Authors: Priscilla Masters
Alex gave one of his oddly attractive, twisted smiles. Even in that there was still some residual sadness. ‘I suppose you do, Martha,’ he said gently. ‘I never really thought about your work like that but it is all about death. And I suppose in the wake of that does come anger and sadness. Have you had anyone blame you for something?’
‘I suppose so but I can’t think of anyone or anything specific.’
Alex leaned back in his seat. ‘Well I can’t really justify having you watched, Martha, but we can put a check on your phone calls if you like.’
‘That might be an idea but . . . I worry. I’d prefer a phone call to him coming out here. Maybe it’s better to . . .’
‘I’ll ask the patrol cars to drive up here when they go round,’ he said eventually. ‘No harm in that. We’ll keep an eye out for you. I think for now that’s the best course of action.’ He stood up. ‘Keep me informed and if you feel more vulnerable I’ll have to reconsider.’ He gave a boyish, attractive smile. ‘We can’t have our coroner under threat.’
She saw him to the door. ‘I suppose,’ she said as they parted, ‘I’m worried this will escalate.’
His eyes were on her and she felt a sudden shock. He had a job to do. She knew that. But the concern in his eyes had been more than that. It had been quite personal.
‘Thank you,’ she said and held out her hand. He took it but it was less of a formal shaking of hands than a touching. She stood in the doorway and watched until his car tail lights disappeared down the track.
SIX
Wednesday January 13th
T
he day started badly. A snow storm had made Alex Randall late for work. It didn’t help matters that as he was hanging up his coat he heard shouting and a blustering, bullying tone from outside his office. Aaron Sedgewick was back and was making his presence felt.
His door was pushed open and a tall, spare man with a hooked nose wearing a crumpled, expensive-looking suit stormed in. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Alex faced him, trying to bury the fact that his temper was slowly rising. ‘Mr Sedgewick, I presume?’ His tone was icily polite. ‘I’m the senior investigating officer, Detective Inspector Alex Randall. Why don’t you sit down and I can fill you in on the details of the case and your wife’s involvement.’
Aaron Sedgewick bumped down suspiciously on the chair, watching Randall through hooded, hostile eyes.
Alex crossed the room to close the door behind them with deliberation, then returned to his chair. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably make things easier and save time if you tell me what you already know.’
His calm manner had an effect on Aaron Sedgewick. He looked at Alex with grudging respect, rubbing his thin wrist with bony fingers as though his cuff was chafing him. ‘I know that my wife found a dead child in our attic and that she took it to the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital,’ he said steadily, ‘on Saturday night.’
‘Correct.’
‘I can’t see that this is a crime,’ Sedgewick said tightly. ‘She didn’t do anything except her citizen’s duty.’
Alex leaned forward. ‘Is your wife under arrest?’
‘As I understand it, no.’
‘Has she been charged with anything?’
‘No.’
He was practically having to squeeze the answers out of him. ‘So what’s your problem, Mr Sedgewick? We’ve merely been trying to find out who the child is, how it came to its death and who concealed it in your attic.’ He faced the man with a stony face. ‘What else would you expect us to do?’
‘Alice does not know anything,’ Aaron said with tightly reined control. ‘She does not know.’
‘She might not,’ Alex returned, ‘but there are certain anomalies in her story, small inconsistencies, which have worried us and which need explaining.’
‘Such as?’ He barked out the words.
‘Mr Sedgewick,’ Alex said politely. ‘This is an ongoing police investigation. We need to find out who the child is and whether your wife has any involvement—’
Aaron Sedgewick practically exploded. He half stood up. ‘You cannot believe my wife . . .’ His voice trailed away. Something had caused him to have a sudden loss of confidence. He snapped his mouth shut.
‘We simply want the truth,’ Alex said sternly, adding more softly, ‘it’s imperative.’
Aaron Sedgewick sat back in his chair, his eyes still bulging with fury, but he had lost some of his bluster.
Alex spoke again. ‘I take it you deny any knowledge of this incident?’
Aaron Sedgewick frowned and nodded. ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said tightly.
‘Well. There are a few ways in which you can help us,’ Alex said in a conciliatory tone.
‘Such as?’
‘I understand that you bought your house around five years ago?’
