CHAPTER ELEVEN

Thursday, October 26: morning

When Rita woke up Michael had already left on his pushbike for college. She finished the coffee he had brought to her and left on her bedside table. She got out of bed, showered and started to dress. Sitting at her dressing table, gazing into the mirror and brushing her hair, she thought through what she intended to do. By the time she had applied cream to her hands and face she was quite resolved to carry out her plan. She put on blue jeans and a tight, red sweater. She looked at herself in the full length mirror on the landing; she had a good figure. Why didn’t Michael ever notice her curves? And if he did, why did he never compliment her on the way she looked? Why did he not seem to notice her as a woman?

She went downstairs and opened the doors to the cupboard, thinking she would have some breakfast but could not face it. She went back upstairs and started to look through her clothes and possessions for packing. Suddenly she had an idea. If she were going to start a new life why not get rid of her clothes? Why not burn them and buy new ones? She looked at the glamorous dresses and other items given to her by her sister. These things she hated. She had never wanted them. She had never been interested in fashion. She had often thought this fixation with the way women looked was stupid.

She went into the back room looking for suitcases, packing cases, and bags. She would take everything and dispose of what she no longer wanted at charity shops in and around the city. She was determined to make a clean break with Michael and what she now regarded as her past life. There was no point in feeling any maudlin sentimentality for any of these material possessions.

By eleven o’clock she was well on the way to being ready, her little V.W. car stuffed with all the things she had accumulated over the few years of her marriage. She phoned her nursing friend, Sally Stoneham, saying that she wanted to take up her offer, made several weeks ago, that if ever she needed a place to stay there was a spare room waiting for her. She only had to ask. Now she was asking. “I’ll bring some of my stuff round this afternoon on my way to work, say 4.30. Things with Michael are very bad,” she said, fighting back the tears.
Within the space of two hours most of the packing was done. She was surprised however, when the bell rang and she saw her friend on the doorstep. “I called round,” said Sally, “because you sounded in such a state on the phone. I came to see you, to see if there is anything I can do.”

“No, nothing,” said Rita. “I’m exhausted, that’s all. I just want to leave all this behind me.”
“It looks like you’re bringing it with you,” commented her friend.
“No, I’m getting rid of most of it. If there is anything you would like, please take it. Would you like some coffee? I’m having some.”
“Yes, please,” said Sally. Anything to break this tense atmosphere, she thought. The two women sat in the kitchen together and drank coffee. Eventually Rita began to relax. She said, “I’m really looking forward to coming to stay with you. You are a good friend to me.” “Good, I’m looking forward to it too.” Sally left a few minutes after looking through Rita’s possessions and taking some items.

Rita began to have second thoughts. Did she really want to go through with this? But her answer was yes. She tried to eat, and then tried to distract herself by reading and watching daytime TV. Eventually she went out to the car with some bags. This is it then, the end, she thought. She looked in all the rooms for one last time. She stood gazing at the double bed in the main bedroom and at a photograph of herself and Michael on holiday two years previously. She began to have more second thoughts. Perhaps she ought to finally confront Michael with her suspicions instead of sneaking off. No, she decided she was going. There was no point in prolonging the agony any more.

She would try to write a letter to Michael to explain her actions. She found some file paper and a good pen in Michael’s study and sat down at his desk to write to him. She had never written anything in her life before, remotely like this and she found it very difficult to put into words what she wanted to say to him. Every phrase, every sentence, proved a tortuous effort. After ten minutes she had only written one short paragraph. Every time she read through what she had written she was shocked at how stilted it all sounded. After five attempts she finally arrived at a version with which she was satisfied, confident that she had corrected all the spelling mistakes and grammatical errors she had made in the other four drafts. She was conscious of how much she hated it when her husband pointed out mistakes in anything she wrote. It was demeaning; like being back in school.

‘Dear Michael By the time you read this I will have left home for good. I except this will come as a shock to you but we both know that things between us have not been very satisfactory in recent months. I never really loved you anyway, to tell you the truth. I know that you and Paul were both attracted to Bella in the first place. I know that I was always second best to her. I’ve always thought of myself as a sort of consolation prize as far as you were concerned, though I blame myself for going through with our wedding. I bitterly regret that now. It seemed a good idea at the time; to have a double wedding with two sets of twins. It was just an idle dream, a romantic illusion. Now it’s over. It’s no good crying over spilt milk, what’s done is done.’

‘Obviously Laura’s death has had a great affect on me and I’ve felt emotionally drained over the last few days. But you haven’t helped me. You’ve been no help to a grieving wife. You’ve been no husband to me in recent months. You spend more time with Paul and Bella than you do with me. When you’re not with them you’re in your study reading, marking or preparing lessons. It’s not been all bad, I know that. In the early days of our marriage it was quite enjoyable; I had quite a good time.’

