Swimming with the Dead

by Peter Guttridge

‘On Madeira Drive, near the big wheel. Looking shifty.’

  ‘Yet you seemed a bit vague with my constable about which brother you were accusing of killing her.’

  ‘Well, Bernard doesn’t do anything without James’s say so.’

  ‘Define “shifty”, Ms Rule,’ Gilchrist said. ‘You said Bernard was looking “shifty”.’

  ‘Ratty hat pulled low, head down, trying not to be noticed.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Around nine a.m.’

  ‘Half an hour before the race started.’

  Rule nodded.

  ‘Was he heading towards the pier or away from it?’ Heap said.

  ‘Neither. He was palely loitering.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was him?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Certain. I never forget an arsehole.’

  ‘You didn’t like him because he kept staring at you at this birthday drinks thing?’ Heap said.

  ‘I didn’t like him because he threatened Christine.’

  ‘She told you this?’ Gilchrist said. ‘I thought she kept family things private?’

  ‘I heard him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘During the row I told you about.’

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t make out the words.’

  ‘I couldn’t except for the threat.’

  Convenient, Gilchrist thought but didn’t say. She avoided looking at Heap.

  ‘What did he say?’ Heap said.

  ‘He screamed: “Over your dead body.”’

  ‘Not over my dead body?’ Heap said. ‘That’s the usual formulation.’

  Rule shook her head. ‘Exactly. It was your, definitely.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘And that was it – that was all you heard? You didn’t hear anything that preceded it or followed it.’

  ‘Just that,’ Rule said. ‘It was because he screamed it so loudly.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone else saw Bernard Bromley “palely loitering” by the big wheel,’ Heap said.

  ‘Actually, yes,’ Rule said. ‘I was with a friend. I pointed him out to her.’

  ‘Did Bernard Bromley see you?’ Gilchrist said.

  Rule shook her head. ‘He was too busy trying to be inconspicuous.’

  ‘We’ll need the name of your friend and her contact details,’ Heap said.

  ‘Of course.’ Rule started rummaging around in her bag. ‘She’s called Kate Simpson and her phone number is—’

  ‘We have her contact details,’ Heap said, flushing as he did so.

  ‘Tell me, Ms Rule, when my colleague DC Wade questioned you, how did you immediately jump to the conclusion Ms Bromley had been poisoned.’

  ‘What other conclusion could there be?’

  ‘Any number.’

  ‘Well, it’s been common gossip in swimming circles for years that if you want to commit the perfect crime you do it on a long swim and use the feed.’

  ‘Common gossip?’

  ‘Not in a serious way, just in a shivery sort of way for people who read a lot of crime fiction.’

  ‘And you lost sight of her feed.’

  ‘Everyone lost sight of the feeds at some point.’

  ‘And, in fact, you don’t know what subsequently happened to the container.’

  ‘In all the confusion and upset, no, I’m afraid it disappeared. Misplaced somewhere probably.’

  ‘Very well, Ms Rule. We’ll probably need to talk to you again. If you think of anything else to tell us, please do get in touch.’

  Gilchrist phoned Kate from the car.

  ‘Hi, Kate, this is police business, which is why it’s me not Bellamy phoning you.’ Gilchrist smiled faintly at her detective sergeant. ‘But he’s listening on speaker.’

  ‘Hi, Bellamy,’ Kate called, then said more quietly, a smile in her voice, ‘do I need a lawyer, Sarah?’

  ‘It’s about Christine Bromley’s murder.’

  ‘Of course,’ Simpson said more solemnly. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘You’re friends with her partner, Janet Rule?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say friends, exactly. I’ve met her a couple of times.’

  ‘Does that mean you knew Christine Bromley too?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Simpson laughed nervously. ‘Am I a suspect, now?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Janet Rule said she had been with you at about nine a.m. and she pointed out a man to you.’

