Death Comes First

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘Police, police, make way,’ he shouted.

  Then, automatically, he added: ‘Did anyone see what happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ came a male voice out of the small crowd gathered by the railings. ‘This bloody great Range Rover swerved straight across the road, hit the railings and catapulted over. I was right behind, I saw exactly—’

  Vogel didn’t hear any more. He could see something in the water. A head emerged. The head of a woman. He stared, willing his eyes to become quickly adjusted. Quite a lot of light was shining on the water. There were street lamps, the beams of car headlights, and shafts of light from the windows of buildings. It was not, however, enough to allow him to see the woman’s face clearly. But he was certain it was Joyce Mildmay. It had to be. The following motorist had said the vehicle was a Range Rover, and Joyce’s Range Rover had already been spotted heading this way.

  The weather was terrible, worse than it had been all day. There were actually breakers in the Floating Harbour. The woman gasped for air. A substantial wave rolled over her. Both her arms came up and she disappeared again beneath the surface.

  ‘Shit,’ said Vogel again.

  He was suddenly aware of Nobby Clarke, having presumably illegally abandoned the CID car for the second time that evening, by his side. He turned to her.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ he said.

  Clarke didn’t seem to be listening. Neither did she hesitate. She pulled off her ankle boots, shrugged her way out of her jacket and jumped in.

  Vogel felt not only helpless but pathetic. He was physically so inept. All he could do was watch as his DCI, performing an impressive crawl in extremely choppy conditions, powered her way out to the spot where the woman had last been seen. He did, at least, also call in the incident on his mobile and request all emergency services. Soonest.

  But it didn’t occur to Vogel to look for a lifebelt or a life-line along the quayside. Fortunately a young man in the crowd did just that. He arrived at Vogel’s side with a lifebelt as Nobby Clarke, kicking her heels smartly in the air, duck-dived into the depths in search of Joyce Mildmay and whatever else she might find down there.

  The young man was Alvin Nightingale. As soon as he had finished phoning in his sighting of Joyce Mildmay’s vehicle, Alvin had rushed out of his gran’s house, boarded the pre-loved 100cc Yamaha motorcycle he kept in the front garden, and taken off in hot pursuit, pushing the bike as fast as he could along the Portway. Alvin was going to show ’em. He really was.

  ‘I can help,’ he told Vogel. ‘I’m going in. I’m a trained life-saver.’

  He thrust the lifebelt into Vogel’s arms. ‘Throw it in when I bring someone up,’ he ordered.

  Then, perhaps sensing that Vogel was no action man, he added: ‘And don’t forget to hang on to the line.’

  Vogel nodded. It was not police procedure to encourage civilians to take part in potentially dangerous rescue missions, and Vogel had no idea that Alvin Nightingale was employed by the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. In any case he was still a civilian. But there could be children in that sunken car, and Vogel’s senior officer was already risking her life.

  Alvin Nightingale didn’t give Vogel time to think that through. He dived into the water as DCI Clarke resurfaced clutching the woman Vogel assumed to be Joyce Mildmay.

  Alvin turned in the water and called above the noise of the rain and the wind for Vogel to throw in the lifebelt. Vogel did so. With the belt over one shoulder, Alvin swam out to Nobby Clarke and the woman she had rescued. He helped Clarke put the belt around the rescued woman, then began to swim with her to the shore, leaving Nobby Clarke to follow.

  But the DCI had other plans. Up came her feet again as she made yet another dive. It was clear she was attempting to return to the submerged vehicle below.

  Alvin reached the shore. Willing hands grabbed the half-drowned woman and pulled her out of the water. Vogel joined in. He saw at once that the woman was Joyce Mildmay, and that she wasn’t breathing. At least he had managed to complete a first-aid course, and he thought he was reasonably well-versed in emergency life-saving techniques. He was certainly trained in cardiopulmonary resuscitation, or CPR, although he’d never before had to execute it for real. He began chest compressions at once, rhythmically, and it seemed effectively, pumping Joyce’s chest. Gratifyingly, she spewed up sea water and, although barely conscious, began to breathe.

