River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  The study had been Martin’s. Nine years ago it had been unmistakably a masculine retreat. But she had changed it, with plainer, lighter paper, a few good paintings battled over at Halls, the local auction house, different curtains with an abstract design and bold soft furnishings. She had deliberately opted for feminine design yet somehow, subtly, the room still reminded her of him so when she entered it she sometimes wondered, if Martin returned from the dead how much would he recognise?

  It was not simply the furnishings of the study which reminded her of him. It was in the proportions, the structure. She crossed to the french windows, mentally sweeping aside the curtains and seeing the lawn stretching towards the apple tree like a carpet of the brightest green. Of the room? He would know it. The house? He would recognise most of it. There had been only cosmetic changes. Superficial titivation. Nothing structural. Of her? She was different. Older. Thinner, more careworn. Quieter. More subdued.

  Sam and Sukey? In nine years they had completely metamorphosed from plump toddlers to skinny children and now were on the verge of another huge change – becoming adults. Surely he would not know them. Or would he? They were flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. Genetically linked. Does one recognise the gene?

  She closed the tiny gap in the curtains, sat down at the desk, switched on the reading light, stared at the wedding photograph and waited for the inevitable phone calls.

  There were three things she appreciated about the Police Force. The first was their punctuality – their very adhesion to the clock. It made life so organised. If rigid. The second was their ability to relate salient facts concisely. And the third was their seductive politeness. Particularly in the case of Detective Inspector Alex Randall who would almost certainly be the Senior Investigating Officer.

  Bearing out her thoughts the phone rang at exactly five o’clock, the telephone bell and the chiming of the hour from the clock on the mantelpiece indistinguishable. Knowing who it was she murmured a soft hello and her name.

  “Evening, Mrs Gunn. Detective Inspector Randall here.” He was invariably formal. Initially. Later on formalities may well be dropped as they worked more closely.

  “Alex,” she responded warmly. “Thank you for ringing.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I hear you have a bit of a problem.”

  “To say the least. And on such a night. The river’s the highest it’s been since the millennium floods. We never thought we’d get it so bad again so soon. And we’ve got enough to do without this.”

  “Oh yes. Jericho said something about …?”

  “Well, I’m not sure what he’s told you but it looks like a homicide. The strangest incident of my career.” He chuckled. “Poor old Coleman had been detailed to check out Marine Terrace and make sure no one was in the properties. He opens the door, flashes his torch around and spies a body floating face down in the corner. Gave him the shock of his life it did.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “We got the police surgeon to certify death at the scene. According to him he was long since dead.”

  “Drowned?”

  “She didn’t think so. There was no sign of it. Besides – she thought he’d probably died before the water had flooded the house. She decided it would be a good idea to have Doctor Sullivan take a look at him at the scene and then talk to you before we move him to the mortuary.” It was standard procedure in a case of suspicious death.

  “Did Delyth Fontaine have any idea of cause of death?”

  “Nope. And she didn’t want to disturb the body too much.”

  “And Doctor Sullivan?”

  “He’s just there now. He’ll be speaking to you as soon as he’s come to some conclusion.”

  “Any idea who the dead man is?”

  “No identification on him.”

  “He was clothed?”

  “Yes – in a suit.”

  “But nothing in the pockets?”

  “No.” And that suggested something. He continued, “We’ve got a few lines of enquiry to follow up.”

  Knowing how they worked she could anticipate them. “The property?”

  “That and others.”

  “Perhaps the water washed his wallet out of his pocket.”

  “Maybe.” It was in the policeman’s character to always sound dubious. “We’re making a thorough search of the whole house – including the cellar.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “The water level’s receding at the moment. It’s halfway up the cellar walls but expected to surge again at around midnight. I expect Doctor Sullivan will give you a call when he’s examined the body.”

  “OK, Alex. I’ll maybe see you later. I’ll wait for Doctor Sullivan’s call.” He rang off.

  So not even frozen pizzas tonight then but a trip to a flooded house with a corpse floating inside it. What a job. She leaned back in the chair. What on earth had possessed her to be a coroner, this job which sewed up so neatly the questions of how, when and where a person had died? Even going so far as to pose these questions in her own court.

  A feeling of finality. Skilled as a doctor, married to a lawyer, she had always felt that death was the final untidiness of life. And for many people that untidiness scarred the bereaved. Like the policeman she was anxious for the cause of death to be ascertained as soon as possible. For the man, dead as he was, to be restored to his family and to be given a decent, dignified burial.

  But … Given the dramatic emergence of the unidentified man’s body it would not take long for the Press to get hold of the story and put it through a mincing machine. The sooner they could give out factual statements the better. Two things were urgent. Identification and cause of death. Who was he? How had he died and when?

