River Deep (9 page)

“Really?”

“Well, Haddonfield seems to have disappeared from there and officially Oswestry is outside my jurisdiction.”

“But not outside mine.”

“That’s true,” he admitted.

“Anyway, if I can help … “

“Thank you. I’d better get back. I did want to keep you up to date.”

They both knew a phone call would have sufficed.

Martha stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Alex,” she said thoughtfully. “I know I’m a suspicious creature and I really don’t want to give you more work.”

“But?”

“Two things. When your police officers went to the Jaguar garage on Tuesday why didn’t Sheelagh Mandershall say that Humphreys was staying with her?”

“Simple. She wasn’t at work that day. In actual fact a friend did tell her someone had been asking about him but Sheelagh assumed it was something to do with either the floods or his wife chasing him up. By the time she knew otherwise Cressida Humphreys really was on the scene.”

He smiled. “And your second question?”

“How did the lorry driver know it really was Haddonfield?”

“He told him.”

“What if it wasn’t? I mean, Haddonfield hasn’t been seen by anyone who can positively identify him. What was he doing in Shrewsbury anyway?”

“Shopping. He’s a window cleaner and no one wants their windows cleaned when it’s pouring with rain. The only connection with us appears to be that his van was left here because of the floods. As I said, it’s up to the Oswestry police to investigate that side of things. I’m convinced he left our patch on Monday night. His wife spoke to him by telephone on Monday and she’s confirmed that our man is definitely not her husband which is good enough for me. The timing’s all wrong, anyway. Haddonfield was still alive on Monday night whereas our man died on Sunday. It must surely be coincidence.”

“Hmm.”

“Mrs Haddonfield arrived home at about nine pm on Monday to an empty house. And that, it seems, is that.”

“Did she go out later?”

“We don’t know.”

“So what’s happened to nosy neighbours?”

“It was a filthy night. The nosy neighbours had their curtains tightly shut and were glued to the soaps. No one saw or heard anything. She says she was at home all evening, didn’t budge and didn’t hear the phone go. And try shifting that as an alibi. Not that she needs one.”

Martha heard nothing from Alex Randall for a few days. She was busy anyway. There was plenty to distract her from the puzzle of the unidentified man and she knew the police, under his direction, would be doggedly pursuing their investigations. But while she didn’t exactly forget about the case it did sit at the back of her mind, pricking her curiosity at times. So she scoured the
Shropshire
Star
for detail but there was none. It didn’t even get a mention. Besides – at a guess – if Alex had really broken ground he would have let her know. So she sat back and waited, reflecting that whatever the sayings, no news was exactly that – no news – neither good nor bad.

The citizens of Shrewsbury, in the meantime, had their own threats to think about. The river still swirled across the fields and intermittently inched its way across the Frankwell car park. Vulnerable inhabitants watched every drop of rain falling from the sky with dread and clung to the elevated ring road, looking down on the flooded meadows. Shopkeepers in the town were busily refurbishing their premises, one eye cocked over their shoulder so they would not miss another stealthy invasion of the river. There was a tangible sense of apprehension overlaid with anger at the delay in the installation of flood defences. The twenty-first century bleat was printed in the newspapers. Somebody should be doing something. Somebody should pay. As though man held the answers to this problem. They were misguided. Not man. Nature. The Salopians were not understanding. Nature has us in her grip. Not vice versa. And try suing Nature or applying for compensation.

Martha did wonder how Finton Cley had fared at the
hands of the insurance investigators but she hadn’t walked past his shop or called in. She had spoken to Mark Sullivan a few times on the phone about other subjects. They were in constant touch through the very nature of his job but they had not discussed the case of the unidentified man and as far as she knew he remained that – unidentified. Anonymous. It was as though both of them knew they must wait for the ponderous steps of the Shropshire police force. There was no point speculating. It was a waste of energy. Evidence and proof would be gathered eventually and only that would reduce broad speculation to narrow fact.

Mark didn’t sound well. His speech was slower, hesitant and occasionally very slightly slurred. If she had not observed him so clear-headed at her house that night she might have thought it was the way he always spoke. But it wasn’t. She suspected he was drinking, but friend-like, felt compelled to excuse him – even to herself. If he was drinking it was for a reason. She didn’t know anything about his personal life but she could hazard guesses. Possibly something was very wrong at Mark Sullivan’s home but it wasn’t her business. She might suspect he had marital problems but she didn’t really want to know so she deliberately didn’t raise the subject with Jericho. Of course, as she hadn’t actually seen Mark since the night at her house when he had so obviously been fine, her observations were purely made over the phone. She might have been wrong but she didn’t think so.