Well, I’ve made up my mind to go. I’m going to be staying with a friend who lives near the RUH. I’ve known her for some time and I’ve told her all about you, Sally Stoneham. I except you remember her. She works on the same ward as me, with the children. I’ve cleared out all the stuff I want to take with me. The rest of it I am leaving. You can do what you want with it. Please don’t try to contact me. I’ll see you when I’m ready too, probably on Saturday afternoon at my mother’s. I think Paul wants us all to meet together then. He phoned me yesterday. He wanted to know whether I thought you and Bella were having an affair. I could only say yes to that. I was always faithful to you. That’s all I want to say at the moment. Rita’

She put the letter in an envelope and then wondered why she had done so… because she had always put letters in envelopes, she supposed. She sealed it, wrote Michael’s name on the front and took it downstairs. She wondered where she could put it so that Michael would be sure to see it. She decided it would be best if she stood it up on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the front room. She locked up, left the house immediately and drove over to Weston village, in the V.W.

As arranged, Sally Stoneham was there to meet her when she arrived. They unloaded the car, carrying everything inside and upstairs where Rita was provided with a bedroom and enough storage space for her books and clothes. Her friend was pleased to have her to stay, as she had said. Rita breathed a sigh of relief when all was safely in her new home, but she couldn’t help her feelings of regret that she was leaving married life behind her. “I think I’ll have a lie down on the bed,” she told Sally, “I’m feeling exhausted and we’ve got to go to work later on.” “Okay,” said Sally.

Rita came downstairs a little later on and helped Sally get something to eat. “You’re definitely going to leave Michael are you?” “Yes, I can’t see the point of staying with him any longer.” “Surely, the point is that he is your husband.” “Yes, but he is being unfaithful to me.” “How do you know? Isn’t he treating Isabella as a friend not a lover?” “I don’t think so. I think he would rather be with her than me.” “What about your sister, what does she say?” “I think she would rather be with Michael than Paul.” “Has she actually said so.” “No, not in so many words, but I know she’s not getting on very well with Paul.” “How do you know? Has she discussed her marriage with you?” “No… Paul has told me…” “Don’t you think you ought to talk to Isabella?” “No… I hate her,” shouted Rita, “and as far as I am concerned it’s all over between Michael and me.”

“Perhaps you are feeling like you do because of your mother’s death.” “I don’t think so,” snapped Rita. Sally was taken aback at the viciousness with which she said these words, but she kept calm by keeping busy. “My mother never did have much time for me, certainly not since she set up the business with Bella. I wanted to train to be a doctor, not be a nurse all my working life. But, both my parents thought I was being too ambitious. Any animosity towards my mother stems from that.”

“You know,” said Sally, “that at your wedding I was a bridesmaid. In the weeks before you got married, when they were designing your wedding dresses and our bridesmaid outfits, your mother used praise you up to the skies. She has always thought a great deal of you. She admired you for the work you do, for caring for other people.” “Did she? She had a funny way of showing it. She was so critical.” “Just being polite I should think.”


At lunchtime on Thursday, Bill Bentley, Tommy Matheson’s stepfather was enjoying a pint of best bitter in the company of his impressionable young friend, Harvey. Bill was made in the mould of the barrack room lawyer. He could hold forth on any subject under the sun but his chosen subject on this occasion was the government of the day. The barmaid enjoyed baiting him and flirting with him. He did not seem to notice; he always rose to the bait. But buxom Betty had tired of hearing her loudest customer talking politics, so she had changed the subject. She asked him how his stepson was getting on. “’E ’int no son of mine,” said Bill. “What’s he done wrong?” asked Betty. “’E’s costing me a bloody fortune, that’s what, or ’e wuz…” “Children do, don’t they?” “’E ’int no child, ’e’s grown up ’int ’e? ’E should’ve left school when ’e was sixteen and got a job, loike oi did… ’cept I was fifteen,” said Bill, firmly. “Education is a good thing, I’ve always thought.” “Not when you’re old enuff to werk. Oi’m not werkin’ so as ’e can sit around at school. Anyhow, oi threw ’im out. ’E’s gone.” “Where’s he gone?” asked Harvey. “Dunno, don’t care! Bath, oi think.”

Such was the thinking of Mr William Bentley. Whether his philosophy sprang from the commercial heritage of Bristol, the reader may be left to judge. Mrs Bentley was convinced that her husband was a ‘rough diamond’. She had wanted her son Tommy to go to university if he could. Bristol, after all, boasted two universities. When she had learned the views of Mr Bentley, after they were married, she had been upset, but had accepted his ruling without question. When Tommy had been rejected and had left home she had not accepted his ruling, but had kept her feelings to herself. Bill had thought of Tommy as coming between him and his wife. Tommy’s removal to another place would ensure his place in her affections once again.

