by Anna Legat
‘First thing first, I want to know. I have the right to know – what is this all about? You come here! You barge in –’
Ryan is interrupted by the doorbell.
*
Forensics go through the house with a fine-tooth comb while the party in the lounge sit comfortably, drinking tea. Webber tries to maintain a degree of conversation, his way of breaking the ice which is setting thick and cold in the room after the initial heated protestations of innocence and demands for an explanation. He asks, ‘Where did your husband keep your car, Mrs Vitoli?’
‘In the garage. Jammie never parked in the street. Why do you want to know?’
‘The brakes of his van had been tampered with. It wasn’t an accident that Mr Vitoli came off the road. He was fighting for his life, trying to control the speed.’
Mrs Vitoli gasps and stares at her cousin. ‘Ryan?’ she asks. The simple question is loaded with meaning only the two of them can decipher. Almost imperceptibly, Ryan shakes his head.
Gillian’s phone rings. Jon again. He has obviously got his teeth into this case now and has gone beyond the line of duty. Vintage Riley! She excuses herself and goes outside.
‘What would you do without me, Gillian, my girl?’ Coming from Jon it is a rhetorical question, and he has posed many of those throughout the many years of their professional liaison. He has come to expect no answers, only more questions.
‘What do you have? I’m at the Vitolis’ waiting for Forensics to finish the clear-out.’
‘Listen to this: Mrs Vitoli is up for nearly half a million sterling if Mr Vitoli kicks the bucket! She has your usual mortgage security life insurance on her husband’s life. That’s worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand. And there’s the work insurance – any deadly accident in the line of duty and the widow rakes in another two-fifty. Neat!’
‘That’s why they were insistent he was on his way to work. Though he wasn’t near Wensbury nor was he heading in that direction. If it was proved it was a private job, they’d be two hundred and fifty thousand pounds poorer.’
‘Two nice reasons for her to do her husband in! Both provided by yours truly!’
‘I’ll bet she only had one reason: Ryan Parks. I’m not entirely sure she knew, in all the gory detail, what he was up to. Though she was in the picture. She's besotted with him, totally dependent on the guy!’ Gillian is thinking aloud. ‘Since you’re on the case, Jon, can you find out what you can about Ryan Parks?’
*
Gillian recognises Bobby Hughes from Forensics despite his white overalls and unflattering headgear, reminiscent of a shower cap. Come to think about it, she has only ever seen Bobby in this attire. In normal, civilian clothes she would probably fail to recognise him at all.
He is coming from the direction of the Vitolis’ garage, which is attached to their house.
‘Any revelations?’
Bobby pulls off his cap. ‘Bloody hot! It’s nearly October!’ he complains.
‘I know the time of year, Bobby. Any revelations apart from that?’
‘Yeah, definite. The brakes have been done in the garage. We’ve located the spillage on the concrete floor. And I’ve got here a Stanley knife,’ he waves a plastic evidence bag in her face, ‘which may have been used to cut the brake cables.’
‘You're a star, Bobby!’ Gillian would kiss him but his face shines with oily sweat he had developed in the hot garage.
‘Don’t mention it!’
Gillian can’t hear him. She is back inside 44 Arcadia Close, cautioning Ryan Parks and Megan Vitoli, and taking them to the station for further questioning.
*
‘Well done, Gillian!’ Scarface is untypically friendly, but then again it doesn’t happen every day that Gillian obeys his orders and delivers a report on his desk before his explicit deadline and without him having to raise hell. ‘Case closed! Cut-n-dried. We’ll get an unlawful killing verdict. You may have been right, young lady, it paid to wait a bit longer on this occasion. I give you that,’ he beams, full of goodwill and indulgence, and for a moment Gillian fears he’s going to pinch her cheek. Mercifully, he doesn’t. Instead he rubs his hands with glee, and returns the report to Gillian. ‘Go and have yourself a good night out. You deserve it!’