Sukey and Agnetha had discovered the Abba website and a chatroom linked to one of the stars. According to Sukey, who treated her obsession like a religion, they linked partly in Swedish and partly in English and he (it was one of the boy members) was really “cool”. Martha knew the word had nothing to do with temperature and
everything to do with acceptability but she had no objection anyway. It kept them occupied for hours.

Sam was, according to the school, getting seriously sporty. One Wednesday afternoon, a fortnight after the body had been discovered in Marine Terrace, the PE master rang her at work and asked her to call in on the following afternoon.

Intrigued, she arrived at the school promptly at three and made her way to the gym. It wasn’t difficult to find the sports master. She could hear him before she saw anyone.

“Come on, you boys. You aren’t trying. Take the ball and RUN. That’s better. No … Backwards. Backwards, boy.”

He was a small, wiry man with curling, black hair, wearing jogging pants and a sleeveless white T-shirt that showed off a pair of impressive, weight-lifter’s arms. He was marooned in a sea of scarlet T-shirts, black shorts and trainers. They were practising rugby skills, passing the ball to each other. The scent of sweat and feet was overpowering. She took a step back. The master spotted her and trotted towards her.

“Carry on, boys,” he shouted back over his shoulder. Then he grinned again. “Mrs Gunn? I think we’d better go in my office.”

She followed him into a shoebox of a room, its walls plastered with photographs of triumph. Teams, cups held aloft, winners’ ribbons. This was a school that appreciated success. Not for them the stigma of winning. Pride beamed at her as did the man across the desk.

“Do sit down.”

She sat, for some unknown reason, glad she had worn trousers today, well-fitting, dark blue, with a white sweater. He leaned forward, eyes pinning hers. “I think we
should have a bit of a word about your Sam.” He leaned across the desk again, this time to shake her hand. “Paul Grant, by the way.” He had a pleasant North Eastern accent and smelt faintly of grass. There was a smear of mud on the right knee of his jogging pants.

She returned the smile. “Martha … Gunn.”

He launched straight in. “You see the lad’s got a rare talent.”

She nodded dubiously.

“No. I mean it. I’ve watched him. And I’ve seen a few eager young players in my time. It takes more than that. Nature’s got to give you the right build. You’ve got to have single-minded devotion and a certain strength. Not just in your legs. In your character. I can’t put it any clearer than that. There’s a certain magic about really good footballers that makes your toes curl.”

He must have got the impression she wasn’t taking this seriously enough because he fixed her with a stare again.

“Mrs Gunn, he could get a place at a football training school. Young Newcastle or somewhere. Maybe Liverpool. A club from the Premier Division would be glad to take him on.”

She stared at Paul Grant. And understood that to this man there was no higher calling in life. He would not understand why she was not jumping up, screaming with joy, tears rolling down her cheeks at the thought of her boy. Her boy being potentially one of the chosen few. Again he leaned back across the desk, speaking urgently, his eyes boring into hers but with less certainty now. “If I make that phone call they’ll come down and scout him.” He waited for her to absorb this statement. “I didn’t want to do it without you and Sam’s dad’s say so.”

She gaped at the man. Didn’t he know? Had
no one
thought to tell him? “Sam’s father is dead, Mr Grant.”

The PE master looked as though he’d been struck down. “His dad is dead, is he? I imagined …”

She knew what he’d imagined. “That his father stood in goals and had a knockabout on the lawn? If anyone did, Mr Grant, I did. His father died when Sam was just three years old. He’s never really had a dad.”

The statement felt disloyal so she felt she must replace it with another.

“Not that he remembers.”

“Well I take me hat off to you, Mrs Gunn. The lad’s a rare footballer. I’m surprised he started playing with a w …”

She wondered whether he had been about to say “woman” or “wench” and gave him a suddenly saucy grin. “It’s the awful mix in me,” she said wickedly. “Welsh father, Irish mother. Lethal combination. Quite wild. Now what’s the education like in these ‘football schools’?”

“Not up to here,” he admitted.

“Then I need to talk to Sam and to his other masters.”

Paul Grant raised a hand in objection. “You know what schools like this are like. Private schools. Sam’s an
all-rounder.
They’ll all say he should be concentrating more on their subject.” A touch of humour. “Whatever it is.”
They both thought Latin.

“As you are on yours, Mr Grant,” she rejoined.

He gave a frank, likeable grin. “No. It’s more than that, Mrs Gunn. He really is good. Talented. It’s a pleasure to watch him. The teams
need
lads like him. He could be coached to something very interesting. Special-like.”

“I’ll think about it, Mr Grant.”

The PE master put his hand out to shake hers with a faint touch of respect that had been absent from his greeting. “If he’s going to make a career in football this is the way he’ll have to go, Mrs Gunn. And he doesn’t have
much time,” he warned. “They pick ‘em young these days.”