However, over the previous months Bill had begun to perceive, very dimly, that his wife’s feelings for him were no longer ones of love and affection. These had been supplanted by those of fear and loathing. He had been surprised to learn, when it finally dawned on him that she had turned against him. He made no effort to seek any kind of reconciliation, but took refuge in the local pub and in doing as much overtime as possible when the opportunities arose. He worked as a driver for Harvey’s Sherry, delivering Bristol Milk and Bristol Cream to hotels, restaurants and pubs all over the West Country.

“Are you going in to work this afternoon?” asked Betty. “Oi should think oi am. Oi’ll be on my way pretty soon,” replied Bill. “And what about you Harvey, are you at work this afternoon?” asked Betty. “Nope, it’s my day off,” replied Harvey, rising from his bar stool, “though I shall be doing a bit of D.I.Y. I’m putting a new roof on the garden shed. That’ll take me all afternoon.” With these words he departed. Betty emerged from behind the bar. She began collecting empty glasses from tables in the public bar and then went through to the lounge bar, repeating the process. Bill bade farewell to the barmaid, got off his stool awkwardly and made his way out to the car park.


CHAPTER TWELVE

Thursday, October 26: afternoon

On Thursday afternoon Paul stayed at home. He had gone into the city in the morning to do nothing in particular, go to the bank, buy a newspaper and drink coffee in a favourite haunt of his. He wanted the time to think. He had decided to confront Bella at last with his suspicions. And by the time he had returned she had guessed what lay in store, but it still came as a shock at lunchtime, when he asked her point blank, across the dining room table, “Are you having an affair with Michael?” “Well, there’s nothing sexual in it but I have been seeing him.”
“Without Rita’s knowledge?”
“Yes. She knows nothing about it.”
“When you told the police that you were meeting me last Saturday it was really Michael you were meeting wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied dryly, “I was going to tell him what the outcome of my meeting with my mother was.”
“And we will never know, now.”
“No, we won’t.”
“So, what has gone wrong between us?”
“The fact is, you are never here.”
“So, it’s all my fault?”
“No, not entirely,” said Bella, “but we are not as we were. As I see it, we both fell for each other when we first met and a very physical relationship ensued. Now you are away from home a great deal and I know you consort with other women.”
“They are work colleagues!”

“It may all be innocent. But I have been stuck with my mother in a designer’s studio. I meet mostly, only other females. Michael is really no more than a friend as well as being my brother-in-law.”
“At present, perhaps… but it is not going to stay like that is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m really not thinking about it at the moment. I’ve too many other things to think about.”
“Why were you meeting your mother last Saturday?”
“Right, I’ll tell you. She knew I was seeing Michael and she wanted to stop it.”
“How?”
“Well, at first she tried to talk me out of it, but on Saturday she wanted an answer to an ultimatum she had given me earlier on.”
“And what was that?”
“If I did not co-operate with her wishes she would cut me out of her will.”
“Vindictive woman,” said Paul, much to Bella’s amazement.
“If she had lived a normal life I wouldn’t inherit for years and years and I don’t know whether she is all that wealthy,” commented Bella.
“Of course she is. She has all the money left to her by her former husband and all the money left by my father. That’s a considerable sum,” replied Paul.
“But I thought it would be divided between the four of us.”
“I don’t know. I would not bank on it. Are you in love with Michael?”
“No, I’m not in love with him. He is someone I can talk to though.”
“Do you feel sorry for him and want to mother him, or do you want to seduce him?”
“I don’t want either. But I haven’t thought about it much. He enjoys my company, I know that and I enjoy being with him.”
“Do you love me at all Bella?”
“I don’t suppose so. I know I’m not being the loyal wife at the moment.”
“Will you be the loyal wife in the future?”
“You make it sound as if I am playing a game. However, much depends on you and your response to our situation.”
“Why does it depend on me?”

“If you want me you will have to win me back. You will have to start showing me some affection. You will have to think about me and not just yourself. At present you never consider what I would like to do. You assume that I will fit in with your plans and do what you want,” replied Bella.
“But most of the time you don’t seem to know what you want.”
“I do, but I’m afraid to voice my ideas because they might conflict with yours.”
“You… afraid?”
“Well, perhaps that’s the wrong word. I feel I’m treading on eggshells for fear of upsetting you…”
“Fear again.”
“I’m no longer afraid, anyway. I’m no longer going to be bullied or intimidated by you. I have a right to some happiness as well as you.”
“Are you unhappy?”
“Yes, but you haven’t noticed. I am desperately unhappy sometimes. I don’t want to be taken for granted,” intoned Bella.
“I’ve never been aware that I take you for granted.”
“That’s the trouble isn’t it? You’re not aware.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We first need to get over this business with my mother and organise a funeral. I doubt if Michael and Rita are going to do anything about it.”
“It’s the inquest tomorrow, so the body should be released by now. We should be able to go ahead with funeral arrangements.”

