Jericho put him straight through to Martha, which told him the jungle drums had already beaten out their grim message. DS Talith hadn’t told the coroner’s officer what the call was about and Jericho hadn’t asked. He hadn’t needed to.
DS Talith knew Palfreyman, the coroner’s assistant, ears to the ground, would already have known. Somehow he knew everything. As he waited for her to pick up the phone he had never felt more awkward.
Martha eyed the phone and knew this was it. But she had had time to recover at least some of her equilibrium and she trusted she would deal with this professionally. As Talith stammered out his request she sensed his difficulty and spoke briskly, dispassionately, hoping her voice was leaking none of the emotions tossing around in her brain.
She cued him in.
‘Jericho has only given me the fact that DI Randall’s wife has died in …’ That was when she paused, the word ‘suspicious’ sticking in her throat like dry bread, so she substituted with, ‘Apparently unexplained circumstances.’ Surely DS Paul Talith could not possibly know that as she spoke she was clenching and unclenching her fists. She continued in the same brisk, businesslike voice. ‘So you’d better fill me in on the details, Talith.’
She was trying to make this job easier for him. There is nothing worse than an internal investigation, looking around the faces of your colleagues and reading suspicion and doubt.
Talith cleared his throat. ‘Right then. The DI lives in Church Stretton, ma’am. In a semi-detached house in a small cul-de-sac. Apparently Mrs Randall – Erica, her name is – and the DI, ma’am …’ By every word he was selecting so carefully but oh, so clumsily, she could tell how hard he was finding this.
‘They didn’t have the most …’ And now Talith felt defeated. This was the home life his inspector had defended so tightly. This was too difficult, but he still pushed on: ‘Amicable of relationships.’ He got the words out quickly. This was toe-cringingly awful.
‘Mrs Randall was apparently …’ And now his words were slowing as though they were being dragged out of him under threat of torture. They were failing him. ‘They used to argue a lot, ma’am. She was, according to the neighbours, a strange and difficult woman. Unwell. There had been trouble before.’
Martha heard the words. Unwell. Trouble.
Get on with it, she wanted to say. Give me the details. I need to know. But Talith was still hedging. ‘She had a history of unpredictable behaviour. Last night, apparently, they were arguing again and to cut a long story short …’
Please do.
‘To cut a long story short, Mrs Randall, Erica, she fell down the stairs. Her neck was broken, according to the medical examiner. She died quick. No one really knows …’
But Martha had already jumped ahead. Falling down stairs. Her heart sank. Unless you find string tied around the top step, how do you ever prove whether someone fell or was pushed? It is impossible. Accident, murder, suicide? The words tossed around in her head like a dinghy in a force-ten gale. Deliberate, homicide, suicide. With no witnesses no one can ever be sure what happened. It could be the result of a fit of anger, attention seeking, a trip, a drunken fall or even a bit of all four. Did Erica drink? Martha didn’t even know that. A small push, a pique of fury, a hysterical woman and from the little Martha knew about Alex’s wife she was that. She was also unhappy. Unhappy people do not care what happens to them, whether they live or die. There is a carelessness in abject misery. And as for unpredictable behaviour, Alex had told her that his wife had a history of arson, of petty crime, ever since the tragic event in their past.
DS Paul Talith’s voice cut in. ‘She would have died more or less instantly according to the police surgeon.’
Martha hated herself for asking, but if she didn’t others would. ‘Were there any signs of other injuries?’
He knew exactly what she was asking. Is it possible that Detective Inspector Alex Randall, your boss and my friend, is a killer?
And he answered as honestly as he could. ‘We don’t know, ma’am. They haven’t done the post-mortem yet but so far the pathologist says—’
Her turn to interrupt. ‘The pathologist?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Doctor Sullivan.’
To herself she nodded. Mark Sullivan would not get it wrong. He would not let friendship or even sympathy for a colleague stand in the way of the truth. His presence was a relief. This situation needed clarity, honesty and he would deliver both.
‘So far Doctor Sullivan says that Mrs Randall’s injuries were consistent with an accidental fall.’
Satisfactory yet strangely unsatisfactory. The statement answered no questions. The word consistent is weak and uncommitted.
