by Wonny Lea
But Sarah also had other things on her mind, and throughout the day she had been looking at events with a fresh pair of eyes and asking herself questions about the people on the lists that she and Maria had made the previous evening. The more she thought, the more she was able to identify common factors in all the deaths, although she had to admit that she was not in possession of all the facts.
As she picked up some fruit and veg and treated herself to a cutlet of hake from the fish counter in Cardiff Market, Sarah found herself thinking about Matt Pryor. She guessed he was a couple of years younger than her, and he was without a doubt one of the nicest men she had met in a long time. Of course, she didn’t really know him, but he had come over as being kind and considerate and she especially liked that educated Welsh accent – she thought he sounded a bit like Richard Burton and for her that was a real turn-on. She had loved the way he had dealt with Mr Cooper. While remaining polite he had made it absolutely plain that the business the police had with Sarah was no concern of anyone else.
Just after seven Sarah was at home and sitting down to the hake she had pan-fried and was now eating off a bed of rice, chopped spring onions, and tomatoes that she had cooked in a butter and lemon sauce. She looked at her watch and decided that either Detective Sergeant Pryor had not got her message or he had decided on no further action.
Barely had she mopped up the last of the juices on her plate when her phone rang, and as the number displayed was not one she recognised Sarah guessed it was the call she had been hoping for.
‘Hello,’ was all she said, and the caller responded immediately.
‘Hello, it is Sarah, isn’t it? – I recognise your voice.’
‘And I yours, Detective Sergeant Pryor,’ she responded.
‘Oh, Matt, please!’ came the quick response. ‘I got your message this morning and had a quick chat with my boss about what you and Maria had come up with, although my knowledge is limited, so would you like to fill me in with the detail?’
Sarah did her best to explain how she and Maria had gone through the process of identifying residents who met the criteria they had decided on. Although she tried to be brief, she realised that she was only part-way through her explanation when she noticed that she had already been talking for almost twenty minutes.
‘Look, I’m sorry about this,’ she told Matt. ‘I didn’t realise it would take so long and I’m sure you must have other things to do.’
‘Nothing apart from looking after three girls who are aged between seven and eleven, but who think they are teenagers at the very least.’
Sarah felt a bit deflated but gave a cheery response. ‘Well, tell the girls I won’t keep their daddy talking for much longer – I will be as quick as I can.’
Matt gave a real belly laugh. ‘No, no, no, they aren’t my daughters, they belong to my sister and her husband who are having a well-deserved night out, so Uncle Matt is in charge – or at least I think I am.’
Feeling strangely lifted by the response, Sarah wanted to risk a question about whether or not the girls had a Mrs Pryor for an aunt, but she decided against it and just joined in Matt’s laughter, saying that she wouldn’t take up too much more of his time.
When she had finished sharing the information she and Maria had gathered, she added some thoughts that had been irritating her during the day. ‘Maria came up with a strange observation,’ she told Matt. ‘It was the fact that in all the cases we looked at I was away from the home, either at the time each of these residents collapsed and died or at a critical point leading to their sooner-than-expected deaths. At first I took it that she was joking, but in fact she was right. The only reason I mention this is that on looking back I know for sure that I would have been asking questions about some of the decisions surrounding their treatment, and in particular why none of these residents were transferred to hospital care.’
‘Would that be the norm?’ asked Matt.
‘Yes, that’s the usual thing when there is a sudden and unexpected deterioration, and strangely it’s something I had words with Mr Cooper about, in relation to Colin James,’ Sarah continued. ‘He told me that Mrs Morris had been told by her father that on no account was he to be admitted to hospital, but I know for sure that Colin hadn’t been visited by his daughter for months.
‘Anthony Cooper told me that he was going to get Dr Shaw to document the family’s wishes but I haven’t seen the medical notes since Colin died so I don’t know if he did.’
‘Would you be able to look at them now?’ asked Matt. ‘Are they kept at the home?’
‘Yes, in Mr Doster’s office. He is constantly complaining that the nurses write far too many notes and he has recently had to buy an additional filing cabinet just to house dead files – pardon the pun! I could take a look at them tomorrow.’
Matt hesitated and for a moment Sarah thought he had hung up, but he had obviously been considering his response. ‘Sarah, don’t do anything for the time being – and at least not until I have had a chance to speak to DCI Phelps. I think deep down we all believe that we are probably looking at just a series of coincidences, but in the unlikely event that something is going on and someone has something to hide, it would not be in their best interests to have you snooping around. So do and say nothing until I come back to you.’
‘When are you likely to be speaking to your DCI?’ enquired Sarah.
‘Well it won’t be tonight,’ was the reply. ‘I think he has some more personal business to attend to and I would hate to be the one to interfere with that.’
‘Well thanks for listening,’ said Sarah, somewhat reluctant to end the conversation but aware of raucous laughter in the background. ‘I’ll leave you to your babysitting, although it sounds as if the babies are getting the upper hand.’