“I’ll get on to it,” said Bella.
“Why did you lie to the police about being with me last Saturday?” asked Paul.
“I don’t know. It gave me some breathing space until you came home.”
“I told them the truth, you know.”
“I thought you would.”
“So, they’re going to be chasing you soon.”
“They already have. Detective Sergeant Rossi came round this morning. In fact she’s only just left.”
“What did you say?”
“I’ll told her the truth. I’m sure she understood why I lied.”
“She probably did,” said Paul. Isabella told her husband of the news brought to her by Anna Rossi of Tommy Matheson’s involvement in Saturday’s murder. Paul said he thought Matheson was the most likely suspect. He retired to his study where he spent the rest of the afternoon making phone calls and sending emails.

After leaving the home of Isabella Fellingham, Anna Rossi drove out to Phil Dickinson’s place of work. She spent some time looking at the cars in the garage forecourt, imagining herself to be the proud owner of a new vehicle. Her attention was drawn to a Subaru Impreza Sti Type RA-S, standing in a corner of the garage forecourt, the same make and model that Dickinson was driving when he struck down Laura Fellingham. She opened the driver’s door and sat behind the wheel. She wondered what speed he was doing when he hit the victim. She also wondered why he never stopped.
A man’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Nice motor that,” said the man. “Yes,” replied Anna. “I can do you a good deal on your old car, if you want to part-exchange and nought per cent finance on the new car.” “I’m not looking for a new car, I phoned earlier, I’ve come to see the sales manager,” said Anna, showing her warrant card. “Oh, I see,” said the man, whom Anna took to be one of Dickinson’s colleagues in the sales department. “That’s Mr Buckley, I’ll take you to him.” “Thank you,” Anna followed the man into the showroom office where he introduced her to the manager.

Once again Anna showed her credentials. She began by asking Ted Buckley how good Mr Dickinson was at his job. Buckley said he was a satisfactory salesman most of the time. Sometimes he did things, which were sailing close to the wind. When told of his hit and run escapade, Buckley was not surprised. “Does he have a drink problem?” “Not that I’m aware of,” maintained the manager, “he does like a drink, though, I am aware of that.” “Was the car that he was driving very damaged?” “No, not a great deal. Just one panel that needed replacing.” “Could I see the car?” “Yes, the work is all done. It looks as good as new, but I can show you what was damaged. We may still have the old panel.”

“How well does Mr Dickinson get on with other people?” “Oh, he’s fine.” “Have you any paperwork on him concerning his taking up employment here?” Buckley rose from his chair, crossed to the other side of the office and extracted some a beige folder from a filing cabinet; this he handed to Anna. Inside she found a C.V., two testimonials and a reference from a former employer. [Mr Dickinson worked for me for eighteen months. I found him thoroughly reliable and have no hesitation in recommending him to you.] She closed the folder and handed it back. “Could I see the car now?” she asked. “Yes, certainly, if you would like to come this way. We’ll go to the service department and pick up the car keys.”

They arrived at the locked compound where the once damaged car was kept. Buckley opened up and pointed out the car that Dickinson was driving on that fateful Saturday night. He showed her the panel that had now been replaced and managed to track down the old dented one. “I’d like to take this with me, please.” “That’s fine,” said Buckley, “I’ll have one of the men put it in your car if you give me the keys.” Anna reached in her pocket and handed over her ignition keys. “Thanks for your help,” she said, as Buckley went off to find someone to help. A young mechanic came out of the garage building carrying the damaged panel. “Hello,” said Anna, “do you know Phil Dickinson as a work colleague?” “Yes, and as a mate of mine. We go to the pub together at lunchtimes.” “Does he have a drink problem?” “He drinks quite heavily sometimes. He knocked that woman down didn’t he?” “Yes, but not deliberately,” replied Anna, jokingly. The mechanic did not take it as a joke however. “He’s a bloody idiot, mad Phil.” “Why do you say that?” “I’ve been with him when he has been driving. He’d do crazy things, like pretending to drive into someone head on and then swerve away from them.” “Did he do that with pedestrians?” “Yeah, I’ve seen him do it.” “Thank you,” said Anna, “you’ve been very helpful.” When he had put the panel on the back seat of her car and had handed over the ignition keys, Anna went on her way, pleased with her afternoon’s work.

As she drove along she found herself behind two buses, full of schoolchildren. After some minutes of slow travel they both pulled into a bus stop where they allowed some of their young passengers to alight. One of the youngsters came out from behind the first bus and made as if to run across the road. She was stopped in her tracks as she ran into the side of Anna’s car and was immediately thrown to the ground. Anna got out to make sure she was all right. The girl’s mother appeared on the scene in seconds. She realised what had happened and apologised profusely to Anna. The police sergeant was quite shaken by what had occurred but she did not show it to the girl or her mother. After a few brief words she got back into her car and set off again.

