At tea the talk was all of Sam’s football, and Martha forgot about the complications of work. Life seemed so much more important than death. Sam’s face was still flushed with effort and pleasure as he tried to affect modesty, failing miserably when he described how he’d scored the winning goal and was the hero of the entire school. Martha felt a warm glow from a secret, maternal source. By eight o’clock she’d heard a breakdown of the entire match four times over from starter’s whistle to triumphant, shoulders-high march back from the playing fields. The hero was flopped on his bed, worn out with being the Beckham of Shrewsbury School. Sukey had retired to Agnetha’s room, doubtless to try on clothes, shampoo their hair in Borne Blonde shampoo, play records and swap Scandinavian pop star stories. Martha had time to herself to shower and change into black
snug-fitting
trousers and a cream sweater.
At nine Mark Sullivan arrived, fidgety on the doorstep, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, holding out a bottle of wine loosely wrapped in pink tissue paper and looking uncomfortable. She tried to put him at his ease by greeting him warmly. “Hello. Come in.” As she closed the door behind him she commented, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
He tapped them. “Contact lenses, usually, but after wearing them all day my eyes get tired.”
She led him into the kitchen. There was the wine to open, the Tanner’s New Zealand bottle winning over Sullivan’s claret. He watched her remove the cork without offering to help and they walked into the sitting room, he carrying the tray holding the cheeseboard and olives, she
bearing the opened wine and two glasses. He glanced around the room with frank curiosity but without comment, waiting for her to sit down first. They sipped their drinks slowly and made small-talk about the town and the floods. A couple of times he pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes as though he really was tired. He waited until they had both eaten, she perched on the big, soft sofa with her feet tucked underneath her, and he on the adjacent chair, before he moved the conversation back to the case. “I didn’t really come down here to talk about the town and the floods. I promised Alex I’d let you know we still haven’t identified John Doe,” he said.
“I did wonder.” She wriggled her feet around. “Just that Haddonfield was seen on Monday whereas you seemed pretty sure our man died on Sunday?”
“Our man had died about thirty-six hours before we saw him,” he said. “Rigor mortis had almost completely worn off and besides – there was the evidence of our good friend, Calliphora. Her maggots were well-fattened.”
“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose.
“So has Haddonfield turned up, then?”
“Couldn’t tell you, Martha.” He stretched out, relaxed, his arms folded behind his head, the glasses off and his eyes half closed. She could almost have thought he was about to drop off to sleep. He looked longer, younger, different. “Once Mrs Haddonfield had taken a peep at our corpse and said it wasn’t her husband she was whisked away by the efficient Detective Inspector Randall.” He smiled lazily. “And my brief acquaintance with the lady was at an end. I’ve never known a case like it. To believe, twice, that you have the right man only to have the wife swear otherwise. Two women in the mortuary in as many days. Not good for a poor old pathologist like myself.” Whatever he said, he didn’t look too troubled.
She drank her wine thoughtfully and set it down on a cork coaster on the coffee table. “So Alex still has a missing person as well as an unidentified corpse.”
Mark savoured his mouthful of wine then smirked. “As well as a case of assault.”
“What?”
“I heard through one of the junior officers on the case that Mrs Humphreys broke her husband’s nose right outside Monkmoor cop shop while he was placed nicely in front of the CCTV camera. It was almost rehearsed.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t believe it. And is the errant husband going to press charges?”
“Well,” Sullivan said with a sharp twinkle in his eye. “I don’t think he would have done but in spite of all the first aid the officers could administer, the offending protuberance swelled up considerably and his looks were apparently much diminished. I don’t rate his chances with Sheelagh any more.”
“What you mean is,” she said wickedly, “that Sheelagh the Sheila didn’t find him quite so attractive.”
“Quite,” Sullivan said. “What a very adventurous life some men lead. Makes me feel quite …” And suddenly the tired look was back, haunting him. He fell silent. Deeply silent and she watched him thoughtfully as the torpor sunk his eyes. He set his glass down on the other side of the table as though he was too tired even to hold it.
“Mark,” she began tentatively. “You do understand, don’t you. We can’t hold an inquest until I know who he is.”
