Bridge of Sighs

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘This Mr Donaldson,’ she said curiously, the name new to her. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He’s a financial advisor, business in town, offices in Milk Street, hangs around with a guy called Victor Stanley.’

  This was another new name to her. ‘Stanley?’

  ‘A sort of a …’ Talith hunted down the word. ‘A gigolo.’

  Martha stored the description away, aware that she would bring it out at some time. But how would she get to him? ‘Tell me more about Donaldson.’

  ‘Bent as a ten-bob bit.’

  Martha smothered a smile. When would DS Talith have even seen a ten-bob bit?

  ‘Most of his clients appear to be … questionable. His returns seem to bear no resemblance to the current interest rates. He’s just … dodgy, Mrs Gunn.’ Talith sounded more pleased with his description.

  ‘I see. Nothing concrete, just that?’

  ‘Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs have had their eye on him for years but he’s a clever customer. Leaves a trail more difficult to follow than a fox. Runs to ground every now and then, hides money in all sorts of offshores. We haven’t turned up anything and so far neither have they. Gina defended him successfully eighteen months ago on a minor charge. There was a question of some money he’d handled for a client and it was proved the money was the proceeds of an art theft.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Talith backed off. ‘I’m hardly an expert, Mrs Gunn. It was handled by the Fine Art Department in Birmingham. Some art that was stolen appeared to turn up in one of the city’s salerooms but when the team swooped it turned out they were fakes.’

  Martha frowned. ‘So …?’

  ‘The opinion was that there had been a swap sometime between the saleroom assessing the work at a private home and them turning up at the saleroom in time for the Fine Art Department to reclaim them.’

  Martha’s frown deepened. She still couldn’t see the connection.

  Talith continued. ‘Trouble was they weren’t old like Old Masters, they were all pieces of modern art so a lot of the usual checks – carbon dating and paint analysis – just weren’t any use. The whole thing was dropped because there was no proof. The real ones were stolen, the fakes turned up. What happened to the real ones is anybody’s guess. A bit habeas corpus, if you know what I mean. No body, no conviction.’

  ‘I see.’ She was about to replace the handset when Talith cleared his throat ostentatiously. ‘Word is DI Randall may well be back at work in a week or two. His wife’s funeral is next Thursday at the crematorium. Private ceremony.’

  So Alex was free.

  ‘Thank you.’ She disconnected.

  Alex back at work? What did that mean? Erica to be cremated. Next Thursday. Cremation destroys every single possible forensic detail. That is why two doctors have to sign the forms. Because once a body has been cremated evidence is gone forever. It can never be resurrected.

  David Steadman had, so far, and in spite of his promises, passed on nothing; neither had Mark Sullivan. She was still in the dark waiting for confirmation of her theory. These decisions had all been made without her – for Alex to return to his role as DI, for Erica’s body to be released for cremation, for the funeral to be held.

  Why had none of them kept her up to date when the enquiry must have reached a conclusion?

  THIRTY-NINE

  It was all very well distracting herself with the two suicides but Martha’s mind never drifted far from Alex. With an effort, almost a creaking of the wheel, she turned back to her own two cases.

  One name seemed to present itself for consideration: Ivor Donaldson, financial advisor.

  Well she thought, smiling. She could do with a little financial advice herself.

  She could almost hear Alex Randall’s voice warning her. ‘Leave it, Martha, these are dangerous people. You don’t want to get involved here. Not safe.’ It would have been accompanied by that knowing look that understood she would be involved even though his advice was sound. ‘Leave it to us.’

  She could feel the pressure of his hand on her arm, staying her. And she shook it off. ‘You’re not here, Alex, are you?’

  She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until Jericho was standing in front of her, his expression curious. ‘Did you want something, Mrs Gunn?’

  ‘No. No. I may have to go into town for an hour or so.’

  He nodded and she looked up the telephone number and dialled it, spoke briefly.