‘Sir, I’m not sure this concludes the case. There are still unanswered questions –’ She hates to have to say that, but has no choice. Giacomo Vitoli’s faulty brakes could not have been the sole cause of the collision. At best, they were a contributory factor. No doubt about that. His failure to brake when he was being overtaken may have confused Emma Rydal, threw her off and made her misjudge her chances of making it. Possibly... But why didn’t she try to brake and get back behind Vitoli’s van when she saw Orwin’s lorry? And what about Luke Orwin? What about Margaret Adams? If anything, their actions may have forced Giacomo off the road, but who and what forced them into each other. Something was still missing.
Scarface glowers at her. ‘This DOES conclude this case, DI Marsh! I don’t want to know about anything else. I don’t want to hear it. Case closed. I told you – go on the town, have a drink with friends.’ He slams the report into her hand, picks up his briefcase and is heading for the door, muttering under his breath, ‘Can’t believe the woman is for real!’
*
Gillian does as she is told, mainly because she can’t bear going home, to her four empty walls, and spending her evening with the cat and images of her daughter fading away into nothing before her very eyes. Those images play on Gillian’s mind constantly when she is not working. They travel on an infinite loop, driving her insane. Any diversion would be welcome, but nothing can compete with them. Gillian would pray if she remembered how, but it was a long time ago when she had last asked God for something. She must have been thirteen, fourteen at the most, before she became arrogant and self-reliant – before she became an adult. She can just about get a faint vibe of that warm, reassuring trust that went with praying and believing that her prayers would be answered. She needs that belief. She needs a miracle, because there is nothing within her human power to pull Tara out of the downward spiral she is in. She dares not give it a name, not out loud. Saying out loud that Tara suffers from anorexia equates to accepting it. Gillian won’t accept it. It isn’t an illness, she tells herself and she does say that out loud, it’s a phase and it will pass. The problem is that she does not believe it. That warm, reassuring trust isn’t there. It’s gone and the alternative is frightening. The images keep playing on her mind – a vicious circle she doesn’t know how to break. Because only Tara can break it and she doesn’t want to.
As instructed by Scarface, Gillian is having a good time. At least she is making the effort. She has found the darkest, most obscure corner in the largest, overcrowded with strangers, café in town. It’s one of those big chain cafes. They all look and feel the same: big enough to be fully anonymous. In front of her a bucket of dreary milky coffee is steaming. She has also bought a cake – the richest, the creamiest and the largest cake she could get her hands on. She will have that cake for Tara’s sake. Even though it tastes of dry candle wax.
Smothering herself with dreariness and candle wax, Gillian feels lost. Having a break from work is not something she can deal with effectively. Usually it kills her. It makes her realise she has no life to speak of. No life, full stop. It also brings up anxieties. For someone with no life, Gillian has many anxieties. They sting. She is on her own – can’t recall any relationships in the last fifteen years, since Deon, and that was before the Great Flood, on a different continent, in a different hemisphere. No one to hold hands with – no one to take to her daughter’s wedding – if there is going to be a wedding – because her daughter... sting, sting, sting.
Gillian stirs another teaspoon of sugar into her dreary coffee. It isn’t because she needs it – it is because she is anxious to look busy and purposeful at her large table, which she is sharing with nobody. A man approaches, smiles at her. He puts his hand on the empty chair oppos
ite her. He’s good-looking. Gillian smiles back at him. He says, ‘Is this chair free? May I borrow it?’
Gillian nods. She is free. He can have her. But he only wants the bloody chair.
She ogles his behind as he strolls away with her chair, then gawps apologetically at the faceless café fraternity. She doesn’t mean to be predatory. That was a one-off. She doesn’t usually ogle men’s behinds. How juvenile is that! Do they have any newspapers in this establishment? She could do with a newspaper spread in front of her face.
From a table by the window Sasha gives her a friendly wave. When did she get here? Had she seen Gillian ogling that man’s arse? For God’s sake, this is embarrassing! Gillian raises her coffee bucket to Sasha and attempts a wide grin. Sasha reciprocates, a bit reservedly, unsure what to make of Gillian acting out of character: being out on the town, sitting idly in a café, sipping latte and ogling men’s bottoms. Her attention returns quickly to her own table by the window, and to her companion.
