River Deep

by Priscilla Masters

  “Close your eyes.”

  Martha obeyed and surrendered herself to the strange sensation of soft hands massaging her face, using rotary movements to rub in cream then swabbing, still with the same gentle, circular movements, with cotton wool pads. Something clean and fresh, scented like rose-water, was next and Martha relaxed even further under the sensation while Lindy Haddonfield rubbed on tightening masks, astringents, special collagen-containing moisturisers, some tightening, some relaxing, some dream-making. It was like being hypnotised and all the while the Barbie-voice explained what she was doing like the blurb on the back of a make-up bottle.

  “This closes the pores.”

  “You can feel the collagen working.”

  “This is guaranteed to reduce the bags under your eyes.”

  If she noticed the dark patches where too much dye had remained on Martha’s scalp she made no comment. Probably thought it was simply a clumsy hairdresser. Sorry, Vernon.

  Hours later from a distant planet she heard Lindy’s Barbie-doll voice say, “There. You’re done.”

  She opened her eyes. The face staring back at her from the mirror was, to put it politely, zonked, eyes unfocusing, relaxed. It didn’t look anything like her normal face. Lindy Haddonfield would never recognise her. She didn’t even recognise herself.

  “Oh.”

  Lindy pointed out the brightness of her eyes, the soft texture of her skin, the vanished pores, the lack of bags underneath her eyes and all Martha could think was that she had wanted it to go on for ever.

  But it was time for the seaweed wrap. “Drawing toxins from the skin.”

  This time it was evil-smelling mud on strips of cloth which tugged as it dried to a dusty film. Relaxing music played for twenty minutes before Lindy returned, rinsed it off and slapped oil noisily on her palms before kneading her flesh. Starting with her shoulders. She made more encouraging comments as she worked.

  “Nasty bit of tension here.”

  “Don’t mind me. Oh – got a tender spot?”

  “I can feel your stress going away under my very fingertips.”

  Martha closed her eyes and drifted again. Soft hands but strong. She’d never before realised that to massage you needed such muscular, powerful fingers. She was lying on her stomach, her arms down by her sides, soft music playing. Hump-backed whales this time. Now Lindy was silent, tossing out only the occasional comment. “There’s a stiff bit here. Now, Miss Rees. This leg is …”

  Martha let her mind drift on. Something was bothering her. Oil was slapped on next, a chipping rhythmic action from the sides of her masseuse’s hands.

  Lindy’s talk became more personal. “Got a partner then?”

  Instinctively Martha sighed. “Sort of.”

  “Men – all the same. Waste of space if you ask me. We’d be better off without them. Have more fun.”

  Martha agreed, aware at the same time that she was taking a significant step. Moving beyond something. Towards something else. But she did not know what.

  “OK. Roll over onto your back.”

  “And of course divorce – lose the lot.” A cynical laugh. “And these days the age of chivalry really is dead. However hard a woman works her husband’s quite happy to take half.”

  Again Martha agreed. “Yeah.”

  She couldn’t have said exactly when she first began to feel uneasy, to lose that completely relaxed feeling. Or how. Only that there was something about the competence of these hands, of the precision, the familiarity with anatomy, that made her uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the very softness that reminded her of Watkins’ statement. Soft hands. Soft voice.

  She was lying still, on her back, practically naked except for a towel over her, nipple to thigh. It was hard not to stare up into her face, to read determination, ruthlessness, cruelty? Martha closed her eyes then opened them again. And met those of Lindy Haddonfield. Closed them again, against a coolness of dislike that chilled to something akin to fear.

  18

  To dislike is a deep instinct but it threw no light on this case. What was she saying anyway? That she did not like Haddonfield’s wife. So what did that mean? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Lindy Haddonfield could not have been implicated in her husband’s murder. She had an alibi for the time he had gone missing. She had been at work all day Monday when her husband had driven to Shrewsbury.

