‘But, Martha, I hate it,’ he said viciously. ‘I hate these long evenings alone. No one to holiday with or come home to at the end of a day. I hate it.’
‘Be careful, Simon,’ she said. ‘You’re a very wealthy man in a very vulnerable state. Be very careful.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have one more whisky and then take one of Evelyn’s sleeping tablets and go to bed.’
‘Good night,’ she said, struggling not to sound cross with him.
When he had hung up she sat and stared at the silent, moving pictures on the television screen. Simon had said something that had a bearing on the case. There was the obvious connection of Alice in an equally disturbed state finding oblivion through alcohol and sleeping tablets. Yes, there was that. But there was something else too. It was the reference to what lay people call an abortion but medics call a termination. Terminations of pregnancy are not legal after 24 weeks unless there is a specific and serious medical defect in the foetus. She knew that as a medic.
But the child who had been brought to the hospital would have shown no sign of a medical defect until it was born. And it had been a full term foetus. Not an abortion. So why did she feel instinctively that it had a bearing on the case?
She went to sleep with the question still buzzing around inside her.
FIFTEEN
Simon rang again first thing Tuesday morning making it the second morning she had been awakened by the telephone. At this rate she wouldn’t even need an alarm clock, she thought, stretching out a hand for the receiver.
‘I’ve rung to apologize, Martha,’ he said, speaking in a short, abrupt manner. ‘I feel such a fool. I should have remembered that whisky makes me maudlin. It really wasn’t a good idea to dump it all on you. I was in my cups last night and have the headache this morning to prove it. Again – I apologize -’ he laughed – ‘most humbly. You’re going to think I’m an idiot,’ he continued, ‘or worse a prat, but I sort of needed to do something stupid. I feel much better for it this morning. And,’ he said grandly, ‘to prove how very sorry I am for dumping all that on your lovely shoulders I want to take you out for dinner.’ He paused for a second. ‘If we’re still friends, that is.’
‘Of course,’ she said, smiling at his penitent humility – not his usual attitude. ‘Although neither the apology nor the dinner is necessary. I consider it a compliment that you chose to speak to me.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Even if you were pissed. It’s a mark of true friendship, Simon. Anyone is willing to share happiness but it’s true friends who confide in you in their hour of adversity and expose their vulnerability as you did. Besides – I really owe you a dinner.’
‘How so?’
‘You’ve given me insight into one of my current cases.’
‘Which one?’
‘I can’t tell you, Simon. It’ll probably all come out in the end and then I promise I will explain all.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry to be so mysterious but I’m a bit tied up at the moment so can we hang back on the dinner until this case has come to court? Then I can really look forward to the evening.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You’ll ring me?’
‘I will, Simon,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
‘Until then, Martha.’
As she put the phone down she reflected on Simon Pendlebury and his mysterious past, both recent and distant. He had been at university with Martin and they had been unlikely friends. Different both in personality and in their looks. Simon had been the good looking one while Martin… well, Martin had had the personality. Simon had initially been shy but had grown into a tall, handsome man who had married the gentlest of women, Evelyn. Martha had known Evelyn Pendlebury for almost as long as Simon and she had never heard her say an unkind or unpleasant word about anybody. Which could have made her appear bland, insincere, shallow even, when she was anything but. Evelyn had explained her lack of malice in typical humble and honest fashion. She had said to Martha that she simply ‘didn’t bother’ with anyone about whom she would want to say anything unpleasant. ‘I select my friends very, very carefully,’ she had said.
So how come Evelyn had married Simon? Simon who had clawed his way up – somehow – from an emotionally and physically deprived background, left behind his scarred working-class roots via a scholarship – but to all that wealth? Huge house, cars, housekeeper, swimming pool, daughters educated at one of the top ‘ladies’ establishments, and was now talking about buying a black-and-white, Grade I listed house attached to something like a thousand acres. Worth millions. Where did all the money come from? Where had all the money come from?