‘That’s correct.’ Aaron Sedgewick had recovered some of his equilibrium. His tone now was sarcastic.
‘From a couple called Mr and Mrs Godfrey?’
Sedgewick nodded.
‘Tell me about them?’
‘They were in their early forties. They’d made a lot of money and wanted to go and live in Spain. They were nice people.’
‘Did they have any children?’
It was obviously something Sedgewick hadn’t considered. ‘No-o,’ he said, ‘at least I don’t think so. I don’t remember any.’
‘Were there toys around the house?’
Sedgewick shook his head. ‘Not that I noticed.’
‘Were any of the rooms decorated in children’s wallpaper?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Bikes, prams, pushchairs – anything like that around?’
‘No.’ Said resolutely. ‘At least – not that I remember.’
‘And Mrs Godfrey wasn’t pregnant?’
‘Not noticeably.’
‘Right. Do you have a forwarding address for the Godfreys?’
‘No.’
‘Did any mail come for them?’
‘No. I assumed they had made an arrangement with the post office to have their mail redirected. It’s what we did. All our dealings were through the estate agent.’
Aaron Sedgewick was calming down.
‘Do you know how long they had lived in number 41?’
‘Not that long, I got the impression. A couple of years.’
‘I don’t suppose you know who they had bought the house from?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Which estate agent did you use?’
‘Huntley and Palmers.’ For the first time since he had arrived Aaron Sedgewick smiled, though it was more of a grimace. ‘Always reminds me of the biscuit people – you know?’
Alex smiled too ‘Did you ever go up into the attic?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Obviously you never noticed anything untoward up there?’
‘No.’
‘No smell?’
‘No. I would have investigated if I had had any suspicions that all was not well.’
‘Did you do any building work in the attic?’
‘No. None.’
Alex decided to spring something on him. ‘Does the name Poppy mean anything to you?’
Sedgewick looked bemused. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t. At least not that I can think of. I don’t know anyone called Poppy. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Just one of the many lines of enquiry we’re pursuing, sir.’
‘Oh.’ Sedgewick made a further attempt at conciliation. ‘Nice name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Alex paused for a moment. ‘You have two children yourself?’
Without warning the blustering, angry man was back. ‘What the hell has that got to do with this . . . ?’ A pause while he fumbled for the appropriate word. ‘Mess,’ he finally spat out.
‘Just making conversation, sir.’ Alex paused. ‘Umm grandchildren?’
‘No. Look.’ Aaron Sedgewick was back in control. ‘This is obviously to do with some previous occupant of The Mount and nothing to do with us. I understand the child had died some years ago. Probably years before we came to live there.’
‘So it would seem, sir.’ Alex was polite and non-committal. ‘We will, of course, be having a DNA analysis on the child.’
Aaron’s face darkened. ‘What are you suggesting,’ he asked carefully.
Alex kept his cool. ‘Nothing, Mr Sedgewick.’ He borrowed a phrase straight out of the police handbook. ‘I’m merely imparting information.’
Aaron Sedgewick had no response ready. He stood up. ‘So if you’ve quite finished?’
‘For now, sir. Thank you.’
‘How long will your team be occupying my house?’
‘No longer than is necessary. Another day or two – no more.’
‘You will leave my family out of this?’
‘As far as we can. I can tell you that we shan’t bother them unless it proves necessary to the investigation.’
‘Then I would prefer it if you would make your approaches through me.’
‘If it’s reasonable and possible, I will, Mr Sedgewick.’
Sedgewick shot him a suspicious glance and left, scowling.
Alex sat back in his chair. He knew full well that there were still plenty of reasons why the Sedgewick family might continue to be involved but he let it ride – for now.
Wednesday afternoon
PC Gethin Roberts pushed the door open to Huntley and Palmer’s estate agent. It was an upmarket place, with smart offices in Market Street, which tended to deal with properties at the upper end of the market – not anywhere that a police constable could afford. Gethin Roberts hadn’t even bothered scanning the window for anywhere he might like. Out of his price range. A glamorous receptionist, heavily made up with thick black eyelashes, bright red lipstick and wearing a white polo-necked sweater looked at him, registered the uniform, obviously decided he was not going to buy one of their ‘des reses’ and gave him a patronizing smile. ‘Can I help you?’ She hesitated, took in his age, and tacked on: ‘Constable?’
