The next few days were noteworthy by the lack of phone calls from anyone connected with either the two suicides or Erica Randall. Martha had released Patrick’s body for burial and expected the funeral to take place in the next few days. She wondered when Erica’s inquest would be closed and waited for either Alex, Mark Sullivan or David Steadman to let her know. There was a certain courtesy to be observed.
Her interest in the three cases was diluted by a sudden flurry of deaths due to what the newspapers were calling ‘spring flu’ which was, in fact, a cluster of viral infections that felled anyone with respiratory disease, other chronic illness or simple old age. The young, the sick and old were culled and it kept her busy.
On 21 April, the nation had celebrated the Queen’s birthday (one of those not felled by the nasty little viruses) and Sukey came home alone, pale, tired and looking slightly depressed. Martha avoided the subject of Pom, though it was hard. A mother naturally frets about her children, however old they are. But, she told herself, her daughter would confide in her when she was ready. All she did was give her an extra-warm hug when she greeted her and murmured in her ear that she was always ready to listen, but the nearest Sukey got to confiding in her mother was the brief announcement that she had decided to accept the part in the soap and Dominic was currently drawing up the contracts.
Yay! Good, she cheered silently, giving her daughter a kiss but otherwise outwardly merely nodding her approval. She didn’t want to put her off by being too enthusiastic. But she liked and trusted Dominic Pryce. He had come to stay once or twice, a sharp shooter in his forties who could read contracts like a horoscope, seemingly seeing right into the future where the wording would lead them and sniff out a dodgy clause. He was not above squeezing out a few extra pounds a week but also knew when to accept a lower offer that might lead to greater things. He had a number of production companies tucked in his belt and, Martha thought, was perceptive, appreciating both Sukey’s talents but also her limitations. He also knew when to back off. He would have fumed at Pomeroy’s interference but in the end would have assessed that the decision would be Sukey’s. Knowing Dominic, he would have simply planted the one phrase: Offers don’t last forever.
It was the theatrical equivalent of plenty more fish in the sea.
Sam, in the meantime, was saying nothing about the various signs she was picking up that he had finally discovered the opposite sex. Only a newcomer to that particular club could possibly imagine that the clues were invisible – the scent of perfume which clung to him on his late returns home, the smears of lipstick and when he had given her a lift, in his Fiesta, to collect her car, she had noticed a mascara rolled almost underneath the seat. It wasn’t hers; neither was it his twin sister’s. One of his friends had a younger sister called Rosalie whom, he had said gruffly, ‘isn’t too bad’. And from that she was building up a picture. Her children were growing up fast, Martha thought. It wouldn’t be too long before she would be living in the White House all alone.
And that thought chilled her.
The one bit of tangible news was about the damage done to her car. The police had shown her the images from her CCTV camera. They were too grainy to be sure but she thought the boy could well have been Sean Silver. It was her first sighting of these shadowy figures bent on destruction. The question was what on earth was all this to do with her? Why had they vandalized her car? Had they realized the depth of her interest in the two suicides?
She wondered when she would have an answer.