It was something she and Martin had puzzled over for years. Nothing legal had been their final conclusion but what made this unlikely was Evelyn’s personality. Martha could not imagine her friend being married to a man who was less than honest. And Evelyn was too bright to turn a blind eye to an unpleasant truth. So she and Martin had argued the point round and round, never coming to a sensible conclusion until they had dropped the subject completely but unsatisfactorily.
Evelyn’s death from ‘the silent killer’, ovarian cancer, the year before had been a tragedy for all who had known her.
Martha lay back against her pillows, her mind racing, firstly thinking about Simon and Evelyn but then progressing to this strange case. Her thought processes were slow at first but as she became more awake they speeded up.
Sukey was the next person to intrude into her bedroom, in pink pyjamas, dressing gown and fluffy slippers, carefully carrying a mug of coffee which she handed to her mother. ‘Morning, Mum,’ she said, climbing onto the bed.
Martha took the coffee from her, inhaling the scent. It was fresh coffee. ‘Is this a thank you for allowing you to go to acting school?’
Sukey nodded, unabashed that her strategy had been penetrated. ‘I’m so excited, Mum,’ she confided, giving her a hug, almost splashing coffee on the starched white duvet cover. She opened her blue eyes wide. ‘I’ve just got this feeling that I’m born to be very, very lucky.’
Martha could have warned her enthusiastic daughter that a career in acting was at best precarious, quoted the mantra that many were called but few chosen and told her that even successful actresses had periods of inactivity. She might have added that they had no contacts in the media world, no famous relations who might be able to ease Sukey’s way into a role or two. But she had gone along a similar path with Sam, warning him about choosing football as a career. And look where he was now. The Liverpool Academy. With her twin brother so successful it was no wonder that Sukey was aiming high, convinced she would share his good fortune. Martha wondered if Sam would secure the Stoke deal and superstitiously crossed her fingers. Her twins, she was fast realizing, were a very unusual and unique pair. It made it more of a shame that their father could not witness their successes and perhaps be there to comfort them through their downfalls. But if Sam could play in a Premier League team why should not Sukey star in a soap or a film or go on the stage, whatever Noël Coward warned Mrs Worthington. Martha put her arm round her daughter, breathed in the soapy, lemony smell of her hair, drank her coffee and tried to find the right words to say, not to discourage but to encourage without raising false hopes.
In the end she kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘Go for it, Suks,’ she said. ‘Life’s too short to sit back, suddenly arrive at middle age and wonder what would have happened if you had followed your dream.’
Sukey flicked her long blonde hair behind her shoulders and looked into her mother’s face, frowning. ‘What parts do you think I could play, Mum?’ She was already sounding self-absorbed.
‘Just about anything.’
Sukey’s frown deepened. ‘I wanted you to say something more specific,’ she said grumpily. ‘Not soft soap me.’
‘What would you like to play? Classical stuff? Jane Austen?’
Sukey made a face. ‘I wouldn’t want to be one of those simpering wretches like in Pride and Prejudice ,’ she said. ‘I’d want
to be someone more like Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale .’ Her chin was jutting out.
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Martha muttered. ‘Come on, Suks, climb off your cloud. Time to get up and go to work and school.’
Martha felt very happy that morning. Tuesday had started well, with the brief chat with her daughter and the telephone call from Simon Pendlebury which had been so pleasant and friendly. As she showered, she reflected that she had neither liked nor trusted him while Evelyn had been alive but since she’d died they had become friends. She smiled to herself and dressed in a black Betty Jackson suit worn over a pink silk blouse. One of the downsides to her job was that dealing so much with death on a day-to-day basis she was almost always forced to wear, if only for decency’s sake, sober colours. Most days she had face-to-face meetings with grieving relatives. But she felt she could risk a pink blouse today. She wore high-heeled patent shoes for a small touch of glamour.