  Meanwhile Alvin had returned to the site of the submerged vehicle.

  He and Nobby Clarke made several more dives before coming up with another prone victim, this time a man, and bringing him to the quayside.

  ‘There are at least two people in the back,’ Clarke called up to Vogel. ‘One of them could be the daughter. We can’t get her out. She’s trapped. And the boy. I think he’s there too. Also trapped.’

  Clarke was gasping for breath. Her face was grey with shock, and probably with exertion too, thought Vogel.

  The fire brigade arrived as the DCI spoke. And a police emergency dive team.

  ‘We’ll take over now. Everybody stand back,’ someone shouted authoritatively.

  Strong professional arms helped haul Clarke, Alvin Nightingale and the prone man on to the quayside.

  The man, of whose identity Vogel had no idea, appeared to be dead. Nonetheless one of the paramedics on the scene started to go through the motions of revival.

  Vogel’s attention was attracted by two other paramedics preparing to load the still prone but breathing Joyce Mildmay into an ambulance.

  He hurried to her side. She had recovered consciousness. Her eyes were glazed but open.

  ‘Joyce, Joyce, who’s the man who was with you?’ Vogel asked.

  She focused on him. Just about. But she made no attempt to answer.

  ‘My children,’ she murmured, her voice quivering. ‘My children.’

  There was no query. Vogel thought she already knew the fate of her children. She had been there. She had been in the submerged car. And she had tried to dive down again to rescue them. She knew better than anyone that there was no hope. All the same, he lied to her. He felt he had to. At that moment anyway.

  ‘We’re still trying,’ he said. ‘We have divers here. Is there anyone else still down there, apart from the children?’

  She shut her eyes, as if trying to shut everything out.

  ‘My children,’ she said again, weakly.

  Vogel was getting no further.

  He repeated his earlier question: ‘Who is the man?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who is the man?’ Vogel asked for the third time. ‘They’ve brought up a man.’

  ‘Charlie?’ she murmured. ‘Charlie?’

  There was puzzlement in her voice, as if she couldn’t understand why Vogel needed to ask her the question.

  Joyce was obviously in pain. She was bleeding heavily from cuts on her face and arms. She must be in a state of the most horrendous shock. Vogel wondered if she were delirious.

  ‘Charlie, your husband Charlie?’ he queried.

  Joyce managed a slight nod and suddenly opened her eyes again. They were bright with anguished fury.

  ‘The fucking fucking fucking bastard,’ she wailed, as the paramedics completed their lift. ‘He drove us into the water . . . straight into the water . . . he has murdered his own children . . .’

  The wailing became incoherent.

  Vogel stared at the closing doors of the ambulance. He was still staring as it pulled away in the direction of Southmead.

  Hadn’t Charlie Mildmay died six months ago? Yet, according to his wife, he had been the driver of the Range Rover. Had Charlie Mildmay deliberately caused the death of his own children? And had he then also deliberately attempted to cause the death of his wife?

  The whole thing could have been a tragic accident, of course. Joyce may have got it all wrong. But she didn’t appear to think so.

  ‘He drove us into the water,’ she had said.

  And the one eyewitness Vogel had spoken to so far seemed
to back that up.

  Vogel’s thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘We’ve got a pulse!’ shouted one of the paramedics crouching over the prone body of Charlie Mildmay. ‘Keep up the CPR.’

  Twenty-six

  Predictably Nobby Clarke refused to be taken to hospital to be checked out. Wet and shivering, she sat slumped on the quayside, coughing and spluttering, but still giving orders.

  ‘Will somebody find me a blanket? I’m bloody freezing,’ she said.

  Vogel was at her side filling her in on the information he had so far gleaned.

  ‘Whilst you’ve been playing hero, boss,’ he said with a ghost of a smile.

  She grunted.

  ‘Right man, we have work to do,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘I need to get back to the Marriott for a change of clothes, then we should get ourselves to Southmead to talk to Joyce Mildmay as soon as possible. And her husband, if he survives. And somebody has to make the death call. Think it had better be us. I reckon Henry Tanner might be a little more forthcoming now, don’t you? And we have to see him tonight, regardless of his condition.’

