Monday, 13 March, 9 a.m.
The ‘after the weekend’ prediction of the weather forecasters proved to be true. It was a fine morning, bright sunshine beckoning her towards the town, and as Martha pulled up outside her office she wondered whether the week ahead might, for once, be plain sailing. Sometimes they began that way but got trickier towards the end of the week; other Mondays began with a bang and that continued right through until Friday. Her job was as unpredictable as the grim reaper. She rarely had an entirely quiet week, although just occasionally, usually in summer, she was blessed with nothing more than a few elderly persons dying naturally and peacefully, surrounded by family and with doctors’ certificates present.
This proved to be one of the weeks when first thing Monday morning was calm and relatively quiet, and she had a couple of hours to sort through her emails, with coffee provided at regular intervals by Jericho Palfreyman, the coroner’s officer.
10 a.m.
Sometimes she learned about a death through Jericho. He had a keen (some might call it nosey) involvement in local events – particularly mopping up bad news via the papers or BBC Radio Shropshire. He considered it a coup if he learned of a death before the coroner. At other times Martha was informed by email or the telephone or simply a new set of notes placed on her desk. But there were occasions, usually cases of homicide or other violent or unexpected deaths, when she was informed either by phone or in person by DI Alex Randall himself. This was one of those mornings. He arrived, unannounced, a beige folder under his arm, frowning slightly as he knocked, but when she opened the door to him the frown was quickly erased and he grinned at her. ‘Good morning, Martha,’ he said. Then added with a hint of mischief, ‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything?’
She wanted to respond. You? Disturb? Never.
But it would have been unwise and a little presumptuous, so she simply swallowed the words and shook her head. ‘Come in, Alex.’
It must be something out of the ordinary to bring him here so early on a Monday. She was on instant alert.
But he didn’t speak straight away. Instead, after a quick glance, as though asking her permission, he crossed the room and settled into the armchair in the bay window as he had so many times before. For a moment he remained silent as he looked around at the room so familiar, lined with bookshelves, the books a random selection of titles from gardening to law, from medicine to natural history, fact to fiction. It was representative of her eclectic mind. He smiled to himself, thinking of the ragbag of subjects contained somewhere inside the unruly red hair, peering out from behind those witchy green eyes. The desk stood alone in the centre of the room, facing the window as though she kept watch over the town of Shrewsbury. To him the scent of lemons, roses, lavender, the room itself was all so familiar, so comfortable, so reassuring. So her. He said nothing, though his eyes, somewhere between hazel and grey, were expressive in their appreciation as they roamed the space.
It was up to her to begin. ‘So,’ she said briskly, ‘what brings you here this morning?’ She paused, adding, ‘Alex?’
He put the folder down on his lap. And in his eyes she now read pain.
He half smiled. ‘I take it you kept to your usual practice of avoiding any local news over the weekend?’
How well he knew her private life and foibles.
She nodded. ‘Absolutely. I have enough death, sadness, grief and mayhem in the week.’ Her eyes rested on the folder and she raised her eyebrows. ‘So?’
‘A suicide,’ he said, then, knowing her pedantry, he corrected himself. ‘It looks like a suicide.’ And almost to himself, he added, ‘I can’t see what else it can be.’
He handed the folder to her as he spoke. ‘Gina Marconi, thirty-six years old. Successful barrister specializing in criminal law. Divorced seven years ago, from Mr Marconi, due to be married for the second time in September. One son, Terence, aged eight.’
She lifted her gaze from the picture on the front of the file, a picture of a woman in a red T-shirt laughing into the camera, happy with shining dark hair which waved down to just below her shoulders. She looked as though she did not have a care in the world. Dark eyes shone out of the photograph, eyes full of merriment and mischief and fun. Which had disguised …?
Martha looked across at DI Randall for explanation and he continued, his eyes on hers.
‘Inexplicably she gets out of bed at three a.m., drives north out of town, meets a sharp right-angled bend and doesn’t take it. Instead she unbuckles her seat belt – that’s if it was on in the first place – and drives her car at sixty miles an hour straight into the brick wall. Multiple injuries, dead more or less instantly. Certainly by the time the paramedics got there.’
‘Post-mortem?’
‘Sometime this week. Mark Sullivan will let you know.’
She nodded and, still looking at the picture, asked, ‘Why suicide? Why not bad driving? Loss of concentration – even loss of consciousness?’
‘The imprint of the accelerator was on her shoe. That is before she was ejected through the shattered windscreen.’
She winced at the inevitable mental image the words evoked. ‘Was there a note?’
‘No.’
‘So …? Was there a history of depression?’
‘No.’
‘So why suicide, Alex? The seat belt? Not conclusive. She might just be one of those people who don’t buckle up – or sometimes forget.’ She was already uneasy. Suicide was one of the verdicts she was always reluctant to give. It had such a knock-on effect on the family. ‘Couldn’t it have been simple insomnia with disastrous results? Maybe she’d taken something to help her sleep? Alcohol?’
He shook his head.
‘Maybe she couldn’t sleep because of excitement over her approaching wedding? Then maybe a moment’s distraction? A mobile phone call?’
This time it was his turn to shake his head. ‘She’d left her mobile at home. On the bedside table.’
‘So …’ She was aware she was running out of options. ‘Was anything wrong with the car? Faulty steering? Brake failure?’
Again, he shook his head. ‘We’ve had it looked at. So far they’ve found nothing wrong with it.’
‘But why would she commit suicide? You say she had a young son? A fiancée? A wedding planned? Have you talked to her close friends?’
Randall covered a smirk. He was well used to Martha’s interest in police work and their line of reasoning often mirrored each other. It was as though they worked together – two police officers rather than coroner and DI. ‘Give us time, Martha,’ he said gently, tempted to touch her arm to slow her rampant reasoning. ‘It’s early days yet but my initial instinct tells me Gina Marconi left home that night with no intention of returning.’
‘Gina Marconi,’ she mused. ‘Unusual name. Was she Italian?’
‘Her first husband was New York Italian.’
‘He is her son’s father?’
‘Yeah, but as so often happens he’s disappeared into the ether. Had very little contact with his son or Gina.’
‘Have you spoken to her mother?’
Alex’s mouth twisted as it did when he was finding something hard. ‘Yes. She’s distraught. I can understand it. One minute she’s discussing wedding plans, next thing measuring up for a shroud.’
‘Oh.’ Martha shuddered. ‘Don’t. Please.’
‘Well,’ he said, looking around him now and shifting in his chair, always a precursor to leaving. ‘You’ll be opening an inquest?’
‘Yes. I’ll speak to Mark Sullivan. Get the post-mortem findings when they’re ready and start gathering evidence.’
‘Right you are.’
She smiled warmly at him and for an instant, as he rose to his feet, he felt he would like to stay in this warm, sunny room all day until the sun set and then some, seeing Shrewsbury through plate glass rather than the reality.
But he heaved himself out of the chair.
Time to go.