  What had really happened to Haddonfield? How had he returned from Shrewsbury to Oswestry? When had he made the journey? Dead or alive? Where had he been killed? When had he been killed? When had his body been dumped in the ragbank? And who had been the hitchhiker Watkins had picked up? Not Clarke Haddonfield, according to Watkins.

  Martha frowned. Surely, Watkins was mistaken. It must have been Haddonfield. But even in this theory there was another big flaw. Wendy Aitken was no fool. She would have checked out Watkins’ story thoroughly as well as Lindy Haddonfield’s alibi – and looked for any evidence that she could be connected with her husband’s murder – however tenuously. So should she mistrust her instincts? Martha felt her scepticism grow.

  Lunch was a paltry affair, a tiny mackerel salad, prettily set out on the plate, with drizzles of fromage frais and herbs enough to stock a garden centre and consisting of microcalories. She shared a table with another of the beauticians and two middle-aged women who were terribly jaunty and suggestive. The rest of the day passed in a hazy sort of nightmare although the contact with Lindy Haddonfield was not so personal during the afternoon session; with her clothes back on Martha felt less vulnerable. The swim in the pool almost restored her to her normal self so while she lay underneath the sunlamp, sat in the sauna and plunged in the jacuzzi, she tried to plan her next move. The trouble was she didn’t have a clue what her next move should be. She didn’t know anything. She felt an instinct – that most derided of sleuths’ intuitions. And dislike alone didn’t make a person suspicious.

  And again returned full circle to her original thought. Both investigating officers were very capable. And now they were working together. Both would know as well as she did that in 40% of homicide cases the spouse was responsible. They would have considered both Lindy Haddonfield and Freddie Bosworth very carefully before deciding they were innocent. Besides, where did James Humphreys fit in?

  Surely, surely she must be wrong. Her instincts were taking her to silly-land.

  Her final contact with Lindy Haddonfield was the manicure, which took place in a large, bright room noisy with the chatter of other women having their hair set or their nails done. Lindy Haddonfield was friendly and invited her back but by the time Martha left Lilac Clouds she still felt confused, wondering why she had taken such a strong dislike to a perfectly pleasant woman and why the voice still nagged away behind her. She had looked into Lindy Haddonfield’s eyes and read behind them some steeliness. A hardness mixed with ruthless determination which pointed her towards mistrust. She could not believe she had imagined this. Worse she had no idea what bearing it had on the dual murders. She did not know how to proceed except to try and encourage Alex Randall to at least consider that this woman might be connected with her own husband’s murder.

  At this point she began to understand, that whatever the portrayal in popular fiction, there were some very real shortcomings for the PI. She was powerless. She had no authority. She could not break the law. She had no jurisdiction. She had no access to police records or to their findings other than those that affected her role as coroner and likewise she had no access to witness statements or interviews. She could not tap into the Police National Computer and learn who drove what car or who had criminal records. But what put her into an even weaker position was this: Randall sensed her interest. Interest was OK – as a coroner. Anything beyond that could be construed as prejudicial. In fact, her ‘investigation’ should stop right here.

  She caught sight of her face in the mirror, at the vivid lips and teased-out hair and smiled. Should was not necessarily would. She drove home in reflective and frustrated mood. Until
she turned into her own drive when her habitual resolution came to the fore again.

  “Stop whingeing, Martha,” she scolded herself. “Just stop it. OK – so there are disadvantages in your position. There are also advantages. Use them.” Goading herself further she tapped the side of her forehead. “Get smart, woman. You can talk to Alex Randall and he may be less guarded with you than with anyone else. Ask him things – innocently.”

  She was within sight of the front door. The car roof was down, the weather fine, but cold. She sat quite still for a moment, listening. Heightened senses. Furthered by guilt. A whispering in the trees that did not seem to be simply the wind funnelling through pine needles or evergreen leaves. It whispered words.

  “A Message for Martha.”

  Not whispered. Breathed.

  “Message for Martha.”

  It was one of the few times in her life she had ever been really, physically frightened. In the next second the car must have inched forward without her realising. The outside security light suddenly flooded the area. But that only made it worse. It cast a circle of light, like a lit stage, beyond the auditorium of a rim of blackened trees. Her pupils constricted and however hard she peered into those trees she could see nothing and nobody. She could almost have convinced herself she had imagined the episode.