  She was interested in hiring his services to invest some money? A legacy? Of course he was happy to oblige. He had an appointment free for two o’clock.

  She was going to put her head right into the lion’s mouth.

  Ivor Donaldson looked like what he possibly was – a thug with a smooth coating, sharp eyes, a warily expectant look. He had coarse skin which went perfectly with a coarse manner, a way of sizing a woman up as though he was giving her marks out of ten for her performance in bed. She appraised him right back, coolly, and decided he was probably selfish in bed, someone who satisfied only his own needs. Such men made rotten lovers and would always drive a woman towards another man, someone who ‘understood’ them. Victor Stanley perhaps? She certainly found the financial adviser singularly unattractive. That much she decided within seconds of meeting him. She had parked at the bottom of Wyle Cop and walked up the steep hill bordered by pretty black and white individual shops including the antique shop and her own personal favourite, the Period House Shop. As she had walked she had pondered the reasons behind Gina Marconi’s suicide, the humiliating loss of face which would destroy the opinion of the only people who meant anything to her.

  And that, after all, is what defines our life – the esteem of those whose opinion we hold dear. It was the best she could come up with. Perhaps the truth was something even deeper.

  But how could she steer the conversation round to Gina while Donaldson was rabbiting on, asking her, greedy eyes fixed on hers, exactly how much money she wanted to invest, did she want it safe or was she prepared to take a risk? His eyes continued to bore into hers as she said, quite sweetly, that she was perfectly happy to take a risk.

  ‘And how much money are you thinking of investing?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said casually, ‘round about fifty K – initially.’

  The amount and comment seemed to please him. She saw a little light flicker in his eyes, a light that shone with happiness and optimism and pure unadulterated, undisguised greed. ‘Good,’ he said, and just about managed to avoid rubbing his hands together.

  ‘We could talk about this over dinner.’ It was the nearest he would get to charm but although something in Martha revolted against it, she said yes, she would love to have dinner with him.

  It was walking straight into the lion’s den and she knew it. It felt dangerous – stupid even. Did she think she was any more perceptive than Gina? Truth was she was putting herself into exactly the same position.

  Her instinct was to tell someone about the ‘date’ but strangely enough the only person who came to mind was Simon Pendlebury and that was not a good idea. Nothing to do with him was ever a good idea. She’d gone far enough there. If only Alex had been around she could – no would – have asked him to keep an eye out. But of course he was not here. Not in a useful sense anyway.

  He would have watched her back because this guy felt and seemed dangerous. And his bank of friends were nasty little buggers. A poisoned network of them. But could he have charmed Gina Marconi, who would have had an instinct for villains like him? No. Surely not. Someone else – and Victor Stanley fitted the bill to perfection. Donaldson could lead her to him.

  He stood up once they’d arranged to continue their talk that evening at The Granary.

  But even as she left his office she had a feeling of dread. No one would know where she had gone – or why.

  Just before she left home she gave in and dialled Simon’s number. ‘Don’t ask any questions,’ she warned. ‘You won’t like the answers.’

>   He said nothing but she could almost hear the fizz in his mind as he raised his eyebrows. And yes, he would be smiling. And curious.

  ‘I’m going somewhere tonight.’

  ‘Ri-ight?’

  ‘With someone I don’t trust.’

  And at that, Simon being Simon, he burst out laughing. ‘And what, you want me to be your chaperone? Or your bodyguard?’ He chuckled. ‘Either way, I’m up for it. I could do with a bit of excitement in my life.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Simon. Please, take this seriously. Have I ever asked you to watch my back before?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and she could hear the smile still in his voice, which prepared her for his follow up. ‘But then you always had your tame policeman hanging around somewhere in the background.’

  ‘I did not,’ she said, cross with him for putting his finger on a very tender pulse. ‘And DI Randall was never tame.’

  ‘Oh, get you,’ he said, still laughing. Then, ‘OK, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ring my mobile at ten?’