  ‘Christine’s brother. Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We bumped into each other going onto the Palace Pier. Actually, she called my name. I was a bit surprised. I’ve seen her around the swimming club but we’ve never really had a conversation. We just know each other to say hello to.’

  ‘Go on, Kate.’

  ‘She was looking over towards the wheel. It was already pretty busy round there, people queuing and stuff. She said something like, “There’s that dickhead brother of Christine’s. Wonder why he’s here.”’

  ‘Did you know Bernard Bromley by sight?’

  ‘Is that his name? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know who she was pointing at. I was in a hurry to get on the pier. I just said something like “OK, right” and we went onto the pier.’

  ‘So you didn’t actually see this person?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did she say anything more about him?’

  ‘Nothing, but we joined up with another group of swimmers almost straightaway and didn’t really speak again, just the two of us.’

  Gilchrist thanked Kate and offered the phone to Heap. He flushed and shook his head. She ended the call.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said.

  ‘Very,’ Heap said. ‘The mother next, ma’am?’

  Gilchrist nodded.

  TWELVE

  ‘It was just my daughter being herself,’ Mrs Bromley said quietly. They were sitting in a long garden leading down to the beach in West Preston. Heap had told Gilchrist as they drew up outside it that Mrs Bromley’s home was two houses along from where Bernard Rafferty, the Brighton Pavilion director, had been murdered some months ago.

  ‘You weren’t angry about the commune idea?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘My daughter has always been difficult but I stopped being angry with her long ago, as it was such a waste of time. And then there was the rape. That terrible thing.’

  ‘She told you about it?’

  ‘Not the detail. Only that it had happened. I don’t believe she told anyone the detail, except perhaps her … partner.’

  ‘Janet Rule.’

  ‘Just so.’

  Kathy Bromley was a shapely woman in her late fifties. She was almost as tall as Gilchrist. She had a confident gaze that at first fooled Gilchrist into thinking she didn’t care about her daughter’s death. But as their talk progressed she realized that Mrs Bromley had iron self-discipline. She sat not just straight-backed but rigid and her hands were clasped over her knees so tightly her knuckles were white. Heavy make-up couldn’t disguise the strain around her eyes.

  She was holding herself together in public so that she could grieve in private.

  ‘You were your husband’s second wife,’ Heap said.

  ‘Anne, his first wife, died in childbirth nearly forty years ago, giving birth to Bernard. They’d had trouble conceiving and had almost given up when she got pregnant in her forties. We married ten years later.’ She put her hand up, palm out. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Yes, there was a big age gap between us. John was sixty and I was in my late twenties when we married. It happens.’ She waved her hand around the room. ‘As you can see, if I married him for his money we were both most abstemious.’

  It was true, thought Gilchrist. Although the house was probably worth a bomb the furnishings were unfussy, worn and comfy looking. There was a lovely grandfather clock in the corner of the room but no other antiques visible. Although the paintings on the wall might be worth a
fortune for all she knew.

  ‘In 1945 when he was only 15, he got work in London clearing bombsites then came with a gang of workmen down here to work on the post-war reconstruction in Brighton. They were in competition with the Irish gangs but there was work enough for everyone.’

  She looked absently round the room.

  ‘Within ten years he was running his own company. He was a good boss. He made a point of eating with his men in the canteen at least once a week. He paid them fairly and treated them well.’ She lifted her hand and tapped a long, lacquered nail on the wooden arm of her chair to punctuate what she said next. ‘But he would never have considered handing over the business to them. Never. He was no kind of communist.’

  ‘So you opposed your daughter’s proposal to turn the family business into a workers co-op,’ Heap said.

  She scowled at him. ‘Of course. It was madness and, sadly, it came out of some sort of actual madness.’ She dropped her head. Gilchrist heard her sigh. ‘You know she had a breakdown?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘She had to leave work for six months. In that time …’ She shook her head then fixed Gilchrist with her sharp stare. ‘Christine has been off the rails. Hyper-active, hyper-driven. She left her husband and moved in with this woman. And she started working on this employee ownership scheme. Sell workers shares at heavily discounted prices – but these would be our shares she was selling to them.’