‘Paul.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘You understand I can’t investigate Mrs Randall’s death.’
Silence from the other end.
‘I shall have to ask a colleague to take over the case. I’m … I wouldn’t … I couldn’t be entirely impartial. It would be unprofessional as well as open to question. And it wouldn’t be fair to Inspector Randall. Or to Mrs Randall.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘I’ll ask a coroner from a neighbouring area to take over, probably David Steadman from South Shropshire. I’ll speak to him today and get back to you. In the meantime, it would be a good thing for Doctor Sullivan to continue with the post-mortem. I’ll, umm …’
Courage, Martha.
‘I’ll authorise it and let him know about the change of coroner.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Talith put the phone down and sat for a moment, thinking.
This was awkward and it was definitely not in his life plan. He liked working in Shrewsbury. It was a pleasant, peaceful town. His wife, Diana, was about to give birth to their first child and he wanted to focus on that. Truth was he was hugely excited and awed by the whole concept of becoming a father, whether it was a boy or a little girl. To allow for his new role he’d hoped for an easy ride for the next few months, working in a civilized town under an inspector who was fair and generous, and he felt would have been sympathetic to his altered circumstances. Now it looked as though that happy era might be drawing to an end. If there were any grounds for suspicion that his inspector had had a hand in his wife’s death, Talith knew it would be the end of Randall’s career. This was beyond a DS’s remit and he would be referring the case upwards and upwards until it reached the very top. He could hardly bear to think of the consequences. He’d had a vain hope that the coroner would deal with it and the entire event would be swept under the carpet, but the very fact that she had side-stepped the case told him all. These were dangerous and murky waters.
He returned to the interview room.
His inspector was sitting motionless, lost in some thought of his own. His face was pale and strained. Talith sat down opposite him. Whether he liked it or not, he had to do this. It was his job and better he did it, a sympathetic colleague and friend, than someone from a neighbouring force who wouldn’t treat DI Randall with the same respect and understanding.
Buying time before he had to look into his DI’s face, he glanced at his notes. ‘Neighbours say …’ He cleared his throat. He knew just how much his boss had kept his wife and home circumstances far away from his position here. And now he was beginning to learn why.
He swallowed. ‘Sir,’ he began. ‘A neighbour has come forward to say that she heard voices.’
Alex didn’t respond. He couldn’t meet Paul Talith’s eyes either. Both men were finding this harder than they could ever have imagined.
Even Talith had his doubts now. He pressed on. ‘Arguing, sir?’ This was at least as difficult for him as for his superior. They were going to have to bring in some top notch officers if this investigation was going to escalate.
He met the inspector’s eyes. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened, sir? In your own words?’
‘All right.’ DI Randall lifted his eyes, squared his shoulders. ‘My wife was not an easy woman. She’s been extremely unpredictable ever since our son was born six years ago.’
‘I didn’t know you had a—’
Randall cut in. ‘I don’t. He died.’
His clipped tone should have warned Talith.
Randall continued. ‘He was born with a condition known as anencephaly. That means he was born without a head. At least without a cranium, a brain, et cetera, et cetera. The condition is incompatible with life. He barely breathed and was dead within an hour.’ Randall lifted his eyes with the faintest of smiles. ‘A blessing, the doctors called it. It turned out to be more of a curse. Within weeks of his death Erica began to show signs of mental instability. She …’ He frowned. ‘Do you really need to know all this?’
Talith was uncomfortable. ‘Not really. I’m not sure. It depends. Sir.’ He appealed, ‘This is difficult for me too.’
‘I know.’
11.30 a.m.
Martha was already on the phone to Mark Sullivan, the Home Office pathologist with whom she had worked on numerous cases. He sounded jaunty and untroubled, as though he had no great concerns over performing his colleague’s wife’s post-mortem or doubt in Randall’s role in her death. Or perhaps, Martha mused, his new relationship was going so well and Nancy, an internet date with three children, was proving such a good swap for his alcoholic ex that Sullivan’s mental state was permanently optimistic and undamaged by others’ problems. He certainly sounded ebullient and unconcerned.
‘You’ve heard about Alex’s wife, I take it?’
‘Yeah. Nasty situation, Martha. Poor Alex. Trouble is …’
She knew exactly what the trouble was.