  ‘OK. And, umm, if you don’t answer?’

  ‘It could mean one of two things.’ Martha thought for a moment then answered. ‘Come and find me. We’re going to The Granary.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, then. ‘OK, Martha. I take it you’re doing some sort of enquiry yourself?’

  ‘I believe he’s got something to do with Gina Marconi’s suicide.’

  Simon sounded puzzled. ‘A financial advisor?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘What exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I do know is that she couldn’t face something.’

  ‘Something?’

  Knowing she wouldn’t stop at half an answer Simon waited for her to explain.

  ‘Disgrace,’ she filled in. ‘She couldn’t face disgrace. It’s a common reason for a suicide.’

  ‘I thought depression would have been the main reason for suicide.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at how often a person can’t face criminal accusation, financial hardship, exposure.’

  ‘Oh. OK. So disgrace – what for? Do you mean professionally – that she’d done something shameful?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She plunged on. ‘But I think our Gina was too canny for that and she’d understand the pitfalls only too well. I don’t think it was a professional thing at all. I suspect it was something much more personal. I think somewhere there will be compromising pictures of her just like there were of Patrick Elson. I don’t know who set her up, how or why. The thing is, Simon, it’s easy to understand a child’s mind. The two bullies simply hated Patrick because he was something they weren’t. He was clever. And they had help. But Gina – how was she set up? By whom, why and how? What did they have to gain by it? Revenge? She did her best, defended the criminal fraternity.’ Thoughts were buzzing through her mind now even as she was speaking. What if the punishment had been set up because she had failed them? The name Silver still sprang to mind. And then she recalled Lewinski’s visits to Gina’s office and the threats he had made.

  Simon was still plodding behind her in his thoughts. ‘OK. Well, whatever, have a good time.’ He couldn’t resist a further dig. ‘Enjoy your dinner with Al Capone.’

  Putting the phone down, she could still hear him chuckling, but at least Martha felt happier.

  But that feeling began to wear off by the time she was dressing for the evening in dark trousers, ankle boots and a cream wool jacket. Now her mind was not on Gina Marconi but had returned, like a homing pigeon, to Alex. She felt intense frustration. What was happening? What had the test shown? Had her hunch been correct? And even if she was right, had Mark Sullivan found anything else at post-mortem? Obviously, as the funeral was in a few days’ time and Alex was expected back at work, it could be nothing that was either open to question or could potentially incriminate him. But was it still something that would leave a cloud over his head? Had Erica left something behind that could incriminate her husband? What would be the fallout from that? Was it possible their friendship could ever resume exactly where it had left off?

  In frustration Martha was tempted to give in to her red hair instinct and hurl her hair brush across the room. But down the hall she could hear Sukey’s voice. And it sounded like for once she was sticking up for herself. Martha knew that voice. It was Little Miss Stubborn, the voice Sukey adopted when she’d been pushed too far and was digging her heels in.

  Look out, Pom, she thought, smiling at herself in the mirror. She was tempted to listen, to open her door just a crack, pick up on the words. She could hear Pom’s voice, possibly less strident than usual. Or was she imagining it? She listened harder. Sukey’s was definitely the louder. And firmer.

  Then one sentence wafted along the landing and Martha was tempted to whoop for joy. Sukey’s immoveable voice, cold, hostile, challenging. ‘I don’t agree.’ Uncompromising too. Yay! Was Sukey actually waking up to what a prick the boy was?

  She waited for a response from him. When it came it was quiet, laced with a threat. ‘Well, if you fail and that’s the end you’ll only have yourself to blame.’

  She could listen no more. She so wanted to burst in, put her arm round her daughter and defend her, support her, but Sukey would have been furious.

  And so she left her alone but, once dressed, hair brushed into submission, she knocked on her door. ‘I’m just off out.’ Immediately the door was tugged open and her daughter stood there with her unmistakably tear-streaked face. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m going for dinner with a financial advisor.’

