He didn’t fail her. ‘We let him down,’ he said. ‘I let him down, but I could never have imagined …’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t. Patrick couldn’t live with himself.’ She was tempted to complete the question. Because …
Partly to divert him away from the river of sadness, she pursued another aspect.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘more about the two boys, Warren and Sean.’
Trimble looked alarmed. ‘We can’t do anything unless we’ve got proof. The parents would be down on us like a ton of bricks. Their mum has been down the school a couple of times with complaints that her sons weren’t being treated fairly, that they’ve been given grades that were too low or excluded from a trip just because of who they are, who their dad is.’
‘Their mother’s a tough nut?’
His face looked almost humorous. ‘You wouldn’t want to take her on, Mrs Gunn. She’s a lady with an interesting collection of tattoos and language that would make most men blush. The boys are big for their age.’
Martha simply nodded. She knew now in which direction she was headed. But Gina Marconi hadn’t committed suicide because a couple of schoolboys had intimidated her. It would have taken much more than that. She hadn’t found the bottom of the muckheap just yet. How this all connected, she didn’t know. But she had a feeling that these cases, murky and stinking like rotting fish, had another lesson for her. She might not have DI Alex Randall to walk her through but that didn’t mean she couldn’t run her own investigation. She was on her own now.
So be it.
THIRTY-SIX
After Freddie Trimble had left her office, Martha sat for a while taking stock, trying to work it all out. Because now that she’d found a link between Gina and Patrick, what was her next step?
She rang Amanda Elson’s mobile phone and asked her about the note she had sent to cover her son’s absence from school the week before he’d died. And as expected, Amanda knew nothing about it.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t ill. He was at school …’ Her voice trailed away. She was wondering how well she’d actually known her own son.
Before she could put two and two together Martha thanked her and ended the conversation. At the moment she couldn’t help her. She started putting known facts in order.
Patrick Elson’s schoolmates’ dad was to stay in prison. And Gina Marconi had put him there – or at least hadn’t managed (or wanted) to keep him out. But it hadn’t been a man in prison who had taken those horrible pictures.
And Gina? The pictures she would have been sent of herself? Electronically? Yes, an electronic version existed but Martha believed she would have been confronted with an actual photograph. Somehow it is more shocking. The threat of spreading them around would have accompanied the full Disney Technicolor. So if they existed, had Gina destroyed them? Or was someone hiding them? The police had found nothing like that. So who was hiding them? Terence? Her mother? Julius? And more importantly, who had sent them? She could take her pick. Gina had mixed with a dangerous crowd, but Mosha Steventon would have protected her. He was her guardian. So who was intimidating her under Steventon’s radar? Who else was lurking there, in the shadows?
For her money the thread was Pete Lewinski, who had not only gone to Gina’s office and threatened her, but the threats seemed to have struck home. Trouble was Lewinski needed Gina. But Martha felt that Lewinski had something over Gina just as Gina had something over Lewinski.
She reminded herself that Alex had had contact with the criminal world. She wondered if he knew Lewinski. But it was a mistake to return to him. She put her head in her hands. How tantalizing. DI Randall was now single but, ironically, even more untouchable than before. Thank you very much, fate, she thought bitterly. You’ve just made certain nothing can ever grow between us – not even honest affection. He is farther away from you now than he’s ever been. So, Martha Gunn, analyse your feelings and be truthful. Sort yourself out. She scooped in a deep breath. If her theory about Erica was right, she knew it fitted like a glove. She’d done the research. She was just missing one small blood test to confirm her horrible suspicion. If she was right, Alex Randall would feel guiltier than ever. Bugger. She felt tempted to kick the base of her desk but today she was wearing some rather smart, very expensive, black Italian leather high-heeled shoes that she’d paid an eye-watering price for. She was not going to ruin them in frustration over Erica Randall’s death – as doomed a death as her life had been for the previous six years.