How easy it is to knock someone down. Anna thought of the Fellingham incident and began to wonder. The schoolgirl had been the cause of the accident in Anna’s case. The girl had clearly run into the side of her vehicle and there was no avoiding action she could have taken. What about the Fellingham accident? She and Gerrard had assumed that Dickinson was responsible for knocking down Mrs Fellingham, principally because he was a hit and run driver, but also because he had admitted responsibility for the accident. However, it was possible that Dickinson was not responsible. He might have been in a similar situation to Anna, suddenly seeing someone in his path and unable to take avoiding action. Perhaps, in his confusion after the event he thought he was to blame. But then there was the evidence that the garage mechanic had given against Dickinson, that he deliberately pretended to target other road users, drivers and pedestrians. Where did the truth lie? She remembered reading in a daily newspaper sometime in May that a judge had sentenced a hit-and-run driver to fifteen and a half months in jail for killing a nine year old girl. Driving at sixty m.p.h. in a built-up area, he had made no attempt to slow down or avoid the girl but had ploughed straight into the girl and driven off leaving her with multiple injuries. She had died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. Anna remembered the judge’s ruling that the accident had ‘come low on the scale of criminal culpability’. With a good defence lawyer, Anna thought, Dickinson should get off fairly lightly.

Anna felt she should have gone into the office to write up her report on her visit to the garage where Mr Dickinson worked, but her minor accident had put her in a frame of mind which did not lend itself to report writing. Instead she drove straight home to her apartment in Camden Road. She liked living here. It’s quite high up, stretching along the hills that look down to the valley where the river Avon and the London A4 road runs. The neighbours had always been friendly towards her, even though they knew she was a police officer. Some had invited her to their houses for drinks and birthday celebrations. Others had sought her advice on a variety of police matters.

As she unlocked the door and climbed the stairs to the place she could call her own, one thought was uppermost in her mind; to spend a long time soaking in a warm bath. She went to bathroom and started the bath water running. She poured a concoction of sweet smelling unguents into it. The water began to foam. She went into the bedroom and slowly took off her clothes. She was very, very tired. She took her bathrobe from the back of the bedroom door and tiptoed back to the bathroom. She tested the water to make sure it was not too hot. Gradually she lowered her aching limbs into the steaming water and lay back becoming gradually, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. After a full five minutes in a semi-comatose state she was rudely awakened by the sound of the telephone in the bedroom. “Damn!” she said out loud. It was probably Gerrard wanting her to run some errand or other. Well, he would have to wait. Eventually the ringing stopped and Anna sank once more into her reverie.

Only when the bath water had cooled to such an extent that Anna felt uncomfortably cold did she finally step out of the bath on to the bathmat she had carefully laid down beforehand. She rubbed herself dry with a large towel and then put on her bathrobe. She went to the wardrobe, threw open the doors and thought carefully about what she should wear. As she did so she became rather annoyed with herself. Why was she taking so much trouble over deciding what to wear just to see Chief Inspector Gerrard? After all, he was only her boss.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday, October 26: afternoon

At the same time that Anna was setting out for Phil Dickinson’s workplace, Gerrard was getting on a train to Bristol. He had decided to talk to the teachers at Tommy’s old school and interview Tommy’s mother if possible. When his taxicab dropped him off at the school gates Gerrard was pleasantly surprised by the look of the school buildings. He found his way to the reception area where the receptionist ushered him into an empty staff room. A few minutes later a middle-aged man in tracksuit and trainers entered and introduced himself as Mr Barnes. “The head thought it best if I see you first,” he explained, “we have a strong house system here. The pupils are registered in house groups. In my house the tutors stay with the same classes for about three years. So, I was Tommy’s house tutor for three years, when he was in year nine, ten and eleven. Consequently I got to know him very well.”

Mr Barnes sat down with Gerrard and gave him a brief history of Tommy’s scholastic career under his tutelage. It transpired that the boy had been a reasonably successful student, gaining enough GCSEs to commence a sixth form course, but sadly his time in year twelve had been cut short. His work had fallen off and Tommy had been asked to leave. Mr Barnes put this down to trouble at home. Eventually, Gerrard had the opportunity to ask the one question he had come to ask. “Was Tommy ever violent?” “No, said Barnes, “he’s as gentle as a lamb. I can’t imagine he would deliberately harm anyone. He could be thoughtless, though.” “Thank you very much,” said Gerrard, “what you have told me has been very useful.” “I’ll take you through to the Head teacher’s P.A. and she will introduce you to the Head, when he’s ready to see you.”