‘In these sorts of cases, I mean, falling downstairs, it can be hard to piece together the exact sequence of events. I’ve got some background information but it doesn’t make things any easier and it’s possible the post-mortem won’t shed much light on the circumstances surrounding her fall.’
‘You know she was mentally unstable?’
‘Yeah. I’ve already had a word with Alex and with her GP. She’d had problems for a few years. Alex must have had a very difficult home life.’
She could tell from Sullivan’s tone that he had no suspicion that she felt emotionally involved or that this was anything other than an unhappy accident. He – and she – were simply discussing a colleague’s situation. That was all. No dark background.
She tried to ascertain at least some facts. ‘I don’t know whether she was a drinker.’
‘We’ll be running through all the usual tests. We’ll do a blood alcohol test as routine drug screening.’
‘You’ve been out to his house?’
‘No. Not yet. Might do if the PM looks a bit ambiguous. So far I’ve just seen the photographs of the accident scene. It’s a fairly average semi.’
She breathed out softly before continuing. ‘Mark, I won’t be handling the inquest. I don’t feel I could be impartial.’
‘Surely it’s going to be accidental?’ He sounded surprised and unsuspicious. Was it only she who had a mind open to a darker possibility?
‘I can’t – I can’t make that decision.’
And that was when something must have clicked in the pathologist’s mind, a cog finding its ratchet. His manner changed, partly stiff, partly sympathetic, and now definitely detached and distanced.
‘OK, Martha,’ he said slowly, digesting this piece of information.
‘I thought I’d refer it to David Steadman. He’s a decent enough chap.’
‘You still want me to proceed with the PM?’ Definitely guarded now.
‘Oh, yes, I think so. There’s going to have to be one and I can’t think of a pathologist I’d trust more.’
‘You don’t doubt my impartiality?’ She could feel the gap between them widening by the second. Everything she said seemed to be making it wider.
‘Your impartiality? No.’
‘So. Tomorrow?’
‘OK.’
‘I can do Erica Randall’s PM in the afternoon. I’ll keep my eye out for any further injuries, Martha, that might have contributed to her fall.’ There was a pause before he finished with, ‘I’ll do a thorough job, but I can tell you Alex Randall is not a man to have pushed his wife down stairs even in a fit of anger. It isn’t in his nature.’
She couldn’t believe it. He was defending Alex to her?
She tried to respond with a laugh but it sounded hollow and insincere. ‘Sure you’re not deciding the result before you’ve even done the PM, Mark?’
‘No.’ Mark Sullivan’s tone was deadly serious. ‘But in this case I know the man.’
It stopped her in her tracks. Did he? Better than she?
And he hadn’t finished but was scolding her now. ‘Goodness me, Martha, he’s the most controlled person I have ever met.’
And that was what frightened her. What happened when that control snapped?
‘OK. Thanks.’ Training over the years had taught her to regulate her voice as well as her manner as well as her clothes. In fact, her whole persona. Only Martin and then Alex had been able to peer beneath the surface.
‘Well, I suggest you proceed with the PM then. David Steadman will, I’m sure, be in touch with you shortly. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Thank you. And Mark …’
‘Yes?’
‘As far as the results of Patrick Elson’s post-mortem go, I think I’d prefer it if we kept the suspicion of anal interference back for the moment. We don’t know it has any bearing on his suicide and it’ll only distress his family further.’
‘I agree.’
She put the phone down with a feeling of relief and warmth, but it was tinged with a bitter regret. She’d always liked Mark Sullivan and had felt unhappy at the way his life had appeared to be heading – an alcoholic wife, a drink problem himself which had threatened his career, manifesting itself with shaky hands and equally shaky judgements. But now he was through to the other side and she was glad. She trusted him. If only her own life could work out similarly neatly.
She made her second call.
David Steadman was coroner in the next jurisdiction. They knew each other – not well, but well enough to respect each other and, more importantly, well enough for her to be partly honest with her explanation. She got straight to the point. ‘I wonder if you’ll help me out, David?’