Matt looked around the room to find the youngest of his nieces strapped to one of the dining chairs by virtue of at least three crepe bandages. The two older girls were whooping around with faces covered in red streaks of lipstick almost certainly taken from his sister’s dressing table.
‘Girls!’ he shouted pretending to be outraged. ‘You’ll get me shot. Can’t I leave you for ten minutes to your own devices without you wreaking havoc?’
Rhian, the eldest, looked at him mockingly. ‘Ten minutes, Uncle Matt? More like an hour. Have you got a new girlfriend?’
‘No, it was work,’ he replied, and was about to protest that it was nothing like an hour when he realised that her version of the timing was much closer than his own. He was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable about having set Sarah off down a road that was unlikely to unearth any criminal activity, but could well result in her losing her job if her boss got even an inkling of her recent activities. Mr Cooper was a bully, of that Matt was in no doubt, but was he anything else? There was no real evidence to suspect him of anything.
Matt turned his mind and his hands towards rescuing his youngest niece, Clare, and made a mental note to speak to Martin first thing in the morning. He briefly wondered if Martin was enjoying his evening – the boss had seemed particularly elated when he left the office.
At the very moment Matt was having these thoughts Martin and Shelley were settling down to a performance of ‘A Night’s Tale’ at the Bute Theatre, and they were both looking forward to the promise of being entertained by The Unknown Theatre Company. Before Martin and Shelley had started going out his only experience of the theatre had been watching mainstream productions, but Shelley had introduced Martin to fringe theatre and now he was hooked.
He could hardly believe they were sitting here in such a beautiful setting and in such comfortable seats, and he had paid just £6 each for the tickets! When Shelley had first talked about the fringe he had thought it would be all art students, bright young things, and actors who had failed to make it through the traditional route, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.
The audience was a mixture of all ages and backgrounds, but with one thing in common. They were here to witness a production
that relied principally on the skills of the writers and the actors rather than special sound and visual effects. Later these dedicated fringe followers would talk about the subject matter and argue the rights and wrongs of the writer’s interpretation and the actors’ portrayal of it.
Martin struggled to remember some of the mainstream shows he had seen, but could easily recall the four fringe performances Shelley had chosen for them. He had jumped at the chance when she suggested they might consider going to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, although he had to admit he knew nothing at all about it. To him the idea of spending six days and five nights with Shelley would have swung it, whatever the location, and he had booked a five-day break in Scotland from August 15th. According to Shelley the festival took up most of August and she had previously been for the start and the end of the festival, and on two other occasions for long weekends – so this would be her fifth time.
The programme for the Edinburgh Festival was 365 pages long, and he wasn’t sure if it was actually available in print, but having left work earlier than usual that evening, and not wanting to think about murder, he had printed out a planner he found on page 33. He left it strategically placed on the kitchen table for them to look through when they got back to the cottage later. Martin hadn’t asked, but he certainly hoped that Shelley had made arrangements for someone else to give her father his insulin in the morning!
He suddenly realised that Shelley was looking at him, and they would both have been highly amused to know how well their thoughts matched – Shelley was at that very moment hoping she had not been too presumptuous in arranging for the district nurse to give the pre-breakfast injection to her diabetic father in the morning.
Their eyes met, and Martin squeezed her hand so tightly she screwed up her face and they both laughed over nothing more than the fact that they were enjoying being together and then fell silent as the performance began.
Afterwards they walked out into warm evening sunshine and toyed with the idea of walking into the city centre and coming back for the car later. There was only one car as Martin had driven from home and picked Shelley up en route, and depending on the outcome of his plans for the evening he would either be dropping her back at her house or taking her back to Llantwit Major – fingers crossed for the latter.
Shelley had organised the eating arrangements, and she told Martin that she had booked a table at Gio’s Italian restaurant in the Café Quarter on Mill Lane. The whole area was popular with locals and tourists for its amazing diversity in terms of cooking and for the relaxed atmosphere. ‘It’s so laid-back there,’ explained Shelley. ‘The food is great, and there is parking so we can drive there, park the car, and then maybe walk around a bit before eating.’
Decision made they drove the very short journey and were soon sitting at one of the low tables in the area outside the restaurant set aside for an al fresco dining experience. Because the whole area was busy they decided against walking around and as, thankfully, Shelley had booked they were able to skip the queue and were offered a table in a corner of the outside area. ‘Perfect,’ suggested Shelley, as she settled down and they were both offered menus and asked about drinks.
‘I feel a bit mean,’ she offered the words in the form of an apology to Martin. ‘It’s always me doing the drinking and you doing the driving, it doesn’t seem quite fair.’
‘Not to worry,’ was his reply. ‘Even if I wasn’t driving I wouldn’t be drinking much tonight – I need to make an early start tomorrow.’
‘I won’t ask you how the investigation is going,’ said Shelley. ‘It’s much too nice an evening to be spoilt by that sort of thing – I’m sure we have better things we can talk about.’