The P.A. showed Gerrard into the Head’s study. “Is Tommy in any serious trouble?” “I’m afraid he is,” admitted Gerrard. “He is in police custody at the moment and faces a possible murder charge. I can’t go into details but he is our chief suspect at the moment. Mr Barnes assures me that he has no history of violence at the school.” “I am sure that is true,” the Head replied. “I didn’t know him very well but he always seemed a placid sort of chap to me.” The Head showed Gerrard a C.V. that the lad had prepared during his time in the sixth form. In addition to the usual biographical material and examination results, the document recorded the work experience placements that Tommy had completed with brief job descriptions and an outline of the voluntary work he had undertaken. “This is very impressive,” commented Gerrard as he handed back the piece of paper. “This is the reference that the head of sixth form wrote for him when he left,” said the Head, handing Gerrard a second piece of paper from his file. To the Personnel Dept., Get-Ahead, Bristol
Dear Sir
I understand that Mr Thomas Mattheson has applied to you for the post of Sales Assistant at Get-Ahead. Mr Mattheson has decided to leave school before taking his ‘A’ levels. He has a good set of GCSEs, as you can see. He has been a pleasant and hardworking student in addition to being a fine sportsman and a good all-rounder. I have no hesitation in recommending him to you.
Yours sincerely
Hazel Mears (Mrs)
(Head of sixth form)
“He managed to get a job at one of the retail shops in the centre of Bristol. It was the same firm his mother worked for. She got him the job. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.”
Gerrard looked at the letter and made a mental note of its contents. Without any more ado he said goodbye to the Head and made his way out of the school.

On his way to the Get-Ahead retail shop in the Broadmead shopping centre in Bristol Gerrard stopped off for lunch. He made a brief telephone call to Mrs Bentley to arrange to meet her that afternoon. She introduced herself to him as soon as he arrived at the shop. “Good afternoon Mrs Bentley, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Gerrard from Bath and North East Somerset Constabulary. I’ve come to talk to you about your son Tommy. This is a routine matter. I’m asking for background information. I’m afraid I have to tell you that he’s in deep trouble.” “Why? What’s he done?” “He’s helping us with our inquiries into the murder of a lady in Bath last Saturday evening.”

“Oh, my God! There must be some mistake, Tommy would never do no murder,” replied Mrs Bentley firmly. “That’s why I’m here to talk to you and find out what Tommy is like. He hasn’t been charged yet. Can you tell me why he’s homeless and living on the streets?” Mrs Bentley explained the poor relationship between her son and his stepfather. “Was your husband ever violent towards your son?” “I don’t think so.” “Did you ever see your husband hit Tommy?” “Why?” “Just answer the question please.” “Yes, a couple of times.” “What made him hit your son?” “This business about wanting him to leave school.” “And what did you want.” “I want the best for Tommy, but I went along with what my husband wanted.”
“Is there any chance of him returning to your home?”
“No. He’s not welcome. Well I’d welcome him with open arms but Bill won’t. He’d say Tommy came between me and Bill.” “So he’s out on the streets as a result?” “I can’t help that can I?” “Is your husband ever violent towards you?”

“Sometimes.” “Help is available. You shouldn’t put up with it.” “Don’t tell me what to do.” “Okay. My chief concern is with your son.” “What will happen to him?” “He’s being held in custody pending further inquiries.” “I can’t do anything for him.” “You could send him some money via his girlfriend. He also stole a car, which he crashed. So, even if he avoids a murder charge, which I think he will do, he will still face these other charges.” “I see. Will he go to prison?” “Perhaps, for a short time, because he’s never been in trouble with the police before.”

Whilst Gerrard was on his way home from Bristol he thought long and hard about Tommy Mattheson. How could a nineteen-year-old youth slip through the net like that. Why hadn’t social services picked him up? Why hadn’t Tommy put himself in care come to that? Now he had got himself in trouble and it was more than likely he would go to prison rather than a young offender’s institution. What a terrible waste of life for someone who was a good lad, but had been sorely let down by his mother and step-father.

When he stepped inside his front door Gerrard felt exhausted. He was also rather depressed. The investigation was proving much more difficult than he had anticipated and now for a brief interval he wanted to forget about it and clear his mind. Anna had invited him round for supper and then they would go together to see Michael Fellingham at nine o’clock.
Gerrard looked at his watch. Six thirty. He sat down and closed his eyes. Very soon he drifted into a deep but not dreamless sleep…

Meanwhile, Anna decided on what to cook and went to the kitchen to start the meal. She looked in cupboards to make sure she had all the necessary ingredients and took a few items from the fridge. Gerrard was due at seven thirty. She began to slice some onions and fry them gently in some olive oil whilst listening to some jazz emanating from a CD player in the living room.

She put some water on to boil and made some stock. She took down the rice container and carefully measured out what she thought would be enough for two people. She took her time. She was not used to cooking for two. She was not used to doing anything for two in her social life… not that she had much social life. Work took up most of her time. She put the rice in the pan with the stock and added some frozen corn. She turned down the gas and went to sit down for a few minutes. She closed her eyes and listened to the music. She was awoken by the sound of her doorbell and got up to receive her visitor. Gerrard was standing at the door. He was early but she did not mind.

