Tangled Web (10 page)

This was agreed.

Gordon started to move towards Mary Hallam as she got up to leave, intending to introduce himself, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was Liam Swanson. He said, ‘You must be Julie Rees’s partner. I don’t think we’ve met before.’

Gordon found himself shaking hands and making small talk as, over Swanson’s shoulder, he watched Mary smile and head out of the door.

‘Strange business,’ said Swanson.

‘Bizarre,’ agreed Gordon. ‘It strikes me it was a very odd mix-up to happen in the first place.’

‘How so?’

‘For a mix-up to have occurred between Megan Griffiths’ body and the biological waste bag would require that Megan herself was in a plastic bag when she was put into her coffin. How come?’

‘Good point,’ agreed Swanson. ‘Mind you, thinking back to my own days as a medical student, pathology departments were never places where you’d find much respect for the dead.’

SEVEN

It started to rain as Gordon drove back over to Felinbach. Soothed by the sound of the wipers, he found himself thinking about Mary Hallam and wondering when he might see her again. She wasn’t going to be at the meeting on Thursday and that was a pity, but there would be other times. If not, maybe he could think up some pretext for contacting her? But perhaps this was a bad idea, he reasoned. He had a lot on his plate at the moment, what with the Palmers and now the Megan Griffiths business. This was probably not the best time to look for a new relationship … or was he getting cold feet already? Before he’d even met the woman properly? The legacy of a painful divorce was always lurking there in the back of his mind. Once bitten …

The rain got heavier as he reached the village and was running in a river down the cobbles of Harbour Hill as he parked the Land Rover and made a run for his front door. Gordon lived in a small self-contained flat on the first floor of a converted warehouse building looking out on to the marina. The building had been renovated and converted to holiday flats back in the seventies and sold mainly to English buyers.

Most of the flats lay empty throughout the winter months so the building was quiet at this time of year. Gordon’s was the exception. It was owned by a Welshman who lived down in Cardiff and who had bought it as a long-term investment and to use when he eventually retired from business. He had been happy to rent it to Gordon throughout the year rather than go to the trouble of advertising it or using a holiday letting agency. The downside to this was that he had paid little or no attention to maintenance over the years and the furnishings were largely original, featuring a good deal of chrome and plastic. The flat itself comprised a small living room, with views out on to the marina, a bedroom that faced the back, a tiny kitchen with a porthole window and a long narrow bathroom with an avocado-coloured suite which had been all-the-rage at the time.

Gordon swore under his breath when he found the flat cold; the heating had failed to come on again – the third time it had done this in the past two weeks.

He kept his jacket on while he played around with the timer on the wall of his tiny kitchen until it agreed to trigger the ‘on’ switch. The boiler sprang into life and the pump started whirring but it would be some time before the place heated up. In the meantime he had to resort to the back-up of an electric fire in the living room. It sparked a bit when he turned it on and made a grinding noise. This was something else he’d been meaning to get fixed but like so many things, hadn’t quite got around to. He rubbed his arms against the cold and resolved to contact Pryce, the local electrician in the morning and arrange to get repairs organised.

He looked out of the window at the rain in the harbour, speckling the still surface of the oily water and spattering off the plastic hulls of the moored yachts. There was a light in the harbour-master’s office suggesting that a new arrival must be imminent. He lifted the glasses he kept on the window ledge and scanned the dark Menai for any sign of approaching navigation lights but all was dark. He shivered and closed the curtains before turning on the kettle to make tea.

As the evening wore on, Gordon wondered whether or not he should check on Lucy Palmer but after some hesitation, decided against it. Sometimes too much helpful attention could delay a person’s recovery. He thought he’d go round and see her after he’d met with John’s lawyers tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he’d have a better idea of how things were going after talking to them.

He started to read through the file he’d been given at the hospital, acquainting himself with what was already known about the mix-up. It didn’t amount to much, but was useful in explaining the routines and major players in the relevant departments. At the end, it was difficult to conclude anything other than that one of the mortuary attendants had been responsible for the mix-up, but as long as both of them maintained their innocence and denied any knowledge of the affair, then it seemed likely that the
impasse
would remain.