He wasn’t her favourite person in the world – pompous, snobbish and arrogant – but one thing she did know about him was that he possessed absolute integrity. No one could buy him or persuade him. He knew the law and stuck to the absolute letter of it. He was one of those people who seem born honest, unable to lie or deceive. Maybe that was what made him so sure of himself, perhaps a little smug. She may not like him but she didn’t have to. She only needed to trust him. And that she did.
She was well known for her independent streak. She could picture his face, gleeful at her having to ask him for help, blowing out his plump pink cheeks in pleasure at her plight. But underneath she also knew he would listen to every word she spoke and weigh it up, evaluate it, think, plan and act. Honestly and carefully.
This was why she had turned to South Shropshire for his help.
He got to the heart of the matter in one slick move. ‘Why do you need my help?’
Only the truth would suffice. ‘I’ve worked with DI Randall over a number of cases. I feel we’re friends as well as colleagues. To be honest, David, I would find it hard to be completely impartial in his wife’s death.’
His response was a noisy blowing out of his cheeks. A moist-sounding harrumph.
‘And I’m sure you can appreciate that his wife’s falling down stairs is hardly a clear-cut case?’
‘Hmm.’
‘I’ve authorised a post-mortem.’
‘Who’s the pathologist?’
‘Mark Sullivan.’
‘Good. He’ll do a thorough job without resorting to the usual play-acting and conjecture.’
Martha smiled to herself. David Steadman and she might not agree on many points, but this was one they were in perfect harmony with.
‘I don’t know the full facts, David’ (she could have added yet, confided in him that while she might be handing the case officially to him she would be continuing with unofficial investigations of her own), ‘but I understand that his wife died some time on Saturday night slash early Sunday morning following a fall down the stairs. I know nothing more than that. Jericho said her neck was broken but I think we’ll wait for radiological confirmation before we decide on that.’
She heard him snigger at Jericho’s diagnosis. ‘What do you know of his home circumstances?’
She knew his antennae were already up, twitching in her direction, picking up electrical signals like aerials. Steadman was astute enough to have picked up on the vibes she could hardly stop herself from giving out – even over the phone.
‘I understand it wasn’t terribly happy.’
‘How much do you want to be kept in the picture?’
‘I don’t know.’ The question was unanswerable but Steadman seemed to understand.
‘OK, Martha.’
She felt she needed to add something more. ‘There will inevitably be a police investigation alongside the inquest. I’m anxious that the truth is not hidden behind spurious facts.’
His response was sharp. ‘Spurious facts?’
‘Rumours, David. Hearsay. Malicious gossip.’
There was a long pause, then he asked the hundred-thousand-dollar question. ‘Is there any possibility of homicide here?’
Homicide? A possibility? She recalled an afternoon spent last summer in the quarry, a warm, sunny day they had shared and the words that had burst out of him. I hate her. I hate her. I wish she was dead. Martha wished he had not spoken them but had kept that to himself. And if he had needed to say the words, she wished she had not heard them. But now she needed to know the truth as far as it could be uncovered. And so her response was blunt and honest. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think DI Randall is capable of murder, but I don’t know the full facts. Please, David. That’s why I’m asking you.’
Something in him must have melted. ‘Of course I’ll take over the case, Martha.’ Said with real warmth and friendship now. Maybe she needed to revise her harsh judgement of him.
And as she thanked him again he said with an even gentler note in his voice. ‘I take it you would like me to keep you informed?’
And now she felt she could afford to be honest. ‘That would be really kind, David. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, my dear. Just tell them to refer the case to me and I’ll take over. I’ll be happy to help you out.’
Yet again she thanked him – profusely, told him she owed him one and knew he wasn’t going to forget that anyway.
And so that was that. She had detached from the case. Cut free. It was not her responsibility any more. She need not learn all the dirty sordid details, each quarrel and spat, reports of late-night arguments and other tittle tattle. As she put the phone down she stared at her hands, at the small diamond engagement ring and the gold wedding ring she still wore almost twenty years after Martin had died. She’d worn it longer for a dead man than when he had been alive. Time to move on, Martha Gunn, she thought. But it isn’t as easy as all that. Moving on is a cliché. It does not reflect real life. People do not move on. They move to a different place dragging their baggage behind them like wheelie suitcases and bearing their scars. Martin was a distant memory now, a memory kept alive by her own recollections and his two children – Sam in particular, who had a look of his father about him and a certain pensiveness that evoked Martin.