  Until she heard the words again. Quite clearly.

  “Message for Martha.”

  “Who’s there?”

  The silence that came now was even more threatening. Had the wind suddenly dropped that it no longer formed a hundred thousand musical instruments as it blew through the trees? Because now there was no rustling. No whispering. Nothing but an awful silence which told her what she had to know. It never was the wind.

  She let herself into the house, glad of the light, the locks, the telephone, the twins, Agnetha who made her a coffee with whisky in it and commented how strained she looked. So much for the Stress Buster Day!

  After dinner of pasta and bacon, Sam and Sukey seemed to sense she needed to be alone. They said they had some homework and vanished into their bedrooms. She took herself off to the study and sat in the dark.

  Years ago, when she had still been practising medicine she had been discussing a complicated case with Martin. She could picture him now, sitting in that very chair, steepling his fingertips as he listened to the bizarre collection of symptoms, her own fuzzy interpretation of them. “Stick to the facts, Martha,” he had said. “Never mind all the adjectives that accompany your patient’s symptoms. Just list them.” So she did.

  Now. Two men dead. The first, Gerald Bosworth, a businessman from Chester, had been stabbed during the evening of Sunday, February 10th. On the very next day, Monday, February 11th, the last sighting of another man, Clarke Haddonfield. Who had also died violently.

  Gerald Bosworth had died in the rented cottage of James Humphreys, a car salesman from Slough. No one knew where Clarke Haddonfield had died.

  Apparently there had been no connection between the two men, other than the town of Shrewsbury. Bosworth had died in the town, Haddonfield had last been seen heading away from the town. Humphreys temporarily lived in the town. There any similarities ended – except for maybe age. Haddonfield had been in his early forties, Bosworth, 42 Humphreys, 47.

  All three had been married men.

  So the connection between the three men was, at best, tenuous. Circumstantial. And being realistic, probably nonexistent. She narrowed her eyes and forced her mind to track in a different direction, one which she could not ignore.

  What if the river had not flooded? A different scenario. Almost certainly Humphreys would have been the one to discover Bosworth’s body while Haddonfield would have driven home in his own vehicle and not been picked up by the lorry driver. What difference would that have made? She could not work it out.

  On impulse she dialled Randall’s mobile number. And immediately wished she hadn’t. He answered, sounding hassled. Preoccupied. Had to explain to someone – she got the impression a female – that he was speaking to the coroner. She felt awkward and intrusive. So instead of opening a discussion on the dual murders she simply asked whether they had investigated Lindy Haddonfield for the disappearance of her husband. He answered her testily. You see another side to people when you burst in unannounced.

  “She was at home all night. We’ve got witnesses. She rang her mother to say she was waiting for Clarke to arrive.”

  “From a mobile?”

  “No. From her landline.”

  She wanted to ask how he knew this important fact which anchored her in her house. Surely police mistrusted every statement anyone said, tested it for watertight-ness? Particularly when the person questioned should be suspect number one.

  He answered her unasked question. “Her mother’s got caller ID and we’ve got the BT printout.”

  How far do you take simple dislike? As far as an accusation? On no grounds? Would a mother provide an alibi for her daughter? Even if the crime was murder?

  It was as though Randall was reading her mind. “Besides – a neighbour’s car was blocking hers in. As I said before there’s a problem with parking. It’s a very tight cul de sac. She could not have gone out later that night, not without the neighbour letting her out. And he didn’t.” So he says, she thought. But even she knew her suspicion was beginning to look foolish.

  Lindy Haddonfield was off the hook. She had an alibi for the time that her husband had disappeared. She couldn’t have picked him up. Ergo she had had nothing to do with his murder. Unless … And this wasn’t even a worm of an idea. Nothing formed at all. Just another feeling. She didn’t like Lindy Haddonfield.