  Vogel agreed. Telling people of the death of loved ones was one of the worst jobs in policing. Vogel dreaded giving the news to Henry Tanner’s wife. But the man himself was somehow a different proposition. Vogel remained convinced Henry was at the heart of it all. There seemed a sort of cruel justice in his being made to suffer. The dreadful news he and Clarke were about to deliver might lead to them learning whatever Henry Tanner knew that they did not. And both police officers believed that might be a considerable amount.

  Clarke commandeered a uniform to rescue the CID car she had earlier abandoned in the middle of the road, and told the PC he would be driving her and Vogel to the hotel and on to Southmead.

  To Vogel’s surprise, she seemed to recognize that it might be unwise for her to attempt to drive for a bit. She was shaking from head to toe. And Vogel didn’t think that it was simply because she was cold.

  ‘Think I may have to take a quick shower,’ she muttered to Vogel through chattering teeth.

  Nobby Clarke was in her room at the Marriott for less than ten minutes. Then she reappeared looking the same as she always did, and wearing another of her sharp suits. Vogel was impressed. He couldn’t stop looking at her as they were driven to Southmead. She seemed as in control as ever. Her wet hair was about the only visual indication of what she had been through.

  At Southmead the two detectives were told they could not yet see Joyce Mildmay, which Clarke accepted. And Charlie Mildmay remained unconscious. But the DCI would not be put off making the necessary visit to Henry Tanner by anyone. At the very least the man and his wife had to be told the tragic news.

  Henry Tanner was asleep. Or looked to be. He had been given another dose of morphine following his earlier seizure. Both for the pain, and to keep him calm. It was by now getting on for 11 p.m., way past hospital bedding-down time.

  Felicity was sitting by her husband’s bedside. PC Dawn Saslow, who had earlier been re-directed to the hospital as she remained the family liaison officer and there was little or no family to liaise with anywhere else, was also in the room, sitting over by the balcony windows.

  Felicity wished the young woman would go. But Saslow had said she was under orders to remain, as, apparently, was the young uniformed PC on sentry duty in the corridor. Felicity did not have the energy to protest about the presence of either officer. She wished she too could sink into a morphine-induced sleep. Indeed she wished that she could sleep for ever.

  Instead her mind was racing, trying to come up with some explanation for the disappearance of her daughter and granddaughter. She dreaded to think what might be preventing them from answering her calls, or making contact to let everyone know that they were all right. Had they been abducted, like Fred? But by whom? And why?

  Felicity picked up her phone again and dialled Vogel’s mobile. She had no intention of using PC Saslow as a go-between, although she suspected that was what she was expected to do. Presumably, if the detective inspector had any news, he would have called her. But she had to do something.

  There was no reply.

  Felicity sat for a few minutes more, watching and envying her sleeping husband, then tried Vogel’s number again. There was still no reply. PC Saslow continued to sit quietly by the window.

  A minute or two later, the door to Henry’s room opened softly. DI Vogel, DCI Clarke and a ward sister entered.

  Felicity had only to look at their faces to know that they were the bearers of bad news. Very bad news, she feared.

  Clarke’s face was grey and her mouth was set in a grim line. Her hair seemed to be wet. Felicity wondered vaguely why. Vogel also looked pale. But perhaps he always looked pale? She thought he probably did. This was something else though. Clarke’s hands were trembling. So, Felicity thought, were Vogel’s hands. His eyes were red-rimmed. Felicity wondered if he had been crying. Surely not, she thought. Policemen don’t cry, do they? No, it was just stress and weariness, she supposed.

  The two officers approached Henry’s bed. The nursing sister hovered behind them, unsure what to do.

  PC Saslow stood up. She looked questioningly at the two detectives. They both ignored her. She seemed to know better than to speak. Felicity wondered obliquely whether learning when to stay silent was part of the training for police liaison officers.

  Henry remained in his drug-induced sleep.

  ‘Mrs Tanner,’ said Clarke, ‘you’d better wake your husband, if you can.’