To her surprise when she reached her office Jericho Palfreyman opened the door to her, his eyes bright with inquisitiveness. ‘Morning,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. ‘Detective Inspector Randall’s already here to see you, ma’am. I let him into your office.’
She hung up her coat. The weather was still freezing, especially in the early morning; she’d had to scrape the ice off the car which had delayed her by five minutes. But it was still only ten to nine. ‘It’s a bit early for a visit from him, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ His words were heavy with meaning. He was dying for her to ask why DI Randall had called in so early.
She gave in. ‘Do you know what it’s about, Jericho? Did he say?’
‘No, ma’am, but he looks…’ Jericho fished around in his head for an appropriate word. ‘Restless. I think he’s worried about something.’
‘Right.’ She pushed the door open. Alex was silhouetted against the window, staring out at the snowscape. He turned round as she entered. ‘Alex,’ she greeted him warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you.’
‘I had to come, Martha.’
Jericho was right, she thought. Alex Randall was positively agitated.
‘Sit down,’ she invited.
He folded his long, spare frame into the armchair and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. ‘I’m going round and round in circles,’ he confessed. ‘Going mad and not getting anywhere very satisfactory which is why I’ve come here to talk to you.’ He smiled. ‘The voice of reason.’
She sat down too, not behind her desk but in the chair to his side. ‘You think I can help?’
‘I damn well hope so.’
She leaned back. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Shoot.’
‘I need a clue, Martha. A direction. Something – anything to give me a focus.’
She thought for a minute then spoke slowly. ‘This probably hasn’t got anything to do with it,’ she said, ‘but a friend of mine rang me late last night.’
Randall looked at her, patently wondering where this was leading.
‘He mentioned a friend of his who’d had a termination. A medical abortion,’ she explained.
Randall stared at her as though he thought she was stark staring mad. ‘That was not exactly what I’d expected.’
She met his eyes and he gave his head a faint shake. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t see what that can possibly have to do with this case.’ His eyes were on her face as though he was searching for something. ‘I simply can’t see it, Martha,’ he said finally. ‘We’re talking about a baby here, not an abortion.’
‘I know that,’ she said stiffly. Then she smiled. ‘Stick with me, Alex,’ she said. ‘Be patient. Initially I wondered about Alice’s daughter, Rosie, if she had got pregnant. Could the baby possibly be hers? Then I decided no. If she had had an unwanted pregnancy she would have had a legal termination. Not gone to full term and then hidden the baby’s body. Rosie Sedgewick is simply too bright,’ she said. ‘And besides, from what you’ve told me she’s also too strong a personality. She doesn’t fit the profile I’ve built up of the child’s mother.’ She smiled at him mischievously. ‘I’m not being very helpful, am I?’
Randall waited, hoping she was about to say something a little more illuminating.
Martha knew she needed to reassure him. ‘All this, I feel, does have some bearing on the case.’
Alex thought but he still couldn’t see it. ‘Any other thoughts?’
‘I was planning to interview Mrs Palk,’ Martha said.
‘Whatever for?’ Randall was bemused.
‘Because she was the one who found Alice Sedgewick’s body. She had a key to number 41,’ she reminded him.
‘And?’ He felt a little more interested now. His pulse quickened as Martha leaned forward. He caught a waft of a very light, spicy, clean perfume and wondered what it was. He diverted his attention from her perfume to the light which gleamed in her long green eyes. ‘Even so,’ he said steadily, ‘Why would you want to speak to Acantha Palk?’
‘Because I have some questions for her.’
Alex stretched out his long legs and spoke in a casual tone. ‘You wouldn’t care to tell me what these questions are?’
Like a spring, Martha thought, he was uncoiling. ‘Not at the moment, Alex,’ she said. ‘If I get any answers then I’ll tell you.’ She touched his hand and looked straight into his face. ‘I promise.’
She paused for a moment then looked away. ‘Tell me a bit more about the Godfreys,’ she said, catching him completely unawares.