“Come in,” she said amicably, “and make yourself at home.” Gerrard went into the living room after handing Anna his coat. She hung it in the hallway and followed her inside. “I’m doing risotto, sir,” she announced, “would you like to come and talk to me in the kitchen while I see to it.” Gerrard dutifully followed her into the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. “You can open a bottle of wine for us if you’d like some.” “Yes, is it in the living room?” “Over in the corner, in the cabinet. You’ll find a bottle of red,” answered Anna. “I see,” he called to her and set to work with the corkscrew, which he also found in the cabinet. He returned to the kitchen. “You like jazz do you?” he asked.
“I like all kinds of music including jazz. I’ve heard that you play the sax.”
“Yes, I play alto sax.”
“Do you play in a band?”
“I play with a band some times but I haven’t played in a band since my university days.”

They had finished eating and were drinking coffee when Gerrard said, “Now, before we go round to Michael Fellingham’s house, let’s go over the evidence again.” Anna consulted her notebook and reviewed everything they knew about the case. “Laura & Isabella Fellingham have arranged a meeting for 7.45 p.m at Sydney Gardens. At 7.15 p.m. Laura drives from her home between Farleigh Hungerford and Wingfield village, near Trowbridge, through the Limpley Stoke Valley down the A 36 Warminster road towards Bath. She parks her car at 7.32 p.m. in Sydney Place, on the left, just above the Holburne Museum of Art. As she crosses the road at 7.33 p.m. to go round to the main entrance of the park she is struck by a passing motorist, driving at speed in a yellow sports car. She is knocked down and badly injured. The driver does not stop but turns left and drives on towards Bath, but he is so shocked by what has just taken place that he abandons his plan to take the Lower Bristol road and drive to Keynsham. Instead, he turns left up Bathwick Hill and returns home to Claverton Down. Laura Fellingham lies unconscious, but only for a few seconds because Tommy Mattheson appears on the scene, who lifts her bodily and carries her into the park, through the side entrance and buries her behind some bushes covering her with leaves and twigs. He takes a watch, a mobile, some credit cards and £30 in cash from her handbag.”

“He runs away through the park. At some time within the next half-hour, she is struck on the back of the neck, at the base of the skull by Tommy or a person unknown. It is from this injury that she dies. Meanwhile Isabella has driven in the opposite direction from her house on Wellsway, over the Old Bridge and follows the A36 to Beckford Road where she parks on the left hand side of the road, not far from the main entrance to Sydney Gardens. She walked back to Sydney Gardens to wait for her mother at the main entrance to the park opposite Cleveland Bridge Road. Isabella had arranged with Michael to meet him after her showdown meeting with her mother and have dinner with him in a little bistro off Pultney Street, near Pultney Bridge. She waited until 8.15 p.m. then rang Michael who came himself by 8.25 p.m. They try phoning Laura but get no answer, and assume that her phone is switched off. They go off to eat. Paul F arrives home early from London, suspicious of his wife’s activities and goes to Pultney Street to confront Bella, however he is in anther restaurant and fails to meet either her or his brother.” Paul Fellingham is supposed to be away in London, but he himself has suspicions of his wife, having seen an e mail message on her computer about her dinner engagement with someone at 9.00 p.m. thought to be his mother in law, but possibly his brother Michael.”

“Now he has arrived home unexpectedly and gone to the bistro to find them. But they are not at the one he thinks. He eats alone and then walks along Pultney St wondering what to do next but eventually goes home. Isabella arrives home to be confronted by her husband Paul, but she is preoccupied by thoughts of her mother’s whereabouts. Paul tries phoning Laura Fellingham at her home, but gets no answer. He contacts Michael but he doesn’t know where she is. In the early hours of Sunday morning after phoning hospitals and friends they phone the police. On Monday morning just before 9.00 a.m. the body of Laura Fellingham is discovered by park gardeners in Sydney Gardens behind some bushes at a rubbish heap, whilst clearing leaves.”

Gerrard seemed happy with her summary. She smiled as she put away her notebook and prepared to leave. “We’ll take my car tonight as it’s outside. I’ll drive you. Are you ready to go?” “Yes, I’ll just lock the back door, grab a coat and we’ll be off, sir.”


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thursday, October 26: evening

Michael Fellingham was sitting at home, alone and unhappy, when the doorbell rang. He rushed to answer it, thinking that it might be Rita returning home, but changing his mind when he realised that she would use her own key to open the front door. He saw two strangers standing on the doorstep. “Good evening, sir. I am Detective Sergeant Rossi and this is Chief Inspector Gerrard. We’d like to talk you if we may.”
“Come inside,” said Michael. He led them to the sitting room and motioned to them to sit down. “My wife Margherita is not here at present. She’s a nurse on night duty.”
“When will she be back?” asked Anna, softly. She could see by the sorrowful look in his eyes that Michael Fellingham was very upset. “She won’t, at least not tonight. She left home today. She says it is for good.”