  She spoke to the police surgeon next, an elderly GP called Delyth Fontaine who had been in the job long enough to know it inside out, almost instinctively. She rapped out the details, that she could not give a cause of death, that it was almost certainly suspicious, that the man had been dead, in her opinion, for more than twenty-four hours. That in spite of the circumstances she did not think he had drowned. Martha thanked her. It was enough to ensure a post mortem was unavoidable. They needed a skilled pathologist to begin to unravel the mystery.

  Doctor Mark Sullivan must have been waiting for her phone to be free. As soon as she replaced the handset it rang again. In an echo of Randall and Delyth Fontaine he was concise, professional and factual. Well used to dealing with both the law and the medics. Only someone who knew him very well would occasionally sense the slight slurring of a few of his consonants, a momentary hesitation while he chose appropriate words, a silence when he should have spoken. Martha knew him very well. She had known him in the years before she had become coroner. Before he had started drinking.

  “We have a muscular, well-nourished man – in his early forties, I should think.” A pause. “I’ve left his clothes on so haven’t picked up on any obvious cause of death. He could have fallen down the cellar steps, maybe drunk, banged his head, either simply died of a head injury or drowned when the water filled the cellar. There are plenty of possibilities and I’m not going to be sure until I’ve done a post mortem. There’s a slash in the left side of his jacket, over the heart so my guess is there’s a wound there.” Another pause. “He died at least twenty-four hours before we found him. Rigor mortis is wearing off. From what Delyth and the policeman said I think his body might have lain in the cellar and floated up the stairs. Unfortunately or fortunately the River Severn decided to play gutter Press and expose the evidence.” In spite of the witticism he sounded tired. His speech was getting slower.

  “What’s your gut feeling? Are we looking at a natural death, simple concealment or something more, Mark?”

  “Don’t know, Martha. I really … don’t … know. Probably a homicide.”

  “Have you picked up any superficial injuries?”

  “A bit of bruising on the hands and face which could be ante, peri or postmortem.”
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br />   “I see.”

  He gave one of his sudden warm, soft chuckles. “You know me, Martha, I like to wait until after the PM. Keep my cards close to my chest. I’ve watched far too many pathologists make monkeys of themselves playing the guessing game.” There was something infectious about his chuckle. She laughed too.

  “Martha – I was wondering if …”

  “I would come and view the body in situ? Yes – it seems a good idea. Give me half an hour.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “And wear galoshes.”

  There were always a multitude of domestic arrangements to tend to before she was free. Having cajoled Agnetha into leaving her bedroom door ajar and turning her CD player down, put a pizza and oven chips into the oven, thrown salad into a bowl and drenched it in bottled French dressing she bribed the twins into loading the dishwasher after tea and doing all their homework before changing into some trousers and a mac. She tried to ignore the fact that the twins were whispering again as she came downstairs. Twenty minutes later she was back in her car, wellies loaded into the boot and heading back down the drive, towards the town.

  The roads were wet and shiny black, lit by orange lampposts and eerily quiet. Folk were staying at home, intimidated by the river, guarding their property and impotently watching. She parked on some elevated ground near the Abbey and squleched her way over the duckboards to cross the English Bridge.

  No one could doubt that something was going on here tonight. The scene was lit with swiping blue strobes; floodlights beamed on Marine Terrace.

  Two policemen stepped forward, recognised her and waved her through. The sky was thunderous with sudden flashes of forked lightning. The entire scene looked as threatening as a Boris Karloff movie. She dropped down the steps towards the river and walked along the path, feeling the water licking at her wellies as it dribbled again towards the properties. She was glad to reach number seven.

  The front door was wide open, the scene well illuminated. A sodden room which stunk of the river-bed, three people inside. The fourth no more than a pile of soaking clothes. Randall was the first to spot her. He gave her a wide grin which she knew was relief. Once she had viewed the body it could be removed to the mortuary. Concealed from prying eyes and the first step taken in the investigation.

  Mark Sullivan was standing in the corner, his back to her, the body at his feet. The atmosphere was dank and dirty and smelt like the grave. It was the river water combining with early putrefaction, mixed in with the contents of flooded sewers. She looked around her. It probably had been a comfortable – if small – home. Light wallpaper, stained furniture which had bumped against the walls. Her wellies stuck to the carpet and her steps squelched each time she lifted her foot.

  “We found him here.” Sullivan indicated a door, swinging slightly. “It leads to a cellar.”

  She peered round. Alex flashed his torch down the stairs. River-water lay halfway up the cellar walls. Lime washed. It looked empty. No racks of wine here. She moved back to study the door. There was a stout bolt at the top. Shot back. She knew both the policeman and the pathologist would have noted all these details. She turned her attention to the body, rivulets of water still streaming from his clothes. Short brown hair, a half-open fish mouth. Pale skin which she knew would be cold to touch. Randall was right. It would be impossible to examine him properly here. She smiled at one, small detail. Randall had already bagged off the hands. She spoke to both of them. “Look – I don’t see what we can achieve here. Let’s get him down to the mortuary. And we’ll hold the PM tomorrow? In the morning.”