  ‘Did she have a problem with any of you?’ Gilchrist said, making a note to check on this husband of Christine she didn’t know about. ‘Something she wanted to punish you for?’

  ‘None at all. We all got on extremely well. Even during these discussions there was no falling out, no anger.’

  ‘But you seem angry now,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Impatient,’ Mrs Bromley said. ‘And regretful.’

  Suddenly her face crumpled.

  Gilchrist and Heap left five minutes later. They didn’t speak until they got in the car.

  ‘This has to be a first,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Multi-millionaires unconcerned that they are about to lose £180 million. Apparently not even raising their voices in protest or anger.’

  ‘Well, not those losing two-thirds of it.’

  Gilchrist frowned at him. He put the car into gear.

  ‘We haven’t spoken to the other £60 million yet,’ he said. ‘Bernard Bromley might turn out to have been really, really cross.’

  ‘Have you managed to track down Bernard Bromley yet, Sylvia?’ Gilchrist asked as she and Bellamy came into the office.

  ‘About five minutes ago,’ she said. ‘He’s somewhere in Thailand. He flew out there from Gatwick on the afternoon of Christine’s death.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Heap said. ‘Can he be contacted?’

  ‘Anyone can be contacted,’ Gilchrist said. ‘It’s whether they respond to the contact.’

  ‘He’s not returning calls,’ Wade confirmed. ‘Or emails or tweets.’

  ‘When is he due back?’ Heap said.

  ‘He has an open ticket.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Gilchrist said. ‘I assume we’re looking at CCTV footage to see if Janet Rule is telling the truth.’

  Wade nodded.

  ‘Nothing so far.’

  Heap tugged on his ear. ‘He’s a person of interest but not a guilty person yet.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, detective sergeant – though his apparent flight doesn’t bode well.’

  Wade handed Gilchrist a thin folder. ‘Here’s the rape report, ma’am,’ she said, placing the folder on Gilchrist’s desk. Gilchrist flipped it open and shuffled the three sheets of paper inside.

  ‘This is it?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Wade said.

  Gilchrist flicked through again. ‘Where are the witness statements. The follow-up?’

  ‘Miss Bromley apparently refused to cooperate with any investigation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s there on the front page.’

  Gilchrist scanned the page. It was signed by a rape councillor she admired called Cynthia Stokes. Gilchrist looked up at Heap and Wade and frowned.

  ‘Christine Bromley came into the station with a friend claiming she had been raped. She would not give further details. She would not agree to a physical examination. She was clearly distressed. There were signs of bruising on her wrists and neck consistent with being restrained and possibly strangled into submission. She would not allow a closer examination of these marks either.’

  She glanced back at the paper.

  ‘Her friend said that he had found her in the street near her home, huddled on the kerb, rocking to and fro. He said she would only repeat that she had been raped. The friend had coaxed her into his car and to the police station.’ She looked up. ‘And that’s it.’

  ‘There was nowhere for the investigation to go, ma’am. Ms Bromley would not say where she had been that evening. There was no CCTV on that particular street but attempts were made to track her on other CCTV in town, without success.’

  Gilchrist nodded.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser. Get me Cynthia Stokes on the phone.’

  Heap went back to his desk and five minutes later he nodded as Gilchrist’s phone rang.

  ‘Detective Inspector, long time no speak,’ Cynthia Stokes said.

  ‘Sarah, please, Cyn. How are you? And Bobby?’

  Stokes was the single mother of an adorable six-year-old boy. Adorable, that is, when Gilchrist knew she could leave him at the end of the day. His existence didn’t make her broody.

  ‘Bobby’s great. He’s eight next week. Come to his birthday party if you’d like.’