Time to find out the truth and share her theory. She picked up the phone and connected with Mark Sullivan. He had done the three post-mortems. If there was any proof, he would be the one to have it.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Monday, 17 April, 10 a.m.
In Church Stretton, DI Alex Randall was at home, searching the computer for any reference to his current suspension, when the phone call came. He answered it with a touch of apprehension. Apart from his mother-in-law he’d had no good news over the line and any minute now he expected a call from the press. ‘Detective Inspector Randall?’ His wariness compounded when the voice was male and unfamiliar. ‘David Steadman here.’ Alex was struggling to remember who he was until he introduced himself. ‘Coroner for South Shropshire. I’m not sure whether you’re aware but I shall be dealing with the unexplained death of your wife. Mrs Gunn has asked me to take over.’
Alex felt even more cheated. Martha was his friend. Surely she could have …?
And then he put his head in order. Of course Martha couldn’t have managed the case objectively. They had been too close.
He listened carefully to what David Steadman was saying. ‘I think you should come into my office in Ludlow so we can discuss the findings of the post-mortem – so far. Obviously we’re waiting for more results but I expect you want to proceed with the funeral, DI Randall.’ A statement not a question. ‘I hope to release your wife’s body before too long.’
Randall searched for some clue, some hint. What was going on? What was he saying – nothing? Steadman was giving nothing away.
So Alex mirrored his neutral tone. ‘Certainly, Mr Steadman,’ he said, his voice icily calm and controlled. ‘When would you like me to come? I can manage any time – I’m on gardening leave at the moment.’
Steadman pushed the sarcasm aside and wasn’t above inserting just a tinge of it himself. ‘Well, how about tomorrow morning then as you’re busy? Nine o’clock. Does that suit you, Inspector?’
‘Just fine.’ Randall put the phone down with more than a touch of irritation. Don’t give me a clue as to what’s going on, will you, Steadman? He eyed the phone balefully as though it could tell him what credence they were putting on Mark Sullivan’s post-mortem findings. Still, at least he wasn’t being forced to wait too long.
Just until tomorrow morning.
Long enough.
In her office, Martha was on the internet, googling some names, among them Peter Lewinski. Quite a record. Quite a man. The face that glared out of her screen was thin, hard and uncompromising. The question was, did he have the subtlety to drive a bright woman like Gina Marconi to her death? Martha wasn’t convinced. But there was something there. She looked again and wondered what had gone on between Gina and Lewinski, though when did a photograph indicate a true picture of character? She had seen mug shots of saints and sinners. They all looked evil glaring into a camera lens.
Next she googled Jack Silver and again faced a person with staring glaring eyes and a Desperate Dan chin but this man looked a little more interesting. There was a sharpness there, some alertness, like a meerkat on guard, ears pricked up, listening for some sound. There was also a ruddiness, an earthiness and a certain cockiness in his face. She stared at him. Question was, how could she find anything out? Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as though it was a Ouija board waiting for instruction. Something was there right underneath her fingers.
Patrick and the two Silver boys attended the same schoo
l and were in the same class. And the boys had picked on Patrick Elson. Forget Gina for now. She wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy. Focus on Patrick. But she was finding it hard to detach one from the other. Gina would have had better judgement. She would have had the sense to fend off any encounter or recognize any deal which could impact on her life or career. Unless … Martha found herself drifting into another world. Unless her judgement had been impaired. Was that the issue?
She tried to think. And returned to her earlier conversation with Mark Sullivan.
‘The post-mortem findings on Patrick?’
Put that with the photograph and she had it.
‘Semen?’
‘No.’ He’d sighed. ‘They all know to wear a condom these days.’
A blind alley. She wasn’t there yet.