“I think I’d come round to that conclusion myself.” He was sitting and staring at the ruby wine glass. She’d switched on the standard lamps around the room so the light was soft and flattering. But it made his face look even more hollow.
“What I find hard to believe is that no one’s come forward to identify our John Doe. He didn’t look the sort of man who would not be missed. He was well-dressed and relatively young. He didn’t look like a down-and-out but someone with a job – with a family. People like that don’t just drop through the black holes of society. Men like that simply don’t just go missing, Mark. And yet. His pockets were empty. There was nothing to tell who he was. No ID. No mobile phone. No wallet. The police have scoured the house for anything that might tell them who he is. I know forensic evidence will have been lost in the floods but this is bizarre. What was he
doing
there? Where’s the murder weapon?” She wriggled her feet again. “It’s as though part of the puzzle is not knowing who our corpse is. Once we know his name we’ll know his killer’s name.” She drank some more of the wine. “Or am I being fanciful?”
He grinned back at her. “Just a bit.”
“Oh – it’s such a tantalising puzzle.”
Mark was eyeing her very carefully, glasses back on. “If you’re so curious to know where the investigation’s got to now you’ll have to talk back to Alex Randall. I’ve no idea how his case is progressing. Maybe he’s found out something more.”
“Right.”
They chatted idly like old friends until a little past eleven. Both being doctors they found plenty of subjects they were both interested in and more besides. But of his family Mark Sullivan remained silent and she did not probe. Neither did he mention Martin or her children even though the strains of Abba could be heard bouncing down from the top floor and Sam’s heavy footprints went twice up and down the stairs. For food, she guessed.
Something else registered too. Neither of her children
popped their heads round the door to wish her goodnight. It was as though neither Mark nor her offspring had any desire to acknowledge the other’s presence. It didn’t really matter. Sullivan was no more than an occasional work colleague. An acquaintance. But one day someone might enter all their lives. This fact sat at the back of her mind heavily, like a piece of uncooked dough.
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek on the front doorstep as he left but didn’t offer the usual platitude of “seeing her soon”. He simply left. Had she been a teenager she would have read much into this omission but as it was she simply sighed and closed the door behind him without waiting for his car to manoeuvre around in the drive. Then she took a small nightcap of brandy up to bed with her.
She did not read but lay in the light of the Tiffany lamp, staring up at the ceiling, sipping the brandy and wondering at her life – so far. Her job she loved. Such an involvement in death might, to many, seem morbid. But it gave her an opportunity to be of real worth to people at a low point in their lives. Martin’s legacy, her two children, filled the other parts of her life.
In many ways she was blessed. She knew that. She had had a brief but happy marriage, had been left with two fulfilling children and a career she loved. She was financially solvent and had a home. So … She fell asleep still listing her blessings. She had a career, a home, children and a dog.
Alex called into her office early the next morning.
“Haddonfield’s been officially listed as a missing person,” he said, standing with his back to the window, arms folded. “There’s no sign of him. Since the lorry driver set him down on the outskirts of Oswestry he’s vanished. And there’s something else odd that I can’t explain. The dead man was wearing one of Humphreys’ suits.”
“What?”
“Yes. Humphreys’ suit. Do you remember Coleman saying it wasn’t a very good fit? It wasn’t because of the water stretching it. It was because it never was his suit. On an off-chance we showed it to Humphreys and he identified it. Shirt too. So it’s no use describing our corpse’s clothes. They weren’t his.”
This lobbed the ball right into another court. “So all our assumptions about a well-dressed man etcetera etcetera are meaningless? He wasn’t well-dressed at all but wearing borrowed clothes.”
“Exactly. We don’t know what he was wearing. In fact we don’t know anything about him. No ID. No clothes either.”
“So were his own clothes at Marine Terrace?”
“No. Humphreys has identified all the clothes as belonging to him.”
“Underwear too?”