But the fact was that since he had died she had not really felt anything for another man. She had had a few dates, dinners and even days out, but they had always felt strange, wrong, a betrayal, and she had bolted her front door behind her, glad to be alone again. Both her mother and her mother–in-law urged her to marry again, find someone else, but it just hadn’t happened – until DI Alex Randall had inched into her life, invaded her mind and stolen her affection.
There – she’d said it now. Affection.
It took an immense effort to focus on her other cases. Back to the two suicides. And Patrick Elson’s inquest was due to take place soon. Focus on that, Martha, and Gina’s death too. You owe it to them and it is your job.
And Alex? Out of your hands.
There was a soft knock on the door. It was Jericho with a cup of strong coffee and two chocolate biscuits. She eyed him speculatively. Jericho Palfreyman, coroner’s assistant, was famously nosey. He knew everything about everyone and revelled in that knowledge. How he acquired so much she didn’t know but suspected that he didn’t quite close the door when she was conversing with relatives or colleagues, whether it was on the phone or in person, and that he lingered just outside, picking up on crumbs of details and squirrelling them away in his sharp little brain. However, in this case she could use that inquisitiveness to advantage. ‘Close the door, Jericho,’ she invited. Eyes bright and alert, he did just that and then stood, waiting.
‘Tell me what you know about Mrs Randall’s death.’
He started to say, ‘Just hearsay,’ before realizing that she already knew this. She wanted this hearsay so she could make her own judgement.
‘Apparently on Saturday night, or rather in the early hours of Sunday morning, Mrs Randall, the inspector’s wife …’ She resisted the temptation to respond with an impatient, I know who Mrs Randall is, merely pressing her lips together and listening to Jericho’s halting account.
‘People heard them rowing late into the night.’
She couldn’t resist a little skip of joy in her heart, a trickle of honey.
‘They heard her screaming. Then silence and a bump, bump, bump and then nothing.’
How on earth did he know these things?
Jericho stopped before continuing. ‘He called for an ambulance, but she was dead at the foot of the stairs. Her neck was broken according to the police doctor. That’s all I know so far, Mrs Gunn.’
Her mind started to work furiously. ‘His house is …?’
‘Just on the outskirts of Church Stretton – a semi. The neighbours said they heard the noise through the walls. And not for the first time.’
Church Stretton was a well-known beauty spot, the Stretton Hills made famous by Malcolm Saville and the town which had a character and unique identity of its own. There was something mysterious about the place, bordered by myth and legend and sporting its very own Devil’s Chair. It was quiet, off the beaten track. Yes, that was exactly where Alex would live, in an anonymous house with the wife he was ashamed of.
‘I understand that they’re questioning him down at the station now.’
It was normal procedure but Martha felt unnerved. The thought of Alex being questioned at his own police station by his colleagues … And there was nothing useful she could do. She could not help him. She drew in a deep breath. ‘Anything else?’
Jericho Palfreyman shook his head sadly. He would have loved to have the whole story to lay at her feet. But …
Even he could only go so far at stretching the truth like a piece of elastic.
‘Umm,’ she began, wondering how best to put this. ‘Jericho. I’m not going to be handling Mrs Randall’s case myself. I’ve asked David Steadman to hear it instead. He’ll keep me …’ She corrected herself. ‘He’ll keep us informed.’
‘Oh, right you are then.’ It was his only response and casual, almost gleeful at that, but she felt she should further justify her decision. ‘I know Inspector Randall too well. It wouldn’t be right for me to hold the inquest. I could be accused of a lack of impartiality.’ She met his eyes and realized he understood this only too well. She continued, ‘I am, however, interested in the outcome, any facts that you find out, and in the result of the post-mortem. If you can just keep me informed?’ She felt she needed to add some justification and found it. ‘I consider DI Randall a friend. A good friend.’
By the gleam in Jericho’s eyes he was getting this completely. ‘I’ll keep you informed if I hear anything, ma’am,’ he said.
‘And Jericho.’
He turned. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Thank you for the biscuits.’
He gave a watery smile and left.