She left the school, perturbed and preoccupied. As she unlocked her car door and fastened her seat belt she reflected. There had been a few times since Martin had died when she would have given anything – anything – to be able to consult him.
To be able to ask him just one question. Just one. What shall I do next?

She dropped her head onto the steering wheel. This was one of those dreadful occasions when she was reminded afresh of the big hole created by his absence. In some ways she wasn’t so alone. Both sets of grandparents were still living but even without consulting them she knew they would advise according to their class and generation. Education, education, education. Football was merely “kicking a ball around”.
Education
was what counted. But today’s world was different. Her children had not turned out how she and Martin had imagined they would. She blinked away the vision of her holding one twin, Martin the other, swapping to burp, swapping to feed, swapping to change their nappies. Martin who was somehow fading as each year closed behind him. She couldn’t picture him reaching forty years old. And she had never seen him touch a computer because nine years ago many people didn’t, whereas nowadays few people were without some QWERTY skills. She sighed and drove slowly towards the town. But the difficulties of the day were not over yet.

Still agitated and a bit depressed, she parked the car in the Gay Meadows football ground and wandered into Wyle Cop, stopping halfway across the English Bridge to read the police appeal on its yellow sandwich board. She wondered whether the police had had any response. She stopped walking and peered down at the swollen river, recalling the newsflash that it was due to peak again at
roughly nine o’clock tonight. It was a strange fact about the Severn that because it meandered lazily cross country its worst levels could often be predicted hours, even days ahead. But the flooding was nothing new. An elderly inhabitant of the lower reaches of the town had once told her that years ago, as the river rose, vulnerable homeowners simply abandoned their cellars – then their ground floors. Something which would not be tolerated now. “But,” the elderly inhabitant had argued, “Shrewsbury has
always
flooded.”

Always has, always will, she thought and read the flood height level gauge: 5.25 metres on November 1st 2000, 4.86 metres in 1998, 5.16 in December 1960 and the highest, 5.37, in 1946, flooding a beleaguered town still recovering from World War Two, although only two bombs had actually been dropped on Shrewsbury. One which caused little damage and the other destroying a cottage on the Ellesmere Road and killing its occupants, a mother and two children. The real fear for the town had been not the war nor the floods but the influx of American servicemen and concern about the morals of the local girls.

Glancing across at Marine Terrace she knew her old, pretty memory would be now always superimposed by the other, the floating corpse. It never would look wholly peaceful, innocent or idyllic again even though the police tape had now been removed, and with that, the one external sign that anything untoward had happened here. Then, quite suddenly, as she turned away from the house, she felt acutely uneasy. Frightened. As though something dreadful was about to happen.

The light was fading across a radiant red sky.
Shepherds Delight. In her mother’s voice. Calliphora buzzed across an empty sky.

Blood red, the setting sun sparking across heavy waters.
Shooting gold. A man was walking towards her. In a smart suit, briefcase swinging. As he drew level he put his hand up to the side of his head. Their eyes met. His mouth opened. And she knew who it was. Humphreys. She knew him because he looked a little like the dead man. Same height. Same build. Same clothes. And she knew him because he had a swollen, broken nose. He opened his mouth as though to…
Scream
…

They passed each other. Still shaking she clutched at the parapet and tried to convince herself that she had not had a vision. It had been – coincidence. She had … It was a man crossing a bridge, at sunset, talking into a mobile phone clamped to his ear.
It did not convince her. It was Munch’s The Scream.

She continued along Wyle Cop, heading for a friendly light. Rejecting the black and white half-timbered casement windows of the closing shops. She reached Finton’s and was inside before she had consciously made any decision, the bell clanging noisily behind her.

He was smoking in the corner. And she could tell from the dried grass scent of the rollup that it was a joint. He glanced quickly down at it then obviously decided she was no threat or else that it was too good to stub out.

“Hello again.” He took a glowing drag.

She knew that marijuana was illegal but she didn’t really disapprove of the drug. While, in her role as coroner, she had frequently pronounced that alcohol had contributed significantly to a victim’s death, whether through
drink-driving,
alcoholism, simple lack of judgement or an increase in aggression – and the same was true of cigarette smoking – she had never believed that marijuana was even a minor contributory cause of mortality. Therefore she held a tolerant attitude towards the drug. Besides, she was relieved to be inside. The scene behind her was so surreal.
So disturbing. So frightening.

He was staring at her. “You all right?”

She nodded. Not trusting her voice to sound normal.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

She managed a strained laugh. “Not a ghost. A tableau.” Another nervous laugh to match a nervous voice. “Munch’s
The Scream,
actually.”