  She thanked Randall politely and apologised for having disturbed him. Surprisingly he laughed. “It’s all right, Martha,” he said, almost jokingly now. “Any time. And I mean it.”

  She put the phone down with a feeling of cheated petulance. Had her instincts about Lindy Haddonfield been wrong then? Out of kilter with the facts? Was her prejudice illogical? She sat in the empty room and resolved. Maybe she had better stick to being a good coroner rather than a rotten PI.

  19

  The inquest on Paul Haddonfield was opened two days later. As she had expected, the press attended in force. It was inevitable. A second murder in North Shropshire was bound to inspire more headlines and give rise to speculation. From their point of view, after the initial flurry of interest, Bosworth’s death had been disappointing. Body flushed out by floods and Man stabbed in flooded cottage had been a promising start, but the subsequent investigation had been arid, supplying few headlines. They had kept the secret of the double mistaken identity and the juicy titbit that the dead man’s wife had actually been summoned to the corpse of another man. So even the local papers had drifted on to other stories. However the discovery of Clarke Haddonfield’s body in similarly dramatic headline-inspiring circumstances was the opportunity for a second bite at the cherry and Bosworth’s murder was dragged out again, like a maiden aunt at a wedding; his case inserted at every opportunity in the discussion surrounding the murder and sad disposal of Clarke Haddonfield’s body.

  More headlines. From the unimaginatively factual, Body found in supermarket ragbank, to the sensational, Woman discovers window cleaner’s corpse with throat cut. (Someone must have used a thesaurus to find alternatives for a place where you dump unwanted garments.) Never rob the papers of their drama.

  Knowing that in court she would be referred to only as Doctor Gunn, the coroner, Martha had deliberately dressed down for the event so heavily as to be disguised. She was wearing her most dowdy suit, not quite black, but not grey or brown either. More the colour of dullness – of oldness. It had a loose-fitting jacket that unflatteringly piled on the pounds, and a skirt to mid-calf, gathered around the middle adding yet more bulk. She had never understood quite why she had bought this suit except that an overbearing shop assistant had combined with a day commemorating the anniversary of Martin’s death to bring down a heavy curtain o
f depression which she had counter-acted with a sugar-lust so strong she had had pockets full of Woolies Pic’n’Mix. The Pic’n’Mix plus the suit had made her miserably guilty even as she had paid for it, knowing she would probably never wear it. So it had hung, like an albatross, not around her neck, but at the back of her wardrobe – to remind her of an indiscretion and an unhappy shopping trip. Still, it had its uses. And today was one of them.

  To complete the transformation she had rigorously shampooed the hair dye out and tied her hair back in a floppy ponytail instead of the Lilac Clouds bouffant, or her usual look – au naturelle. She wore a pinky shade of foundation two shades paler than her usual tint, absolutely no lipstick, and to complete the disguise she had replaced her contact lenses with gold-rimmed glasses containing smoky-tinted lenses. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe she should have been a character actress. Not a coroner. Martha Rees. Character actress.

  Unfortunately Agnetha had caught sight of her just as she had been leaving the house that morning and had made a brief gesture of surprise. “Mrs Gunn, are you not very well?”

  She had shrugged. “Just trying out a new look.”

  “Well –” Agnetha had ventured doubtfully before remembering her position, smiling and saying she hoped she’d have a nice day.

  So Martha had sneaked out, tossing back the lie that she also had a bit of a headache.

  The personal comments dogged her all through the early part of the morning. When she reached the court Mark Sullivan gave her a startled stare as did Alex Randall. It was Sullivan who spoke first. “Are you all right, Martha?” Staring and frowning. “You look … different.”

  Had it not been so vitally important that she did look different she might have been either flattered or insulted at the attention. As it was, it was simply a relief. Wendy Aitken gave her a sharp glance but said nothing. Jericho alone appeared to notice nothing and no one else passed comment on her appearance. Randall, however, continued to look puzzled and Martha felt he needed an explanation too. She gave him a tight smile. “Contact lenses irritating and …” she tapped the side of her head, “I have a headache.”