He supposed cynically that this was what the hospital really required of the committee, the conclusion that the loss of Megan’s body had been the result of a low-level mix-up, unfortunate but just one of these things.

He poured himself a whisky and turned on the television, hoping to find some distraction for a while. He paused as he hopped through the channels when he came to and old black and white film about gang warfare in Chicago. The scene involved a hearse, laden with flowers dedicated to ‘Bugsy’. Looking at the hearse made him think that it might be an idea to talk to the undertaker’s men rather than tackle the mortuary attendants who had already denied all knowledge of the Megan Griffiths affair and would probably continue to do so. The internal inquiry had not done that as far as he knew – it was probably deemed to be outside their jurisdiction - but he opened up the file again to check, just in case. There was no mention of any interview with Prosser’s people having taken place. In fact there was no mention of the undertakers at all other than to note that they had found the coffin sealed when they arrived to pick up the body.

Gordon found it odd that Prosser’s men had arrived at the mortuary to find the coffin all closed up and had left without expressing any surprise or even mentioning it to anyone. It might suggest that that was exactly what they had expected to find. Maybe it implied that an ‘understanding’ as Sepp had called it,
had
existed over the Griffiths baby. He made up his mind to call in to Prosser’s the next time he was up in Caernarfon; that would be on Thursday at lunchtime, just before the meeting of the inquiry team.

He put down the file and realised that he was hungry; he hadn’t had time to eat before driving up to Caernarfon after evening surgery. He was also tired, too tired to cook. Cheese on toast would have to do.

Gordon sought out the premises of Selby, Jones and Roberts in Bangor on Wednesday afternoon. Although located in a building just off the bustling High Street, he found it strangely quiet when the outside door clicked shut behind him on its electronic latch and deduced that the stone walls must be very thick. He climbed the stairs to the first floor where a glass-panelled door with black lettering on it informed him that he’d come to the right place.

The door made him think of the offices of private detectives in American films of the fifties. He opened it and entered an outer office, half expecting to find Mickey Spillane sitting there with his feet on the desk, loading bullets into his gun, but instead found a plump middle-aged woman typing at a computer keyboard. Chloe Phelps, as the plastic plate on her desk proclaimed her to be, wore a thick black cardigan over a fine-mesh, mauve sweater that emphasised the rolls of fat around her middle. She sported lipstick that clashed violently with her sweater and wore spectacles that seemed to have been glazed with the high strength material they constructed aquariums from. An old fashioned brown kettle sat on a small gas ring on the shelf behind her and a cream doughnut lay on a plate by her side. Above her a large wooden clock was mounted on the wall; Gordon could here it ticking when she stopped typing.

Gordon said who he was.

Miss Phelps took a bite of her doughnut and said with her mouth full, ‘Mr Roberts is expecting you. Just go straight in.’ She used the doughnut to indicate the general direction of the door he should use before taking another large bite.

Gordon walked through to a larger office that showed little sign of concession to modern times save for a telephone with a button intercom system. Roberts, a slight, white-haired figure, sat in an old leather chair behind a huge oak desk surrounded on three sides by piles of cardboard files secured with red ribbon. There were even files stacked in the marble fireplace.

‘Good of you to see me,’ said Gordon.

‘We’re all on the same side,’ replied Roberts.

Gordon reckoned Roberts was in his seventies if he was a day and reminded himself that he was actually the junior partner in the firm.

‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’

‘I tried to be in court in Caernarfon when John appeared there on Monday,’ replied Gordon. ‘I couldn’t get near the place. The crowd were like animals: it wasn’t a pretty sight.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Roberts with a sigh. ‘The public on a moral high-horse is never a sight to gladden the heart.’