  Felicity felt the icy fingers of foreboding run down her spine. She didn’t argue. She didn’t even utter a cursory why. Instead she reached out and shook her husband’s good arm.

  ‘Henry, Henry,’ she called to him, her voice loud and unnaturally high-pitched.

  Her husband took a while to stir. Then he opened his eyes suddenly. Vogel and Clarke were standing at the foot of his bed, directly in his line of vision. They were the first people he saw as he began to re-enter consciousness, a state from which he might soon wish he could escape. Like his wife. For ever.

  Henry’s drug-affected eyes opened wider. He glanced to his right, looking for and at Felicity.

  She looked away from him, at Vogel and Clarke, who were standing in silence as if waiting for the right moment.

  ‘Tell us,’ commanded Felicity. ‘Just tell us what you came to say. Is it Fred?’

  ‘Perhaps – we’re not sure,’ Vogel fumbled.

  He glanced at Clarke. It was a glance that said, go on, you’re in charge. Anyway, you’re the woman, women are best at this sort of thing. This is down to you. Not me. You’re the senior officer. You do it.

  Felicity followed his glance. She focused her gaze on Clarke.

  ‘Please, just say what you’ve come to say,’ she repeated.

  DCI Clarke took a deep breath and began.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Tanner, I am afraid I bring some serious news,’ she said.

  Henry stretched out his good arm, seeking to hold his wife’s hand.

  Felicity ignored him and kept both her hands firmly in her lap. Henry had been her husband for almost fifty years, the patriarch of her family. She could not imagine she would ever stop loving him. But she felt sure that he was in some way involved in this bad news that she was about to hear. That he would be the one who should bear the ultimate responsibility. And if that were to prove to be the case, she suspected she would never be able to forgive him.

  She instinctively withdrew from the man who had been the centre of her universe for so long. One thing Felicity knew for certain was that she didn’t want him to touch her. And she wasn’t sure if she would want him to touch her ever again.

  Henry let his arm fall on to the bed.

  ‘There has been an incident involving your daughter’s vehicle,’ Nobby Clarke continued. ‘Her Range Rover is believed to have veered off the quayside at Hotwell Road into the harbour. I am afraid it is still submerged, and we are unsure—’


  ‘I-is she dead? Is Joyce dead?’ Felicity had to interrupt. That was surely the news they were bringing.

  Almost immediately a second thought occurred to her.

  ‘And M-Molly? W-what about Molly? Was she in the car?’

  ‘Joyce is alive,’ replied Clarke. ‘She is already here in A & E in this hospital. She ingested a lot of water and is very weak, but I understand she is expected to make a full recovery—’

  ‘And Molly?’ Felicity interrupted again. ‘What about Molly?’

  ‘I am afraid we believe that Molly was also in the car, and . . . at any rate, when we left the scene . . .’

  Clarke glanced towards Vogel, then continued to speak, choosing her words with care, as Vogel had done earlier when speaking to Joyce.

  ‘When we left the scene, Molly had yet to be recovered.’

  Henry seemed suddenly to be wide awake.

  ‘No, oh no,’ he gasped.

  Felicity gave a little cry, a kind of low moan. She didn’t even try to speak.

  Clarke took a deep breath.

  ‘On the way here we heard from the leader of the dive team now at work at the scene that there are actually three other people still trapped in the car,’ she said. ‘Two young women, one of them very young, and a child, a boy. We understand that all three are believed to have drowned.’

  Felicity could barely take it in.

  She supposed she was in deep shock. She was devastated but she could not cry. Felicity remained dry-eyed. She felt empty of everything. Henry began to weep. Felicity heard him sob then saw big tears rolling down his cheeks. She had never seen her husband cry before, not even when their only son had been killed. He reached out to her. Again she avoided his grasp. She knew he was to blame for it all. She just knew it. One way or another, Henry would be to blame. At that moment she hated him.

  Eventually she found her voice. Barely. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  Clarke ploughed on: ‘Your daughter referred to her children being still in the car, and told us that she had found Fred—’