Gillian can’t help herself, and stares. Grudgingly. Sasha is so wholesome! She has healthy colour in her full face. She has inherited her Jamaican mother’s roundness of the hips. Small, but perfectly formed. The young man at her table clearly agrees. He is gazing at her, totally engrossed in her fullness and her creaminess. He is smitten. Their fingertips are touching on the table. They burst out laughing.
It is an involuntary reaction, but Gillian observes closely what Sasha puts in her mouth. A chocolate cake – nice, smooth, rich chocolate cake. And she has a bucketful of milky coffee in front of her too. Gillian is stung with envy. She envies Sasha her curves and her appetite. She envies her common sense. She envies her the young man, so blatantly taken with her curvaceous, carefree confidence. Sasha is a woman, not a waif. Gillian winces. It isn’t just envy – it is resentment. Why did Sasha leave Tara behind? Why did she let her slip down the spiral? Does she call herself Tara’s best friend? Because if she does, she must do something! She can’t let her friend go to waste.
Gillian’s resentful glare must have weighed heavily on Sasha. She must have felt it and couldn’t shake it off. She looks up, straight at Gillian, and the laughter wilts on her lips. Spooked, discovered, her cover blown, Gillian tries to escape into the depths of her coffee bucket, but Sasha isn’t fooled. She pushes her chair back, says something to her male companion and within seconds is standing over Gillian’s table. ‘Gillian, can we talk?’
*
‘I physically didn’t recognise her when she came back in June. I almost cried. I still feel like crying when I think about her. What’s happening to her?’
‘I don’t know, Sasha. I wish I knew. She talks to you... At least I hope she does. She doesn’t talk to me. Did she tell you anything?’
‘That’s the thing, she didn’t. We didn’t keep that much in touch. The whole year’s just gone by... A bit through Facebook, but I’m not big on Facebook and Tara was busy with uni. I mean, first year must be hard. To be honest, I felt a bit left out, I was letting her go. She wasn’t exactly going out of her way to stay in touch. Sorry,’ Sasha bites her lower lip.
‘So you don’t know. You would’ve known, surely, if she had boyfriend problems or –’
‘She doesn’t have a boyfriend.’ Sasha steals a glance back at the young man abandoned at the table by the window.
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Sort of,’ she blushes. ‘Rhys.’
‘Nice,’ Gillian pushes the word with great effort through her tight throat.
‘I’d better go back.’
‘Yes,’ she says but she doesn’t want her to go away and leave her alone at her table. She needs her to stay and to explain everything to her, tell her everything she knows. ‘So definitely no boyfriends, none since Charlie Outhwaite?’
‘Not that I know of. I think she really burned herself on Charlie.’
‘Could he be the reason?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Tara never mentions him. Not in a bad way, not in a good way. I don’t know.’
‘When you were in Wales, how...’ Gillian knows she is holding Sasha back, but she doesn’t care. ‘How did she seem to you?’
‘Quiet. Not like Tara. Like she was saving energy. Like everything was a big effort... Very quiet.’
All Gillian wants to do is to cry. Cry it all out. Cry rivers. Let it all flow away. But tears get stuck in her tightening throat, as do words. She can’t speak. Can’t cry.
‘When we got together, I honestly didn’t recognise her. She hardly ate anything, maybe some fruit, yoghurt for breakfast. I blame the uni. No time for anything, definitely no time for cooking. Maybe she got into some bad habits?’
Gillian agrees, wordlessly. Maybe she did.
‘Maybe she’s been hanging out with the wrong kind of crowd?’
‘Who are those people she mixes with, do you know them?’
‘She never said anything about them, Gillian. Not once did she mention any names. I think she was happy we were back together again, like the old times. Before she went back to Exeter, she did say – she said we should not be strangers.’
‘That’s more than she said to me.’
Sasha grabs Gillian’s hand. Hers is warm and soft. Gillian doesn’t want it to go. ‘I’m so worried about her! I don’t know what I can do... Is there anything I can do?’