Gordon was pleased to hear that Roberts sounded far from frail. He had a firm voice which when combined with a Welsh accent, suggested eloquence. ‘It alarmed me, Mr Roberts,’ said Gordon. ‘I had the feeling that John Palmer was on his way to prison before he’d even appeared in court.’

‘Crowds can be very frightening,’ said Roberts, ‘but I assure you that Mr Palmer will get a fair hearing and the court will hear statements from a number of expert witnesses, presented in support of mitigation.’

Alarm bells went off in Gordon’s head at the word ‘mitigation’.

‘You’re speaking as if John was guilty,’ he said.

Roberts looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course, he’s guilty. He’s confessed to killing his daughter. You must know that?’

Gordon felt himself reel. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this from John Palmer’s solicitor. ‘But you’ve spoken to Lucy, haven’t you?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Roberts.

‘She must have told you that John only confessed to protect her because he thought she might have killed their daughter when of course, she didn’t.’

‘She did favour me with that information,’ said Roberts.

‘Well?’ exclaimed Gordon.

‘Naturally I reported what she’d said to Mr Palmer but he dismissed it out of hand. He insisted his wife was just trying to help him out of notions of misguided loyalty. He still maintains that he did it and therefore his confession stands. The job of his defence team will largely be to put forward pleas of mitigation. We’ll make sure the court is aware of the tremendous stress involved in bringing up a severely disabled child, fears for the future, feelings of hopelessness etcetera.’

Gordon felt stunned. ‘But he didn’t do it,’ he exclaimed weakly.

Roberts adopted the bemused expression of a man hearing another argue that black was white. He eventually leaned back in his chair and brought his fingertips together under his chin. ‘I’m an old man, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ve dealt with a lot of people in my time and believe me, I’ve known the most unlikely people to commit the most horrendous of crimes.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Gordon, ‘but John Palmer did not kill his daughter. I’m equally convinced that the police are not bothering to investigate the circumstances of this case fully. They don’t seem to have questioned his confession at all. Surely they have a duty to check?’

‘Mr Palmer is a well-balanced, intelligent, rational human being,’ said Roberts. ‘He has confessed to killing his child. There’s really no reason for the police to concern themselves any more than they have done over the case.’

‘But surely they’re duty bound to check out the details of what he says?’ said Gordon. ‘Motive for instance.’

‘Motive’ repeated Roberts.

‘Why did he kill her?’

‘Mr Palmer says that he feared that the quality of his daughter’s life would not be good enough in the long term.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Gordon. ‘John Palmer never thought that for a moment; he was always very positive.’

‘It’s what he said,’ insisted Roberts.

‘He obviously still thinks that Lucy did it. Have the police even bothered to pursue that line of inquiry? They must be able to pick holes in his confession if they really tried.’

Roberts looked at him as if he were a schoolmaster wondering how to go about teaching a particularly dim pupil some fundamental fact of life. ‘I’m afraid I’m not privy to police thinking,’ he said, ‘but what I
do
know is that the Crown Prosecution Office is not disposed to being unsympathetic in this particular case.’

Gordon suspected there was more to be taken from the statement than what had appeared at face value. ‘What exactly are you saying, Mr Roberts?’ he asked.

‘Consider the facts,’ said Roberts. ‘A baby has died, a severely handicapped child by all accounts with a questionable quality of life. Her father has admitted carrying out what could conceivably be deemed a mercy killing in popular parlance.’

‘Not many at Caernarfon the other day were taking that view,’ said Gordon. ‘They wanted to bring back hanging.’

‘They were not in full possession of the facts,’ said Roberts. ‘The press saw to that. When it suits them to change tack again, they will and then they’ll sway public opinion in the opposite direction.’

Gordon didn’t argue. Roberts was right about that.

‘It’s my feeling that the court will ultimately view the case with compassion and the prosecution will not oppose such leanings … providing things remain as they stand at the moment.’

‘But?’ prompted Gordon.

‘If Mr Palmer were to change his mind and alter his plea to not guilty then it’s my belief that the police would charge both him and his wife with murder and the prosecution would push for life sentences for them both.’