.
Her heart sank. This was a mistake and she knew it. She shouldn’t be here. Of all the men in the world Simon Pendlebury was about the last man on her list of potential confidants. He wouldn’t understand. He was too wrapped up in himself. This really was a mistake.
She walked in anyway.
And when he stood up to greet her, kissing both cheeks before gripping her shoulders and giving her a long hard stare, she was still thinking what a stupid move this had been.
But when he sat down, handed her a glass of fizzy water and waited for her to speak first she began to revise her poor opinion of him.
He was about six foot one, slim built, with straight dark hair cut a little too long to be currently fashionable but very neat. He practically always wore a suit. Even when he was ‘casually’ dressed in a jacket and chinos he looked as though he was still wearing a suit. Maybe it was the fact that he always wore good quality leather shoes so the casual look never extended to his feet and appeared almost as a disguise. Maybe it was his bearing – very erect, straight shoulders. Maybe it was the Rolls sitting outside.
‘Hey,’ he said, grinning, his bright dark eyes scanning her face. ‘Surely things aren’t so bad?’
It all spilled out then, chaotically, tumbling out like children at the bottom of a helter-skelter. The death of Erica Randall, her unpredictable state of mind; the cloud of suspicion over Alex Randall, the questioning by his colleagues; the impossibility of a verdict other than ‘Unknown’; the handing over of the case to David Steadman, resulting in her being out of the loop; the unhappiness of Alex’s rocky cake-walk marriage, the query over the post-mortem, finally confiding something she had never even admitted to herself: ‘I’m really fond of him, Simon. I trust his integrity. When I’m with him I am …’ She could hardly pick out such an anomalous word. ‘Relaxed. I feel at home with him.’ She fell silent then, recalling the few moments she and the DI had snatched time together. Stolen time.
‘Whoa,’ he said, finally holding his hands up after she had talked non-stop for at least ten minutes. ‘So where are you now?’
She plunged back in again, focusing on the fact that she’d handed over the case to David Steadman. ‘Steadman,’ she said. ‘Of all people. David Steadman. I don’t even like the guy.’ She wagged an index finger. ‘And I’m not sure he’s that struck on me either, so there will be minimal communication there. How he will handle it, Simon, I do not know. And at the end of the line …’ She paused. ‘Is Alex. But …’
And then, for the first time to another human being, she shared her Great Theory.
Simon listened then leaned back in his seat, smiling at her with more warmth than she had ever seen in his rather hard face. He was apparently enjoying having to deal with her conflict. ‘And you came to me,’ he said, leaning forward right on cue. ‘I’m flattered.’
Don’t read anything into that, she thought warily.
But he was oblivious. ‘If you want my opinion, Martha, you did the right thing handing the case over to a colleague.’ His face was intense. ‘It could have been awful – if you’d handled it badly, if anyone had any idea how much you thought of him. God, Martha, it could have really compromised you if anyone else knew how you felt about him.’
‘Thanks,’ she said bitterly. ‘You think I haven’t gone over all this in my mind?’
He simply nodded.
‘Trouble is I’m right out of the loop.’ Now it was she who was leaning forward. ‘Mark Sullivan appears to have unearthed new evidence and I can’t even get near it because,’ she finished bitterly, ‘I abandoned his case. I abandoned my friend.’
‘Hey, Martha.’ Simon looked shocked. ‘This is so unlike you. Whatever’s come over you? I’m sure that to hand the case over was absolutely the right thing to do.’ He frowned. ‘I mean, otherwise the findings could have been compromised. And how would that have helped this Alex Randall?’ Then
he asked, with bright-eyed and unashamed curiosity, ‘What do you think Mark Sullivan’s unearthed?’
‘I don’t know.’ She knew she was speaking wildly. ‘At first I worried about defensive injuries, anything not consistent with the fall, maybe a head injury that doesn’t quite fit, evidence of previous assaults.’
Simon looked concerned. ‘You think he’s capable of all that, a man you’re so …’ He hesitated, his eyes running right over her before plunging back in. ‘Fond of?’
‘No, not really.’ She felt helpless.
