Wednesday, 19 April, 2 p.m.
Patrick’s inquest was always going to be a difficult occasion, but just before it started Martha had spent some time with Amanda and her sister and helped them compose themselves.
‘The police have an idea how, where and when he was victimized. None of this,’ she assured them, ‘needs to come out in the inquest.’ They clutched each other’s hands and Amanda gave a watery smile.
‘There will almost certainly be a conviction by the police but Patrick’s name need not be mentioned.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So now shall we go through?’
Jericho did his duty, thoughtfully providing them with a glass of water each before standing back, chin in the air, standing to attention as though on military parade.
Both Patrick’s mother and his aunt were dressed in dark skirt suits. Amanda, in particular, now wore a determined, dogged air, chin up, teeth gritted, lips set firm, hands gripping the arms of the chair. She was going to get through this. Martha had already performed the preliminaries to the court and now she invited them to speak on the boy’s behalf.
As they spoke she listened. It gave her a chance to get a handle on the boy she would never meet. She would never see the bright-eyed lad with big teeth who had grinned at her from a school photograph. She would never be impressed by his skill with mathematics and physics, never hear him recite The Lion and Albert (with actions) from beginning to end. This was their chance to bring him back to life. Suicide wreaks vengeance on the family, trailing miserable guilt in its wake, only conscious of their failings. They should have picked up … But as Martha listened to Amanda Elson’s description of her son, her thoughts tracked away, searching for some other explanation so she could avoid adding to the burden of bereavement with a verdict of suicide. But facts were incontrovertible facts.
He had been alone on the bridge. No one had pushed him. Eileen Tinsley had seen him reach the second rung, balance on the top rail and dive down on to the road. No hand had pushed him. And there were plenty of other witnesses who all testified to the same sequence of events. What else could it have been?
Freddie Trimble, still in sports jacket but wearing a black tie, gave his testimony in a clear, slow description, using notes he had made. Both Amanda and Melanie smiled as he evoked the solemn boy.
Mark Sullivan’s evidence was more difficult to handle. Martha had asked him not to list his injuries or mention the signs of abuse. That, she felt, would have been much too harrowing. She’d asked him simply to state what Patrick’s cause of death had been.
‘He died of shock and haemorrhage due to multiple injuries caused by contact with several motor vehicles which were travelling at speed.’ He eyed Martha, who nodded.
And she had no option but to give the cause of death as suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. The court was silent in response.
On occasions Martha made some social comment but in Patrick’s case the only comment she could have made would have been to expose the exploitation of a boy by two children the same age, encouraged into violent acts and the manipulation of a minor by a felon.
On the way out she had a word with Mark Sullivan. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You handled that really sensitively.’
‘I’d like to say it’s a pleasure,’ he said, ‘but that sort of case is just tragic.’
She nodded in agreement.
‘On a more cheerful note,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to implicate Alex in his wife’s fall. And,’ he said, his hand on her shoulder, ‘your hunch paid off. Well done you.’
‘Well, I thought it very unlikely that you would link Christopher’s congenital abnormality with Erica’s mental state.’
‘You’re darned right,’ he said admiringly. ‘I would never have thought of that.’
‘Maybe I know more about DI Randall’s home circumstances?’
His eyes twinkled. ‘Maybe you do, Martha.’
‘Can I have a quick word with you on another matter?’
He nodded, wondering what on earth was coming next.
Thursday, 20 April, 3 p.m.
She hadn’t meant to go. She had no business going. It was not a good idea. In fact, it was a really bad idea. There was no place for her here in any role. Not as coroner or friend or even nosey bystander. She knew few people would be there which meant her presence would be noticed. She didn’t even know why she was going. What did she hope to achieve? What was she playing at?
She went anyway.
The funeral service was to be held at the crematorium. Possibly it only made things worse that it was a glorious April day, daffodils well out, wafting in the breeze, lambs playing in the field. England, and particularly Shropshire, is at its best on such a beautiful spring day. It was a day when no one would want to leave the world. Erica Randall had been forty-six years old, she learned by reading through the order of service. The photograph on the front, she guessed, had been taken a few years ago.
Before …
Erica Randall wore a determined look, dark eyes gazing outwards. Martha studied it and saw a woman who could have been beautiful had she not worn that look, determined to take on the world. She guessed even before her mental problems that Erica Randall would not have been a comfortable person to live with.
Out of respect for Alex’s wife, Martha had worn a dark grey suit. Not black. Not deep mourning. She’d held back there. That would have been too hypocritical.
She sat down at the back and bowed her head.
The organ music was muted, soft and recorded and, like supermarket tunes, seemed to have no beginning, no middle and no end. It just dribbled out like a musical stream, flowing and unthreatening. Martha did not recognize it.
The coffin with just two wreaths of lilies and roses on top was wheeled in. Coffins usually seem too small to contain a person one has known and loved but this one looked too big for her image of Erica Randall. Alex trailed behind with an older woman Martha guessed to be Erica’s mother. She took a surreptitious glance at him. His face was set as though in granite in an expression she knew well. Gritted teeth. Like Patrick’s mother and aunt yesterday, this was something he just had to get through. He didn’t look either to his right or to his left but straight ahead so he didn’t see her. He was wearing a black suit, black tie, white shirt and looked taller and thinner and older than when she had last seen him. Surprisingly behind Alex and, presumably, his mother-in-law, trailed both Paul Talith and Gethin Roberts in uniforms so well pressed they looked like members of the armed forces.
And now she noticed, three rows from the front, David Steadman, head bowed, and by his side Mark Sullivan. Whether both were there out of a sense of duty, loyalty or friendship she could only guess. Probably a mixture of all three.
The service began.
Alex gave the eulogy, his head also bowed, his words muffled, in a voice so quiet she had to strain to decipher what he was saying.
‘My wife had her problems,’ he said, suddenly looking up as though to have admitted this was a relief. ‘She had been unhappy ever since the birth of our son, Christopher, who was born with a birth defect. He lived for less than an hour. Erica was never well after that. And now we know the truth.’
His eyes flickered across the front row and Martha saw him exchange a glance with Mark Sullivan, who almost smiled. Encouragement? Maybe.
Alex continued. ‘It is only since Erica’s death that we have any explanation for all that happened.’ He looked up then and she read intense pain in his face. ‘For everything that she went through. That carries with it a burden, a sense of failure, a sense of guilt that will stay with me.’ His face was pale as he continued. ‘I regret much of my poor wife’s unhappy existence and …’ Now he looked farther into the room and his head jerked back as he caught sight of Martha. His face was pinched and he was temporarily lost for words before continuing bravely. ‘I shall remember Erica as she was in the early days, the days before she was sick, before Christopher. The happy days.’ Perhaps lost in this past crevice, he smiled then and Martha was reminded of the moment in Pilgrim’s Progress when Christian’s burden rolls off his back. She caught a glimpse of an Alex who smiled, who looked younger, someone without cares as he finished his speech. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘let’s remember an Erica before our little boy, before illness, a happy, intelligent, beautiful …’
Martha slipped out of the crematorium. She didn’t want to hear any more of this eulogy. Her last glance before exiting was Alex, still reading from his sheets of paper. He did not look up as she opened the door and passed through.