Although all the tables were full and there were lots of people walking around, they seemed to be in a little world of their own and Martin was about to tell Shelley how he felt about her when the waiter arrived with Martin’s J2O and Shelley’s large glass of red wine – and the moment was lost. ‘But just for now,’ he told himself.
They had ordered the Antipasto Misto for two and were soon enjoying the sun-dried tomatoes, roast peppers and olives, and the slices of Italian salami, Parma ham, and mozzarella cheese. They were in their own special bubble and although the food was really delicious, the chemistry between the two of them was more delicious than anything even the Italian chef could cook up.
Martin remembered the last time had eaten at an Italian restaurant and the mountain of pasta that was set before him. Not wanting that much in the way of food, he opted for fresh salmon served with a Nizzarda salad, eggs, green beans, tomato, and potatoes. Shelley must have been thinking along the same lines as she ordered Cozze Alla Crema – mussels cooked in a creamy white wine sauce with shallots and normally served a starter – for her main course.
The restaurant was excellent, the service great, and the food undoubtedly first-class, but Martin told Shelley a few months later that he couldn’t even remember what they had eaten because his thoughts were on other things. She had jokingly suggested that he meant the Coopers Field murder but then admitted that she knew exactly what he meant.
Deciding against coffee they made their way back to the car but on the way Martin turned to face Shelley and standing in the middle of a busy walkway he kissed her and the words he had been thinking about all day came tumbling out. ‘I love you, Shelley,’ he declared. ‘Can you believe that? – I love you and I just want us to be together. I don’t know about marriage, I’ve done that and I don’t know if it is right for me, but whatever you want. All I know is that I love you and I’m terrified that you may not feel the same.’
Who cared that people were looking at them. Nobody looked offended. In fact the passing public seemed to want to share their experience as there were smiles on the faces of everyone around.
The biggest smile however was on Shelley’s face, although she was confusing Martin because she also had floods of tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘You idiot,’ she whispered. ‘Call yourself a detective? Everyone else in the world knows I love you. Charlie told me last week that if you didn’t soon realise you loved me she was going to sort you out!’
This made Martin laugh and then with a serious face he held Shelley’s face in his hands. ‘Say that again,’ he asked her. ‘Say that bit about everyone knowing you love me – it’s true then?’
‘Of course it’s true! I love you, Martin, and I have done since that first time we had a meal together at the Japanese restaurant in Mermaid Quay – I doubt if you even remember it.’
‘I remember it, and maybe I am regretting all the wasted time between then and now, but if I’m perfectly honest, Shelley, I wasn’t ready for anything serious at that time. Now I know for certain what my feelings are, and that I love you more than anything I ever believed possible.’
This time when Martin kissed Shelley they both blushed, as a round of applause spontaneously erupted from the groups of people standing nearby.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here, we’re not young enough to be carrying on like this in public – you’ll get me arrested, Shelley Edwards.’
Chapter Nine
Elsie Knows Her
Martin’s years of training and dedication to his work helped get him back on track the following morning, and he spent the first hour of the day in Incident Room One reminding himself of the known facts regarding the Coopers Field body. Helen Cook-Watts wasn’t expected to start her shift until 9 a.m. and he wanted a brief word with her before they made the arranged visit to Elsie Forrester.
He left a message at the front desk for her to join him upstairs and to bring a copy of the statement taken from Miss Forrester at the time she reported her sister missing.
When she joined him, Martin said, ‘We’ll go in my car. Even though Miss Forrester knows we are coming it can be disconcerting for someone of her age to see a police car pull up outside the front door.’
‘Yes, it freaks most people out,’ agreed Helen. ‘The innocent anti
cipating bad news and the guilty assuming we’ve come to get them.’
As Helen sat alongside Martin in his Alfa Romeo she remembered the first time she had travelled with him. They had gone to Whitchurch on that occasion and it had been to tell an elderly couple that their gay son, Mark, had been brutally killed. She had been one of the first on the scene when his body had been discovered and could still, with ease, summon up the images of the man’s torso lying on the central island of his kitchen, his severed arms and legs strewn at various angles on the floor.
Although not fully qualified for the role at that time, Helen had been allowed to act as the couple’s Family Liaison Officer, and she remembered the experience particularly well because it was the time when she had decided that a career in CID was what she wanted.
That thought jerked her mind back to the present, and sitting next to Martin now it briefly entered her head that on Friday she would be sitting opposite him when he and two others interviewed her for the transfer to CID she was hoping would be granted.
This opportunity to be with him this morning could be something of a double edged sword, and she wished that it was someone other than Elsie Forrester that they were going to see. Helen would have liked the opportunity to show DCI Phelps how professional she had been in her original dealings with the woman, but Elsie was quite a character and Helen remembered nervously how difficult it had been to keep her on track.
The journey was relatively short, but the traffic was heavy and it was twenty minutes before they had turned off City Road and Helen was directing Martin down a couple of side streets. She indicated for him to stop outside the house at the end. The street they had arrived in was made up on both sides of substantial Victorian terraced houses, some of which had obviously been turned into flats, with even the split properties capable of housing a small family.