‘So why are you beating yourself up over this? I don’t get it, Martha. You think you could like a wife beater or a wife killer? Trust your instincts.’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What are you saying? That you don’t care what he’s done?’ He put his hand on her arm, his fingers tight over her wrist. Then he slid it down to cover her hand. ‘He’s a lucky man,’ he said, ‘to have attracted so much devotion from you.’
She felt very uncomfortable. Felt her face fold into a frown. ‘No,’ she protested.
But he was watching her. ‘What then?’
She shrugged and his face relaxed. ‘Let’s get something to eat and then I’m sure I can get you to put things back into perspective. OK?’
It gave her a few minutes’ grace. They bent over their menus. She elected for salmon with new potatoes while Simon, true to form, chose a bloody steak. She drank Perrier water and he J2O. Neither wanted their senses impaired now or during the afternoon. And both were driving.
Martha watched him stride back from the bar. Savile Row suit, long legs, dark hair. Evie had always stood up for her husband, protesting that no one really knew him as she did. And now Martha was wondering. Maybe Simon was a nicer person than she had given him credit for. So how, her mind argued, had he produced that pair of selfish shitbag daughters, Armenia and Jocasta? Their genes had come from somewhere – certainly not from their mother. Evie had been a saint.
Simon settled back beside her with a waft of a man’s fragrance and she gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. She was rarely aware of him as a man. An attractive man at that. Actually much more attractive than Alex Randall, whose frame was spare, his features angular and craggy. It had been his eyes, warm and perceptive, which had made him, in her eyes at least, irresistible.
They ate quickly, Simon trying to reassure her, and in some way he did. ‘Trust your judgement, Martha,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t believe that you could feel anything for this detective fellow if he was an explosive wife beater – you’d have picked up on that somehow – and certainly not if he was a killer, whether calculated or not.’
‘But provoked?’
‘I still think you’d have sensed something wasn’t right. You would have sensed something.’ He placed his knife and fork together tidily, looked up and smiled. ‘Put it like this, Martha,’ he said slowly, ‘if this DI Randall is capable of murdering his wife, you’re better off out of it. If, on the other hand, he put up with a mentally sick woman for years then he’s a bit of a saint. Either way the truth will out. I’m sure of it.’ He put his hand over hers again and even that hand, nails manicured, skin soft, was different. Alex’s hand was bony with long fingers, knuckles pronounced. Simon grinned. ‘So relax, Mrs Gunn.’ He drained the last of his fruit juice. ‘Anyway, it isn’t your problem so let others sort out the mess. Now then. Dessert?’
She declined but accepted a coffee – double strength with at least two shots. As they drank he eyed her over the rim of his cup, hesitated, put the cup down and met her eyes. ‘Be honest. What does he mean to you, Martha, this detective? Where are you taking this?’
She didn’t answer straight away because she couldn’t. She needed to think about her response as she’d never really asked this question of herself. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really don’t. I like him, Simon. Sure. I think he’s had a tough time. Things haven’t gone his way, but he is – or was – married. And that dropped a gate between us. He’s intelligent, intuitive, perceptive, but these are all just qualities. They don’t really encompass the man.’
He levelled a very direct gaze at her. ‘Do you love him?’ He looked slightly confused – and she gave a confusing answer.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so …’ She frowned. ‘At least, not what I remember of love.’
‘You mean Martin.’
She nodded.
And he settled back in his chair, eyes half closed. ‘Love changes,’ he said. ‘The love you feel for someone in your teens and twenties is different from the love you feel later in life.’ He gave a lop-sided, slightly regretful smile. ‘It’s more like embers than a fire. And then …’
She couldn’t resist raising the subject. ‘And Christabel?’
But if she’d thought by bringing up the young woman, labelled as a gold-digger by Simon’s two daughters, she’d embarrass him, she’d failed. He simply gave a huff of a laugh. ‘Well, that,’ he said, ‘is a point in question. That was a spark that never quite got the fire going. Or shall we put it this way – it soon went out.’
And she had to leave it at that. ‘Suffice it to say that I don’t know. Only that there’s something about him.’ She tried to put it into words. ‘I feel … comfortable around him, I think that’s how I feel – just comfortable. Happy. Relaxed. He’s easy to be with.’
‘Hmmm.’ His eyes flickered. He put his cup back down on the saucer and made a dubious face. ‘Not sure about this.’
She laughed out loud then. ‘You’re not my brother, you know. But if I’m right, Erica is the true victim. A test might prove it.’