Back to Gina. What if she had warned him that she might not win the case? What if Lewinski did not want Gina to represent him at trial? Had he been anyone else he would have simply changed lawyers. But Lewinski did not act predictably. So how would he respond? Exactly as he had. He would burst into her office and threaten her. But what if she had ignored his threats? Then he would have fought back. How? A lawyer whose judgement is impaired by, say drugs or alcohol, might be held up to ridicule. And more. She could lose her licence to practise. Professional bodies check up on their members and the law has a strict code of ethics. Any slur on Gina might have rubbed off on Julius Zedanski. Would their relationship have survived? Nothing sticks like dirt. Another saying of her mother’s. Martha smiled to herself. Did her mother have a mantra for every occasion to support any view?
Probably.
In this case the dirt was scandal. That would be how Lewinski would have punished the lawyer who was going to fail him at trial.
She worked steadily through the day, feeling hopeful that eventually all would be explained, that her ideas would be proven and, more importantly, that she could use her powers to mitigate the damage and achieve something through the inquests she would be conducting. And as for Steadman, if she was right, her theory confirmed by tests, there would also be an explanation for Erica Randall’s life and death. It was only as she was packing up to go home that she realized. Even if she was right it didn’t necessarily let Alex off the hook.
6.45 p.m.
It was late. Martha’s mental meanderings had made her lose track of time. And now she should go home. But her normal enthusiasm for returning to her home, the White House, was marred by him being there. Sneering and criticizing. And the worst thing? The thing she hated most? The thing she could not forgive him for? It was the effect he had on Sukey, her own beautiful, talented, darling daughter. She would be glad when they returned to Bristol and resumed their studies. But that meant exiling her beloved Sukey.
‘Oh, shit,’ she thought and left her office.
It was dusk, the town’s lights twinkling in the distance. What a day it had been, even more interesting than usual. And now it was time to face the drama of home. But out here, three miles away from the town, her office hidden behind a private driveway overgrown with rhododendrons, it took her a while to realize something was different.
Jericho had left half an hour ago, leaving her to lock up. She was alone and suddenly felt vulnerable without knowing why. Then she turned and saw. Scratched on her car was some advice. Don’t turn over stones.
Martha wasn’t someone who scared easily; neither was she a woman who had an obsessive love for or pride in her car, but hell’s bells she’d only had it a year, kept it reasonably clean and quite liked it. She’d paid a good price for the Merc as it had been showroom almost-new. And some cheeky bastard was using it to threaten her? Just as they had Gina and Patrick? Did they sense she was inching too close? Or were they simply targeting her as they had them?
Don’t turn over stones.
She sensed that as she had worked out Lewinski had warned Gina, he was now turning his attentions to her. Well, they didn’t know her, did they? She was not someone to be threatened. It was more likely to goad her into action. And she believed there was nothing they could use against her because she was forewarned. She wasn’t going to take this advice/threat seriously. It was a red rag to a bull. Simply a challenge. And then she realized she was acting in exactly the same way that Gina had. Look where she had ended up. It was a chilling thought.
As she fished her mobile phone from her bag and held it to her ear she was working things out. She had CCTV cameras along the drive. She knew from bitter experience that bereaved relatives could act in unpredictable ways after an unsatisfactory interview with a coroner or else dissatisfaction with the verdict at the inquest. Sometimes they argued or grew angry. Sometimes they wanted a verdict other than the one she was prepared to give – particularly in the case of a suicide. She’d been stalked before in just such a case and this had resulted in the installation of the cameras. The family had suffered financially from her verdict and had not accepted her reasoning: a bloody note, for goodness’ sake, stating intention. How arguable was that? At least initially they had not accepted her verdict. Later she had convinced them but at the time it had been unnerving enough for her to feel threatened. Hence the CCTV cameras watching the approach to her office beamed to a couple of monitors which Jericho watched like a hawk.
She ran through her recent contacts, rejected anyone from Gina’s family, struggled to imagine Amanda Elson or her sister doing such a spiteful act. Had Freddie Trimble been angry when he’d left her office? She quickly rejected this idea too. No. This was someone else who had waited for Jericho to leave and then acted. Jericho would not have walked past this. His nosiness had a payoff. He was the most observant man she knew. He would have noticed someone loitering in the drive or a strange car parked where it should not. She eyed the cameras and hoped they were in the right place. Eyes still on the car and the bushes watching for any movement, she called the station, this time getting through to a sympathetic PC Delia Shaw.