  She walked slowly across the bridge, glancing back at the melodrama. Underneath the river was roaring like an unleashed animal. She was glad to leave it behind and reach her car.

  3

  The following morning brought no relief from the town’s problems. The ring road was jammed with traffic denied access to the town. BBC Radio Shropshire announced every hour that both the Welsh and English bridges were still closed and likely to remain so. The announcer further informed its listeners that the river Severn was expected to peak sometime on Thursday.

  Martha fingered her steering wheel knowing that the inhabitants of Shrewsbury would be justifiably apprehensive. They were all affected whether or not they lived in the potential wash of the river, and the truth was bleak. The TV might be flashing out pictures reminiscent of the Blitz, portraying great camaraderie, togetherness and team spirit, dinghies, canoes, going to work in fisherman’s waders and so on but the reality was sick, gnawing worry. A fear that the insurance would not cover the real cost of the damage. Loss of business. Burglary of empty property, relatives suddenly foisted on families with no notion when they would leave. All this added to the stress of being invaded by contaminated river water. And now – on top of all those problems in the town – an unidentified body had turned up. For the already overstretched police force it must have seemed like the last straw – a crime scene difficult to investigate and seal off, possibly even a murder investigation. Martha smiled and channel-hopped between the local radio station and Classic FM. She wouldn’t swap places with a police officer planning an imminent holiday! She inched her way forward in the traffic queue and finally arrived at the mortuary at ten minutes to nine, parking next to the Panda car.

  They were waiting for her, Alex Randall, Mark Sullivan, four other officers – one of whom was introduced as PC Gary Coleman, finder of the body – the mortuary assistant, a pathology student from Stoke and the inevitable SOCOs with their array of specimen bags. They were all gowned up, gloves on. The body lay in the centre, still dressed, on the post mortem table. The lights were white-bright and tilted full on him. There would be no more secrets and no privacy.

  Their greetings were cursory and formal. They had a job to do. Alex Randall touched her arm and started speaking from behind her. “We may have an ID,” he said quietly.

  “Oh?” She turned around.

  As a woman it was hard not to respond to Alex Randall. He epitomised the traditional police officer. Tall, dark-haired, with serious hazel eyes, craggy, irregular, almost ugly features and a deeply buried sense of humour which he hid effectively behind formality. She had known him for a couple of years without ever seeing his face crack into a smile.

  Then one day he had been explaining a case to her where a woman had fallen, drunk, with her face down a lavatory. Her friends had subsequently pulled her out, cleaned her up and dumped her on the steps of Monkmoor police station. And quite suddenly, as he had described the state of the woman’s clothes, her hair and her mortification, his face had cracked and, instead of the ugliness, she had glimpsed a man full of life and humour – away from the job. Sometimes she idly wondered about him and waited, as for the sun to explode from behind a cloud, for that smile that wrought such a transformation. But it was rare. As rare and welcome as sunshine in an English summer. Of his personal life she still knew nothing. It was a closed book. And she had picked up no gossip about him. Even from Jericho. Which made her curious because Jericho gossiped about everyone.

  Randall carried on talking softly into her ear. She caught a waft of his sharp, strange after-shave overlying the pervading stink of mortuary-formalin which always reminded her of long ago pathology lectures in the medical school.

  “The house this guy was washed out of was rented to a James Humphreys, a businessman from Slough, who moved up here a couple of months ago when he got a job managing the Jaguar garage. He fits the description. Right build, right age and we’ve picked up a Jaguar in a pub car park which belongs to him. He used to leave it there overnight. According to the estate agent who rented him the property, Humphreys was waiting to see how the job panned out before bringing his wife over to Shrewsbury – which is why he’d rented Marine Terrace. He was last at work on Sunday, left round about four in the afternoon. Since then there’s been no word from him.”

  She put her hand out as though to pause the proceedings. “Have you made contact with his wife?”


  “There’s been a bit of a problem. She isn’t at home. The local force are doing all they can but I thought in view of the circumstances you’d want Mark to proceed with the initial examination?”

  She nodded. Peter, the mortician, was well able to tidy corpses up to completely conceal the signs of a post mortem.

  So one of the policemen tied her into a cotton gown. She slipped her feet into a pair of theatre clogs, pulled a paper hat over her hair so a stray strand could not contaminate trace evidence and they were ready to start. She didn’t need gloves. She was here as an observer only. She knew better than to touch anything.

  The police photographer took some flash pictures and Martha watched the river-water trickling slowly into the grooves on the post mortem table and pooling in the sink. One of the SOCOs filled a small specimen bottle with it. They would analyse it for diatoms and make sure it really was river-water which dripped from the dead man’s clothes.

  They moved in closer. A ring of curious spectators.

  In one way all corpses share a common appearance. Young or old, male or female, black or white. They do not look alive. In fact it is hard to imagine them ever having been alive. This makes the pathologist’s job easier. It detaches him from thinking too hard about the living, breathing person and from the circumstances which led to this.