  ‘What?’ If she’d said she was having dinner with the Pope her daughter couldn’t have been more astonished.

  Martha gave a half-smile meant to be reassuring. ‘You heard.’

  ‘And what do you need a financial advisor for?’

  ‘Investments,’ Martha said airily and watched Sukey’s face turn suspicious.

  ‘And who is this financial advisor?’

  That was when she realized, she need not have involved Simon at all. Her daughter intended to guard her. She chose her words very carefully. ‘He’s connected with a case I’m involved in. A suicide. I’m trying to find out why.’

  Sukey’s face twisted scornfully. ‘And you think he’s going to tell you, this …’ She twiddled her fingers into speech marks. ‘Financial advisor?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martha confessed, ‘but you know me. I’m fond of the truth. Clarity.’

  Behind her daughter Pom was watching her very carefully. She’d thought his eyes were about to roll, his mouth twist into a snarl. But instead what she saw was a look of vulnerability. If she had been forced to interpret that look she would have guessed that if he could not control her daughter he was afraid he would lose her.

  Oh, aren’t lives complicated, she thought as she watched Sukey turn around and appraise her boyfriend in a cold stare. People are immeasurably unpredictable, complex and singular. There is no one category for a personality, instead lots and lots of permutations and anomalies, all of which are endlessly fascinating. A few weeks ago she had feared for her daughter’s relationship. Now her fear was for Pom.

  Martha transferred all her attention back to her daughter whose face was warm now she was focused on her mother. ‘I know you, Mum,’ she said and brushed her arm with her fingers, delicate as a butterfly landing. Then she laughed. ‘Don’t be late,’ she said, wagging her finger as Martha never had done, having gone in for lax parenting.

  And Martha echoed back a response by a raising of her eyebrows and a joke. ‘I will.’

  On her way out she passed Sam heading towards the front door. Sam, smelling unmistakably of aftershave and wearing a very clean sweater and well-fitting jeans. ‘Off out?’ she asked lightly and her son, footballing Sam, who had never shown any interest in the opposite sex, went bright red. At least the tips of his ears did, clashing nastily with his ginger hair.

  She was already thinking ahead. Without Martin she was going to have to be the one to warn him about the wiles of women, a
bout birth control, about the morning-after pill, paternity suits and the rest of the messy business that follows in the wake of the joy of sex.

  For now she just patted him on the shoulder. ‘Have a great time,’ she said.

  Her last thought as she closed the front door behind her was: My twins are growing up.

  FORTY

  Tuesday, 18 April, 8 p.m.

  Unsurprisingly, as Martha had already marked Ivor Donaldson down as a man with no manners, she arrived at The Granary first. He was ten minutes late. And the ten minutes passed surprisingly slowly. She felt like a sad woman who’d been stood up. Maybe she had. Maybe the ‘date’ had been a tease. Maybe £50,000 hadn’t been enough of a temptation. She sat at a table for two, tonic water in a tall glass with ice and a slice.

  But eventually he breezed in, in a dark suit, rings flashing, ostentatiously glancing at the Rolex on his wrist.

  OK, she wanted to say, I’ve noticed it. Now tuck it away.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he said as he sat down. And it was that epithet that increased her dislike of him tenfold.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she answered sweetly and put a bite in the tail. ‘The wallpaper’s interesting.’

  He did a double blink, apparently unsure whether she was being ironic. Then he gave a loud laugh full of capped teeth. ‘Wasn’t sure,’ he began, and Martha saw he still wasn’t. Good. She wanted him on the hop, unable to put a finger on what she was up to. And she didn’t want him to find out either.

  ‘So,’ he said when he’d ordered a whisky, ‘you want to make some investments.’ He could not disguise the little gleam in his eye at the thought of money – more money. And yet more money.

  ‘I’ve got fifty grand – well, actually I want to invest more – but I want a high return. The interest rate is hopeless these days.’