She already knew that Alex lived in Church Stretton, a small town at the foothills of the Long Mynd and Stiperstones, large lumpy hills in the Shropshire countryside. Church Stretton itself was a quaint town with a large antiques centre, the ubiquitous Co-op and some individual shops. Full of legend and folklore, the Stretton hills were a popular destination for mountain bikers, hikers and people wanting wide open spaces and views that did, literally, take your breath away. To get to the top was a stiff climb.
The town itself nestled in the foothills. And Alex’s house sat on the southern edge of the main street. At the end of a cluster of ex-council houses was a small, tucked-away estate consisting largely of 1940s semis, sturdily stone built, with generous double garages, small front gardens and space for parking. She turned into the road and parked, looked up and down. There was no one around. The estate looked quietly deserted, the street sunny, backing on to fields, and between two of the properties there was a narrow footpath whose sign promised a park and ultimately a duck pond. It all looked quiet and innocent. No one would believe the drama that had taken place here a few nights ago, but she could picture it. Blue lights strafing the sky, open doors, panic and consultation. It had all melted away now as though it had never been.
Martha locked her car and walked up the street looking for signs of life – anyone who might have witnessed something – but the houses were all neat and quiet with parking space for two cars at the front, most of which were currently empty. Everyone was out at work or inside having their tea, watching TV. It looked deserted.
Alex’s house was at the top, much as she would have expected it, as tucked away as it could manage. It looked uninviting, innocent, anonymous and also soulless. There was no sign of individuality or personality. Nothing. If a house could manage to look sad then this one did. It looked as unloved as a stray animal. He had told her it was not a happy home, but nothing could have prepared her for this blank sheet or the feeling of depression that seemed to emanate from its walls. No love had been poured into it or seeped out of it. No little touches, draped curtains in the bedroom windows or rose bushes in the front patch. It was in a good state of repair but there were no flowerpots, no house name, no sign of affection. The downstairs curtains were drawn, shielding the interior from curious stares or the paparazzi. There was no sign of the recent drama either – no forensic van parked outside, no officer on guard, no police tape. No notice on the door. Nothing. That was a good sign. It meant the investigation had not been escalated and was still currently low key. Waiting for the post-mortem results, at a guess. But that was where things could change. One bruise in the wrong place, an injury or sign of other assault and the police vans would soon come chasing, DI or not. But the post-mortem would almost certainly prove nothing. Seeing a Ford in the drive – Alex’s, Erica’s? – Martha did not dare linger but walked back down the road and returned to her office. So that was chez Alex. She felt a bit sad. What had she hoped to achieve by driving down here? To speak to him? Find out the true story behind his wife’s death? She didn’t even know that. How had her being there helped?
Well, she had other work to do. Jericho handed her a couple of sets of notes. People are dying all the time. So she forced herself to do the job she was paid to do.
And now that included two files. Two suicides, and Erica who was not her responsibility. Her instincts, as coroner, were telling her that there was something different about two of the deaths, and she couldn’t work out why she bracketed Erica Randall’s sad little accident in with two violent suicides. On the surface and beneath the surface there was nothing to link them. Maybe, she decided, it was only that they had all happened in the last few weeks and all were unusual for one reason or another. Somewhere behind these tragedies there would be explanations, but she might never learn them.
Erica Randall might not be her responsibility but she was of personal interest.
It was the other two cases, the boy Patrick Elson and the woman Gina Marconi, which were her responsibility, and she shouldn’t be diverted from doing her job. She was the one who should speak for them. But how could she when she did not know their stories? Her years of experience as a coroner had taught her much. If she was unhappy about a case, at some point, maybe far into the future, there would be an explanation. Events happen for a reason. It is the way of life. Experience builds up instinct. And her instincts were screaming and crying at the same time. Something was pulling at her. Trouble was she didn’t know in what direction.
But she knew children. Twelve-year-old boys don’t just hurl themselves off bridges into the path of oncoming traffic and an inevitably ugly, terrifying, painful death; neither do successful professional women with a fiancé and young son kill themselves.
The two cases were linked somehow by an invisible thread. Both were violent, determined and successful suicide bids.
And Erica Randall? Probably an accident. At the same time two things burrowed into her mind. The first: why was her mind stubbornly linking Erica’s death with the two suicides?
Had she picked up on something that made her believe Erica Randall had deliberately hurled herself down the stairs? Was that why she was bracketing them together? She knew Alex’s wife had been unhappy. He had described her as ‘tortured’. Tortured was one way to describe a pre-suicidal mental state. Throwing oneself downstairs could be accidental, a trip, or it could have been an act of desperation. David Steadman would be the one to unravel Erica’s story. And it was up to her to do the same for Patrick and Gina. She had studied their photographs, willing them to speak to her. Patrick a slim, earnest-looking boy who wore thick glasses and had what her mother would have called buck teeth. Maybe they would have been straightened when he was older. Gina was a confident, radiant-looking beauty with a dazzling smile, thick dark hair, big eyes and a wide mouth. And Erica? She did not know what Erica looked like. Alex had never described his wife and she had never met her or seen a photograph. So what had she looked like? And now Martha was curious. Had Alex’s wife been a beauty or plain? Was she fat or thin? Did she habitually hold an anxious, haunted look? That was how Martha had always pictured her. Or had she smothered her anxieties with a pleasant smile and polite expression? And so … Had this faceless woman hurled herself down the stairs just as Patrick had sky-dived off the A5 bridge and Gina had pressed her foot down on the accelerator having released her seat belt? If she had it on in the first place.
Did that link them – a desire for death? Just that?
Riding on these thoughts was a worry. What exactly was Alex Randall saying down at the station?
Or – and this was the worry that gnawed at her – was he saying nothing and yet not at liberty to leave? Were they keeping him there? Were they considering charging him?