  ‘If I can,’ Gilchrist said. Was it that long since she’d seen her friend? ‘Listen, Cyn, I’m sorry to be abrupt but I’m following up a suspicious death—’

  ‘And you wanted to know about the rape.’

  ‘You know about Christine Bromley, then?’

  ‘Word gets around. But I’m not sure I can help you. I assume you’ve seen the report. That was pretty much it.’

  ‘No witnesses?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell us where it happened. I decided to treat it as if she couldn’t remember rather than wouldn’t talk. I thought one of our therapists might open her up but she only agreed to one session and that was a waste of time.

  ‘We put up incident boards on all the streets within a quarter-mile radius asking if anyone had witnessed a woman being attacked. Zilch. We wanted to circulate her photograph to see if anyone had seen her that evening but, of course, she wouldn’t allow that.’

  ‘And she never let you examine her?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Do you think she was making it up?’

  ‘We never think women are making it up,’ Stokes said, her voice scolding. Gilchrist flushed.

  ‘I know not usually. I just mean in this instance.’

  Stokes softened. ‘Obviously I wondered. But she was exhibiting all the signs of having suffered a traumatic attack.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour, Cyn? Would you get in touch with her doctor? I know you couldn’t when she was alive but now she’s dead could you find out if she went to her or him after the rape. Perhaps her doc examined her.’

  ‘Of course,’ Stokes said. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.’

  ‘We should have a drink sometime,’ Gilchrist said. ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘Well, there’s raspberry and lemonade in a week’s time at Bobby’s party.’

  Gilchrist laughed. ‘I’ll let you know. Thanks, Cyn.’

  Gilchrist was just putting the phone down when she heard Stokes’s voice squawk something.

  ‘What?’ she said, putting the phone back to her ear.

  ‘I forgot to say,’ Stokes said. ‘There was one odd thing. Her friend. I discovered something intriguing much later from some newspaper article or other.’

  Gilchrist looked for his name on the front page of the report.

  ‘What
about him?’

  ‘He was, I’m sure, a friend, but he was also her husband.’

  Gilchrist found the name. Derek Neill.

  When Gilchrist and Heap returned to Derek Neill’s apartment he was more cheerful than when they last left him.

  ‘So, has my DNA turned up somewhere it doesn’t belong?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We’re here about your wife. Christine Bromley.’

  ‘Terrible business. I’ve heard they recovered her body.’

  ‘Have you heard her death was suspicious?’

  He grimaced. ‘No.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘At the swim.’

  Gilchrist looked up from her notes. ‘No, before the swim, I mean,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t remember – weeks, maybe months ago.’

  ‘Odd you didn’t mention she was your wife when we were talking about her on our first visit,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Is it? I suppose I haven’t thought about her like that for years – if ever.’

  ‘We know she was living with Janet Rule in the few months before her death.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. The modern world is wonderful, isn’t it? My wife took a wife. But we’d been living separate lives long before that.’

  ‘You knew about her family and her business?’

  ‘What, how awful the family was and how insanely successful the business was? Yes, almost from the moment we met.’

  ‘You weren’t invited to join the firm when you married?’ Heap said.

  ‘I had enough trouble getting invited to my own wedding,’ he said. ‘If her father could have figured out a way for her to get married without her ending up with a husband, he would have. Though in the end he and I rubbed along OK, when he saw I wasn’t after anything.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘I’ve done very nicely following my own path, thank you very much. Beholden to no man – or woman. And that’s how I’ve always liked it.’

  ‘Tell us about access to the feeds.’

  ‘Well, I know that each team made up their own bottles and brought them with them. They were laid out in lines on the pier before the race started then each team was responsible for keeping the bottles filled with feed.’

  ‘Could bottles have been swapped?’

  ‘Well, all the bottles are from two or three suppliers but teams usually put individual markings on them. But, yes, it’s possible someone could have swapped.’