Monday, 10 April, 11 a.m.
Martha had kept the sad photographs of Patrick Elson in a drawer while she puzzled over what to do next.
From Alex she’d heard absolutely nothing. That was to be expected. But neither did she hear from David Steadman or Mark Sullivan. She was well and truly out of the loop. Fumbling and blind. So she was left to wonder.
She transported herself back to that brief, cryptic conversation and tried to extract something tangible.
‘The interesting thing was the brain pathology.’
‘You mean a fracture or a bleed from the fall?’ That had been when she had sensed Sullivan backing off.
‘There’s still a lot I need to find out. I’m not absolutely sure. I’m just hazarding a guess.’ But pathology is not guesswork. It is scientific and structured. If you don’t know something the saying is you don’t guess but confess.
‘I need to interview Alex again and get a clearer picture of his wife’s behaviour.’
What for? What on earth did Sullivan think he could learn about Erica’s death from her behaviour?
And then there had been the final blow. The smack in the face. ‘I should be discussing this with Mr Steadman as he’s the coroner in charge. After all … it was your decision to hand Alex’s case over to a colleague rather than handle it yourself, Martha.’
What had he found? What did he suspect? Were his suspicions mirroring her own? She drummed her fingers on the desk. And that did nothing at all except irritate her.
Use your brain, love. Her father’s words, puffing on a pipe he shouldn’t even have been smoking. Use your brain.
And so she did. She ran through the possibilities, tried and tested her theory by revising the facts.
Erica Randall had been unpredictable since the birth of her damaged baby. Medicine dislikes coincidence. It likes to link adverse events. The shock and tragedy of giving birth to Christopher Randall, the child who had lived for just a few hours, had been the explanation for her mental state. But was it possible that her mental problems had another cause?
What if cause and effect had been reversed? She logged into her medical data account and checked a few facts. An hour later she longed to pick up the phone and ask Mark Sullivan what tests he had ordered.
She plonked herself back down in her chair. He wasn’t going to share it with her, which gave her only one option – speak to David Steadman, crawl on her knees and ask him. And that, she reflected, would be a big mistake at the moment. Steadman would know. He was a clever man. Intuitive. He probably already knew that her passing the case to him had been more than politeness and formality. If she continued to pursue the truth he would know that she was emotionally involved right up to her armpits.
Perhaps, she thought with typical optimism, Steadman had already sensed her involvement and would soon get back in touch. And then she could put her theory to the test. Already she was feeling hopeful. Redemption, she thought, followed by justice.
The rest of the day passed in unsatisfactory fashion, an anti-climax after the optimism of the morning. She had still not worked out how to speak to Terence Marconi.
And when she arrived home Pomeroy and Sukey were still there – and another bottle of red wine was opened. Rioja Superior this time.
As she let herself in through the front door to hear his nasal tones she wanted to know how long they were planning to stay. In other words, when were they going? Martha felt awful, but it wasn’t her daughter that she wanted to wave goodbye to. It was the bloody boyfriend. Besides, they had a small but nice rented flat between them in Bristol (paid for partly by her). Surely they would prefer to be there? Private? Without Mother hanging around?
It didn’t seem so, and Martha noticed that her daughter was on edge whenever the three of them were in the same room. Was it the snide remarks her boyfriend made, or her mother’s tightening of the lips and thinly disguised intolerance for Pom’s strongly held views which ranged from ‘Trans people’ (Who the hell do they think they’re fooling?) to university degrees (You just rack up debt. Bloody waste of time if you ask me.). No one was asking, but that fact seemed to constantly escape him. But when he trod on her job (Can’t see the point of it, quite honestly, Martha. I mean the dead are dead, aren’t they?), he’d crossed the line. It was only the look of panic in Sukey’s wide blue eyes that stopped Martha from climbing on to her soap box to defend her role.
Instead she fizzed like a bottle of cheap lemonade that has been shaken and then the top twisted on tighter to stop any gas from escaping. She could almost feel the pressure build up towards an inevitable explosion. She did the only thing possible. She rang her mother, even though she already knew what she would say.
‘Don’t go shootin’ your mouth off now, Martha. If you say how much you don’t like him or point out his shortcomings she’ll be getting engaged or havin’ a baby just because …’
‘To spite me?’
‘No, because she’s a girl and wants to prove she’s a woman. Tssh, it’ll all melt away.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
She hadn’t told her mother about Erica Randall. For that matter, her mother didn’t really know about Alex whom, if she referred to him at all, she tended to call that detective fellow.
Oh, Mum. But this time it was a silent plea.