He nodded and touched her hand again. ‘You should talk to Mark Sullivan,’ he said. ‘See if he’s done this test you’re talking about. You kind of owe it to Randall.’
She nodded and gave him a grateful smile.
But his face changed, looked almost bleak. ‘So if that’s how you feel about him, how do you think of me?’
She laughed, avoided the question, shook her head but then met his eyes with a merry smile. ‘Good friend?’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll settle for that.’ And he didn’t pursue that subject.
‘Anything else interesting going on in your world?’ The question was casual, a conversation filler.
She told him about the two suicides, the interview she’d had with Gina Marconi’s partner that morning and the impending interview with Patrick Elson’s teacher later this afternoon.
‘You seem to be digging in a bit hard when it seems obvious both are suicides.’
‘Yes. But there’s a lot more to them than that. There’s always a back story, a missed opportunity. Patrick – well, it wasn’t just bullying, Simon. The photos. They were horrible. And deliberately set up. I suppose I’m hoping that at some point someone will be able to point the finger at the culprit and stop them in their evil game. Punish them. Who better than a teacher to know a child? I’ve already interviewed his mother and the unfortunate Mrs Tinsley whose car bonnet Patrick landed on before bouncing along the road. His body – parts of it at least – were found up to six hundred yards away from where he’d fallen. Cars can’t stop straight away. His DNA was found on eight separate vehicles.’
‘I couldn’t do your job,’ he said.
She looked straight back at him. ‘And I couldn’t do yours.’
He laughed loudly then. Open-mouthed, merry and mocking.
She returned to her case. ‘The pictures would have been enough to tip the poor boy over the edge.’
‘And you’re connecting the case to Gina Marconi’s?’
She felt defensive. ‘I’m just wondering if she was the victim of something similar.’
‘Gina Marconi? Who drove her car into a wall at about ninety miles an hour?’
She nodded. ‘Sixty, actually.’ Then, picking up on something in his voice she looked up. ‘Did you know her?’
He was unfazed by the question. ‘Not well. I had some dealings with her a while ago. She was quite a girl.’
‘So I understand.’
‘You never met her?’
‘Just that once,’ she said, ‘at the golf club. I went with you, remember?’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right. She was there, wasn’t she? Quite a noisy sort of girl but a clever lawyer.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Extrovert.’
‘Do you know anything more about her?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Not really.’
‘She died of multiple injuries. Fractures, multiple head injuries, a ruptured aorta.’
Simon looked frankly nauseated at these details so Martha changed the subject. ‘And what about you? How is your business going?’
The look he gave her was almost sentimental before he threw his head back and laughed again out loud, causing a few other diners to glance across, curiously. ‘What on earth do you care about my work, Martha? The bits you don’t understand go straight over your head and the bits you do understand bore you to tears.’
She was too honest to deny this. But he’d listened to her. She owed him this courtesy to at least make the effort. ‘Go on then,’ she said, teasing him out. ‘Bore me.’
And the tale he told was so exotic and foreign about acquirements and land, about buying up entire companies investing in futures and …
‘Stop,’ she said laughing and holding her hand up. ‘I don’t understand a word of it.’
He drained his coffee cup and wagged his finger at her. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I just knew it. Anyway, the truth is that the whole thing’s going really well, thanks. It’s funny. I spent ages slaving away for the first million. And now it just seems to happen. Rolls into my lap. Money makes money, Martha.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I just work for a living and pay my bills.’
‘C’est la vie.’
‘And your love life?’ It was as though he really was her big brother.
He laughed, no embarrassment, no awkwardness. ‘Once bitten,’ he said. ‘Since Christabel I’ve kept myself to myself.’ His face softened. ‘And how are the twins?’
This provoked another confidence about Pomeroy. ‘I really don’t like him, Simon. Worse, I think he’s bad for Sukey – giving her advice that goes against her agent’s. Dominic’s been an agent for years. He’s had some real successes. Sukey was thrilled when he agreed to take her on. And now Pomeroy seems to be undoing all the good that Dominic’s been steadily building up.’ She appealed to Simon. ‘And you know how difficult it is to get anywhere as an actress these days. Even if you look like Sukey and really can act.’
Bridge of Sighs Page 17