Gillian is stuck. The answer is stuck. From the corner of her eye she can see Rhys fidget at the window table, staring intently at Sasha. ‘I think your sort-of boyfriend wants you back,’ she tries to make light of things because she will have to let Sasha go. She can’t make a scene, can’t cling on to her.
‘Oh yeah! I’d better go.’
‘If she gets in touch, if she talks to you, will you – Will you tell me?’
‘Yes, I’ll let you know.’
*
The inquest has returned an open verdict. It will set a precedent for the other three inquests yet to come. Gillian is glad – that verdict gives her a mandate to continue with the investigation. Scarfe won’t be pleased but that’s his problem. The coroner is correct – too much wilful interference to declare an accidental death, but at the same time too much reasonable doubt for an unlawful killing. No suicide note. An open verdict. It is up to Gillian to fill it with conclusive narrative.
She observes Ben Rydal. He is dressed for the occasion, wearing a tie and grey suit – he didn’t strike her as a tie and suit man. Not the type to own a conventional suit, but rather a tweed jacket and pair of quality wellingtons. His behaviour is also out of the ordinary. Twice now he has looked at his watch. What could be so urgent? Where could he be going from here? What business does he have out there that should make him so distracted?
She also spots a balding, puffy man with a face that looks like it has been through a tumble dryer. It is spiked with greyish stubble and marked with cuts and bruises, transparently on the mend but still capable of distorting the man’s features. Slowly, Gillian recognises Trevor Larkin. Lucky man, he was ahead of the pile-up, just missed it by a whisker. No recollection of it whatsoever. Gillian wonders what brought him to the coroner’s court. She catches up with him by the stairs, as he struggles to limp on his good leg, clutching the banister on one side and leaning on a crutch on the other.
‘Mr Larkin?’
He gapes at her, no recognition in his swollen face.
‘Gillian Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID. We met briefly, when you were in hospital. You probably can’t remember.’
‘Yes, I do. I do now.’
‘Do you need help?’ She points to his crutch.
‘No, thank you. I’ll manage.’ He’s plodding on, gingerly, wincing in discomfort with every step.
‘When did they let you out of hospital?’
‘The next day. This isn’t that serious,’ he lifts his crutch. ‘A couple of broken bones. I’ll get over it.’
‘Anything... any memories of the accident?’
He doesn’t look at her when he answers. He is concentrating on steppi
ng down safely from the last, widest step. ‘No, I’m afraid nothing. I’ve heard you made an arrest?’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘I should say it’s great! shouldn’t I? But what does it matter? What does it really matter – your arrest? People are dead. Nothing will bring them back. Nothing will bring her back,’ he gestures towards the upper floor – the coroner’s court.
‘I guess not. Still, we must –’
He shakes his head and cuts Gillian’s sentence in half, ‘Such a beautiful woman. Young, beautiful, full of promise. Will your arrest bring her back?’
Gillian can’t answer that.
Ben Rydal dashes down the stairs, pushes by Larkin, displaces the crutch from under his arm, catches it before it falls to the floor, stops, horrified, to apologise. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!’
Larkin tears the crutch away from him. ‘It’s all right, no problem,’ he mutters.
Rydal cocks his head and scrutinises Larkin’s face. There is a glint of recognition in his eyes. He says, ‘Oh, hello!’
Larkin nods, still avoiding direct eye contact.
‘You’re all right?’ Rydal asks.
‘Perfectly all right, thank you.’
‘I’d better be going then. I’ll see you.’
Gillian watches the whole exchange with interest. Rydal has not noticed her. He is rushing out of the door, clearly in a great big hurry. Where on earth is he going on the day an inquest has been heard into his wife’s death?
*
Rydal's bicycle is parked in front of the court, locked with a padlock. As he is unlocking it and fastening a clip around his right trouser leg, Gillian has enough time to get in her car and do a three-point turn in order to follow him. She burrows into a bus lane and within seconds is being jeered and cursed by a bus driver who is stuck behind her and clearly suffers from fully blown road rage. He is leaning on the horn, his wrist rampant in an unmistakable wanking motion. Are there any children on that bus?