She had work to do, other troubling cases. She needed to prepare her statements and format for the morning’s inquest. Her hand brushed on the two sets of notes which she had been reluctant to file.
Patrick Elson and his jump from the A5 bridge. He had died instantly but in the resulting mayhem and pile-up four other people had been injured, none seriously, and taken to hospital. All four had been discharged later that day. It had been an unexpected consequence of the suicide, unlike Gina Marconi’s death, which had only had a physical impact on Graham Skander’s wall.
What, she wondered, had led this boy to commit such a violent act? Was it sexual assault?
Her hand found the second set. Gina Marconi.
Like Patrick, another violent suicide, certainly not the overused cliché of a cry for help. Rather it had been a determined scream for death, at sixty miles per hour and with her seat belt unbuckled driving straight into a wall. Neither Gina nor Patrick had had any intention of surviving. Unless Gina had simply missed the corner? Leaving her bed, her mobile phone and asking her mother to look after Terence should anything happen to her? Unlikely but not impossible. She made a mental note to visit the scene of the crash.
She drank her coffee, munched abstractedly on the chocolate biscuits and flicked on to the website of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, searching through suicides.
There were numerous papers published on the subject, lots of theories, talk about signs of depression, of the leaving of the note, of the mode and time, of the feelings of guilt in those left behind, of the denial of any knowledge that anything was wrong. Then there were anecdotes of the health care professionals who had had earlier contact with the deceased. The bottom line was that in most cases there were signs that something was wrong but both professionals and family had not realized the severity of the condition. In very few was there no hint that something was building up. Interestingly this applied in particular to violent and determined suicides which both Patrick’s and Gina’s were. They had both left behind a cluster of bewildered family and friends who had thought nothing was wrong.
In Gina’s case this had extended to her fiancée. But, Martha reasoned, something had been wrong. Something must have been.
And Erica Randall?
Plenty of signs there that something had been wrong. But in Erica’s case suicide was unlikely. People who really want to die do not throw themselves down a staircase. Far too unreliable. Besides, Erica’s mental collapse had always been blamed on the birth of Christopher Randall, their little boy born without a head, without a chance of life.
She worried now. Who knew what evidence Mark Sullivan’s post-mortem would expose – drugs, alcohol, medication? Statements from family, friends, GP, psychiatrist? What would David Steadman unearth, now she’d passed the baton over to him? What facts would he bury deep and lay to rest and what would he expose? How much would Alex have to go through? What would the final verdict be?
She tried to guess …
Homicide? Martha shook her head. Unlikely without proof. A little like a suicide attempt, pushing someone down a flight of stairs is equally unreliable as a form of murder. But nevertheless, a push, a shove, in the heat of an argument can result in manslaughter. Alex was surely not capable of deliberate violent assault. But a push? In a moment of frustration? She had glimpsed his feeling of powerlessness against his circumstances, witnessed his frustration with life, his wife, his marriage, his envy for her own children, her precious twins. People would gossip. The gossip would smoulder. For a moment she allowed herself to dream. If or when Alex Randall had another relationship the flames of gossip would be fanned. Particularly if that person (that lucky person) was the coroner who had tried the case of his wife. No, no that would never do. Whatever happened in the future she had done the right thing in handing the case over to Steadman.
So without corroborative evidence, what would be his final verdict?
Probably ‘unexplained’, the verdict that leaves the door wide open for endless accusations and gossip. And a verdict which covers a few more scenarios, a fall, a trip, a push, a dive?
And then her mind took an unexpected turn. Was it possible that Erica’s death was, in reality, another suicide?
She spent a minute or two considering this option from a coroner’s point of view and shook her head. Given the documented state of Erica’s mind a suicide verdict was very unlikely. No, her instinct was that it would be the worst verdict of all, for everyone concerned – the woolly, unsatisfactory unexplained. A permanent question mark, sands that would shift like the tide, ebbing and flowing as rumour found a voice and died or proliferated. Martha knew how it was. You stick a label on someone. She could hear the voice. Oh, him? The one who most likely (said behind a fluttering hand) killed his wife and went on to …
And would the post-mortem prove anything? Probably not. No. There would be no happy ending for her and Alex. Neither of them could afford for their names to be linked in anything but a professional scenario.