Gethin Roberts gave a tentative smile. ‘We’re investigating some circumstances around the finding of a baby’s body in number 41, The Mount. You may have read something about it in the local newspaper.’
The receptionist’s eyes flickered across him as though she was far too posh to read a
local
newspaper.
‘I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with us.’
Roberts pressed on. ‘I believe you sold the property a few years ago?’
The receptionist looked confused. ‘How long ago?’
‘I believe the property sold around five years ago.’
The receptionist’s face cleared as though she was off the hook. ‘I wasn’t working here then,’ she said with obvious relief. ‘You’ll have to speak to Mr Palmer.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ Roberts said, with dignity.
‘I’ll see if he’s free.’
‘Thank you.’
She was gone for no more than a couple of minutes. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said, with no let-up of her patronizing manner.
Mr Palmer turned out to be a plump, suited man of around forty, with a pale, unhealthy complexion and a sweating face. ‘Constable,’ he said, emerging from the area behind the reception desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
Patiently Gethin Roberts repeated his request and wondered whether Palmer had read the headlines of the local paper and if he had whether he’d connected the lead story with the property he’d sold a few years before. If he had why hadn’t he come forward with the information?
Mr Palmer ushered him into his office. ‘It’ll be more private in here,’ he said holding open the door for him.
‘Now then.’ He opened a filing cabinet and consulted some records. ‘41, The Mount.’ He couldn’t resist lapsing into estate agent’s spiel. ‘Lovely place, well proportioned rooms, dating from the mid Victorian period.’ He looked up and registered that Roberts was a police officer – not a potential customer. He cleared his throat. ‘Sold five years ago, in 2005, to Mr and Mrs Sedgewick.’
‘The vendors?’ Roberts asked stolidly.
‘A Mr and Mrs Godfrey,’ Palmer supplied, adding, ‘they were moving abroad. To Spain, I believe. Lucky things.’ He peered out through his window at the drifting snowflakes. ‘All that sunshine.’
Roberts didn’t take up on the comment. One day, he thought, he would be in ‘all that sunshine’ himself. One day.
‘Do you know how long the Godfreys had lived there?’
‘I am not party to that information,’ Palmer said, washing his hands of the affair. ‘I did not act for them buying the property, only selling.’
‘Do you know whom they had purchased the property through?’ Roberts was proud of the ‘whom’. He had studied English language at school and remembered the rules of subject and object and used them frequently.
‘No,’ Palmer said shortly. ‘It would have been on the deeds, of course, but I have no record of them.’
‘Do you have an address for the Godfreys?’
For the first time Palmer looked confused. ‘Somewhere,’ he said, ‘I must have a forwarding address.’ Panic seemed to be rising. ‘I
must
have one,’ He leafed through the file then looked up, ‘but I don’t seem to have it here.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind looking,’ Roberts said.
‘Yes – yes – of course. I’ll have a more thorough look on my computer records.’
Palmer sat at his desk and started using his mouse to access files. He tapped a few keys and stared into the computer screen. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d have it somewhere.’ He looked up. ‘But I may have a bit of a problem. The address I have is of a hotel in Malaga. As far as I remember they were building their own house over there. I seem to remember them talking about it to me. So . . .’ He looked up helplessly.
‘If you can give me all the details you have.’ Roberts was dreaming . . . A trip to Spain, a trip to Spain. Surely he couldn’t be so lucky? He was already picturing himself lounging by an azure swimming pool, bright, hot sunshine, lovely girls in skimpy bikinis, him telling them all he was ‘pursuing a murder enquiry’. A cross between James Bond and George Smiley.
He came to with a start. Palmer was handing him a computer printout.
‘Here you are,’ he said, and as though he had read Roberts’s mind, he added jovially, ‘expect you’ll be flying out to Spain, constable.’
Gethin Roberts went bright red.
That afternoon Alex rang Martha and suggested they meet up to discuss the case. ‘Why don’t you come here, Alex? Jericho can get some sandwiches in. We can have a working lunch.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m snowed under – in more ways than one.’
‘Good idea, Martha. I’ll join you at one.’
‘Anything you don’t eat?’