‘I’d almost forgotten about them,’ he admitted. ‘They’re surely right out of the picture?’
‘You think?’
Alex looked at her suspiciously but Martha Gunn, Shropshire coroner, had never looked more innocent. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I can’t follow your line of reasoning.’
She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘That’s what makes you come here for help and discussion,’ she said.
He narrowed his eyes, half closing them in thought. ‘I might just be curious about your methods one of these days, Martha,’ he said. Then he added quite unexpectedly, ‘Who is this friend, anyway, the one who was talking about an abortion?’
Annoyingly she felt herself blush. ‘Just a friend,’ she said shortly. If Detective Inspector Alex Randall could keep his private life private then so could she. They might have known each other for a good few years but they had never quite crossed the boundary from colleague to friend, however narrow it had sometimes become. Maybe they never would. Alex Randall was a very private person. Not open about his personal life at all. She knew little about him other than that he was married though he had never talked directly about Mrs Randall. Children? She didn’t know that either. Where did he live? Something else to add to the list of ‘things she didn’t know about Alex’. He was, in fact, a complete enigma. A mystery.
She looked up to see him watching her and returned to safer ground. ‘There is another thing, Alex,’ she said. ‘Did you say one of your WPCs interviewed the Isaac family who, if I remember rightly, lived in Number 41 before the Godfreys?’
‘Well – Mrs Isaac did. She’s dead now. WPC Shaw visited her son and daughter-in-law.’ Again he was both surprised and puzzled at the direction her questions were moving in.
‘Did she feel there was something – well – suspicious there?’
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Not exactly.’
‘So, what?’
‘WPC Shaw felt they didn’t like her probing into their finances. It was just an impression that they were reluctant and less happy to focus on that topic. Apparently they appear to be worth a packet, those two. And…’ In spite of himself Alex Randall smiled. ‘Personally I think WPC Shaw simply took against the fact that Mr Isaac is an undertaker. As was his father before him.’
‘Really?’ Martha said briskly. ‘Well, Alex.’ She stood up, squared up a sheaf of papers on her desk. ‘Time for us both to get on. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.’
He looked at her and caught the faintest touch of a smile. ‘Tha
nk you for your time, Martha,’ he said, ‘though what help you’ve been I’m not quite sure.’
‘And thank you for yours, Alex.’ She paused and couldn’t suppress a wide grin. ‘I haven’t helped you at all, have I?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Or more truthfully perhaps I’m not quite sure. But thanks anyway.’ He turned to go but before he moved his guard was down. She read something in the drop of his face, some glimpse of a deep sludge of sadness that must permeate throughout his entire life. She almost – almost – stretched out her hand and asked him what it was, how she could help, why he needed to suffer like this and keep it to himself. But as clearly as she read the emotion she read too the Keep Out sign planted firmly in front of it and knew instinctively that now was not the right time. She must draw back and wait. He would not welcome her crossing this invisible but tangible line drawn in the sand. In fact she could never cross this boundary without a clear and unambiguous invitation. So she held out her hand. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’ She paused. ‘I hope, however, that I have planted some seeds and that they bear fruit.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘Goodbye, Alex,’
‘Goodbye.’ He held her eyes for a split second too long – long enough for her to read even more clearly this truly terrible pain that he locked inside himself. She watched him go with a feeling of frustration.
When she had heard his footsteps patter down the stairs, she wandered outside her room to speak to Jericho. He was someone who knew everything and everyone. A great source of information – even if he did get his facts muddled up on some occasions and embellish the truth on others. He was also an incredible gossip and had antennae which picked up on any whiff of scandal as tall as a mobile phone mast. But he was also very intuitive and would know why she was being so curious so she must be careful how she posed her questions. ‘Tell me, Jericho,’ she said casually, ‘What do you make of Detective Inspector Randall?’
Her assistant pursed his lips. ‘Don’t rightly know,’ he said.
‘Does he live in Shrewsbury?’
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