This smacked of Lewinski and his associates. Shock set in and Martha began to shake. Admitting she was frightened was foreign to her but she knew where this message came from.
Gina Marconi had believed she too was a strong and independent woman, immune even to her links with the underworld, protected by Mosha. But in the end no one had been able to protect her. And now Alex had been suspended, Martha had no one either. If Alex hadn’t been suspended he would have been here by now. And he wouldn’t have left her side until she was safely home. And then he would have initiated investigations. A result of Erica Randall’s death had been to remove Alex from her side. So she waited. And they finally arrived.
PC Delia Shaw was accompanied by a young special constable called Rosie who shadowed her superior’s footsteps like an obedient, reliable and faithful puppy.
Delia shook her hand. ‘You OK, Coroner?’
‘I’m fine. Unlike …’ All eyes turned to the car.
‘We’ve got the photographer coming,’ Delia said quickly. ‘We’re a bit stretched for someone to go through the CCTV now so we’ll take the tapes away with us. Any idea what time it happened?’
‘Jericho left at about six fifteen,’ Martha said. ‘He’s hawk-eyed and I don’t think he’d have missed this so I’m assuming that this was done between six fifteen and six forty-five when I found it.’
‘Narrows the field a bit,’ Rosie put in.
Everyone turned to her and she flushed.
Delia Shaw resumed charge. ‘OK, leave it with us. We’ll lock the gates up tonight and stick some Do Not Cross tape up then we’ll take a proper look in the morning.’ She scanned the floor around the car in the fading light. ‘Nothing too obvious.’ She tried to give Martha a reassuring smile but Martha was thoughtful.
‘I’d like to know what you turn up,’ she said, ‘just in case it’s someone I’ve had dealings with in the past and I need to be more watchful.’
Both police officers nodded. ‘Yeah. Of course.’
Then it was Delia who turned to the practical. ‘
Would you like me to run you home?’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 18 April, 9 a.m.
Alex was at the coroner’s office dead on nine o’clock.
David Steadman met him on the staircase and held out his hand. ‘Inspector Randall,’ he said genially. ‘Good of you to call.’ He ushered him into an interview room. ‘Sit,’ he invited.
Alex was contrasting David Steadman with Martha. In spite of the obvious differences – age, sex, appearance – his manner was oddly similar, warmly formal, perfectly polite, demeanour genial. His face was less animated but perhaps she kept that particular face just for him. Did they instil these traits in coroner school?
His study of Steadman continued. His physical presence was quite different. He was red-faced and overweight, puffing slightly on the stairs as they’d ascended. He had Martha’s direct gaze but his eyes were faded blue instead of that brilliant, almost iridescent green. He had hardly any hair and what he had was white and wispy. In spite of the seriousness of the impending interview – half an hour which could change his life – Alex Randall couldn’t quite suppress a smile when he recalled Martha’s thick unruly red hair which she should have dyed sober-black and had cut short if Coroner had been her life’s ambition.
He made himself comfortable and forced himself to focus on David Steadman’s statement.
‘We’ve got most of the results of Doctor Sullivan’s post-mortem,’ he said crisply, leafing through papers as he spoke, glancing from time to time towards the computer screen. ‘We also have some initial results back, DI Randall. I thought it only fair to prepare you.’
‘Thank you.’ Alex was wondering what was coming next.
Half an hour later Alex Randall practically staggered out of Steadman’s office. This was Erica having her revenge. This he had not been expecting. This changed everything. He felt terrible.
Martha received a call at ten o’clock. She had arranged a hire car to be delivered to her home and fended off questions from Sukey and Sam and even Pomeroy who appeared sympathetic to her tale of a ‘breakdown’.
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