Randall’s eyes gleamed. He’d always loved the way her mind worked. Logical, tenacious. She would have made a good policewoman. But she had chosen medicine and then made a strange sideswipe of a career move. Coroner of this quiet corner of Shropshire. He wondered what had lured her here. She was not a local woman. She had told him her parents lived in Wales. Her husband, he understood, had originated from Birmingham. So why had she decided to do such a job? One that dealt solely with death and its detritus. Grief. Relatives. The law. All the messy side of the healing profession.
Maybe it was that – the formality of the law after the chaos of medicine. Making some logical sense of events after nature – or man – had inflicted her worst. He remembered now that her husband had been a solicitor. Maybe he had influenced her choice.
Anyway. He sat down.
“Our corpse wore Calvin Klein boxer shorts which Humphreys insists are not his.” Randall couldn’t resist one of his swift, elusive, mischievous smiles. “Although if you ask me, one pair of Calvin Kleins looks very much like another and Humphreys does have a drawerful of the things.”
“How do you know?”
He winked. “The search, Doctor Gunn. And the socks our corpse wore were English, Marks and Spencers, plain black wool mix. Humphreys has said it’s impossible for him to be sure whether they’re his or not. And it was the only time during the entire interview I was absolutely certain that this statement was the truth.”
“You don’t like Humphreys much, do you?”
“Aa-ah.” Randall shook his head decisively. “I – do – not. He’s a cheat. What’s worse is that because he’s got away with cheating he keeps doing it and getting more and more conceited and sure he won’t get found out.”
“Hasn’t the broken nose sobered him up a bit?”
“Not enough for my liking. I’d have made an even flatter job of it.”
Martha laughed out loud. “Oh, Alex,” she said. “You are funny. I’m not sure you should be making an expression of intention of police brutality to me, the coroner. If someday I’m investigating a death in custody you might just find my hand on your collar.”
“I sincerely hope not,” he said.
“You’re sure about the clothes?”
“The shirt, tie and suit
were
all Humphreys’ – and he’s telling the truth. The collar size was wrong for our corpse and he’s even produced a photograph where he’s wearing the tie – an electric blue silk affair. Very flash.” She remembered it. Not for being flash but for being cut from around
a dead man’s neck.
Martha was thinking about the slash through the jacket and shirt which corresponded with the fatal wound. “And our dead man was wearing Humphreys’ clothes when he was killed. So was he maybe a thief? Was he looting the property as it was empty?” Even more vividly it conjured up a vision of Humphreys, returning to the flooding cottage, finding someone who had borrowed his clothes and in a fury … killing him? Knowing Alex Randall he would already have considered this option.
But.
“Alex,” she said slowly, “Your ‘John Doe’ didn’t go to Marine Terrace naked except for boxer shorts and maybe black M&S socks. But you said … ?”
“Exactly. Everything else in the entire place belonged to Humphreys.”
“Well – if James Humphreys is telling the truth, and presuming your man didn’t go there naked, either the murderer took away our man’s clothes, having persuaded him to put them on before sticking a knife into him or our man came to Humphreys’ house already in Humphreys’ suit. Masquerading as him. Why would he do that?”
“Maybe his own clothes were wet,” Randall suggested.
“But you don’t do things like that, break into a house, steal a man’s suit. Oh – none of it makes sense.”
“That about sums it up, Martha,” Randall said jauntily.
“And you’ve found no one who saw him arrive?”
Randall shook his head. “We’ve put signs up on the English Bridge and a couple through the town using artist’s impressions. No response.”
His face changed and he chewed his lip. “Martha,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my discussing the case with you? After all, it’s a bit out of your remit.”
“Not at all,” she said, folding her arms and moving away
from her desk. “I find it interesting – if a little frustrating. Just to be handed the bald facts at the end of a protracted investigation will seem a little tame in future, Alex. You must have to explore many blind alleys in an investigation like this. I don’t mind you sharing them with me. Better that than being kept in the dark.”
He sighed, suddenly despondent. “If only you knew how dark, how many blind alleys; how many missing persons. You wouldn’t believe how many men in this age group who loosely fit the description have vanished. It’s quite depressing. And what with the floods and a still anonymous body, I was glad to hand Mr and Mrs Haddonfield back to the Oswestry force.”