With these words he handed Anna the letter that Rita had left for him. Anna read it and without making any comment passed it to her superior officer. Gerrard leaned forward in his chair and looked into the downcast eyes of the man in front of him. Michael caught his gaze and looked up at the policeman. “Did it come to you as a great shock as the letter says?” Gerrard asked him directly.
“Yes and no,” replied Michael, “Rita is a very difficult woman. I thought that perhaps we could get through this crisis.”
“Was she aware of your close relationship with her sister?”
“Women have this sixth sense, I think. What comes as a shock is her saying that she never really loved me anyway. I thought she did. Anyway, why have you come to see me?”
“We came to see both of you. We need to know your movements on the night of your mother-in-law’s murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes. We have good reason to believe she was killed deliberately, not accidentally as we were led to believe at first.”
“Do you have any suspects?”

“Yes,” said Gerrard, in the hope that if he answered Michael’s question, Michael himself would be more forthcoming.
“How was she killed?”
“We don’t know exactly, but we think it was with a metal nail file,” Gerrard replied, carefully observing Michael’s reaction to this statement. The young man showed no signs of disquiet however. He said, simply, “I’ve got one and so has Rita. I used to use it a lot, because I play classical guitar and I needed to trim the nails of my right hand very carefully.”
“You don’t use it any more?”
“No, some years ago my teacher advised me to use emery boards. They are better for your nails.”
“Do you still have your file? We can then eliminate it from our inquiries.”

“Yes, it’s upstairs, I’ll fetch it,” replied Michael. He left the room. Whilst he was away Gerrard said, “What do you make of the letter?” Anna pointed out the spelling mistakes. “I don’t think she would have made a doctor if her spelling is that bad.” “You don’t have to be good at spelling to be a doctor do you?” replied Gerrard. “No, I suppose not but it does indicate a certain level of education.” “Perhaps,” said Gerrard, hearing his phone ringing in his pocket. He answered it and gave Anna the news. “Tommy Mattheson, that young man living rough, who moved Laura Fellingham has been brought back to Bath. He’s been put in the cells overnight. We can see him in the morning. I understand that he has some blood stained clothing. They’ve taken it from him and also his footwear. Forensics should be able to tell us more tomorrow.”
Michael Fellingham returned, handing the nail file to Anna. She took it, put it in a small bag she had taken out and put it in her handbag. “Thank you,” she said.
“Now, what else do you want to know?” asked Michael.
“Where were you on the Saturday evening in question?” continued Gerrard.

“I met Bella in Bath,” replied Michael.
“When we asked Isabella, she said she was with her husband and then changed her story. Now can you account for your movements on the evening in question with some specific times please?”
“I’ll do my best. I arrived in the city by bike at about 7.30. I locked the bike in the cycle racks at the Podium, opposite the main post-office, turned the corner and walked along Pultney Street. I intended to see Bella at the main entrance to Sydney Gardens, without her or her mother seeing me. However, before I got there I had a call on my mobile from Bella, saying her mother had not arrived yet. I went to the restaurant and waited for her.” “Did you know that Paul was also in the city at that time?” “No, was he?”
Gerrard made no reply. “Where was your wife on that Saturday night?”

“She was on night duty at the hospital,” replied Michael.
“We have checked with the hospital already. She was on duty from eight o’clock onwards but she did not arrive at the hospital until the stroke of eight o’clock.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. But, yes, that’s when her shift starts. She might have been delayed in traffic. She never mentioned it to me. You will have to ask her about it.”
“What time did you leave home?” asked Gerrard.
“At about half past six.”
“Did you tell your wife where you were going?”
“I told her I was going to cycle into the city and that I would probably meet up with some colleagues from college who usually go for a drink together in Bath on Saturday nights.”
“But you didn’t go there?”
“No.”

There was a pause whilst Gerrard looked closely at Michael as he struggled to find words. Eventually, he said in a very quiet voice, “Margherita and I have an understanding. There are times when I need to get away, get out of the house and be quite alone. She suffers from mood swings and these affect me.”
“Is this a serious condition?” asked Gerrard, showing a concern for the troubled young man.
“Yes, her mood swings between being very talkative, overactive and impulsive to being morose, withdrawn, and on occasions, depressed.”

Gerrard recognised this as manic depression, but he made no comment. He did not want to alarm Michael. He then thought that as a psychology teacher he would surely know that his wife had this condition, but he did not want to refer to it by name. If Michael wanted to bring the subject up he would do so. “Anything else you would like to mention?”
“Her sleep patterns are frequently disturbed, and sometimes she may go for several days at a time without sleep. This does not seem to bother her. In fact, I am more upset by it than she is. I must tell you that when she is quite happy and full of energy she doesn’t really understand the effect that her behaviour has on other people.”
“What sort of behaviour?”
“She makes over ambitious plans. They never get carried out. For example, she’ll have a grand idea to travel to an exotic holiday resort.”
“Does she ever become aggressive?” asked Gerrard.
“Not in my experience, no,” answered Michael.
“What you are describing is a condition of psychosis, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Has your wife ever received any treatment for her condition?”

“Yes. She has undergone some form of psychological therapy for psychosis. It’s a kind of what’s known as cognitive behaviour therapy. She sees a therapist who tries to get her to examine the evidence for her distorted beliefs. Then, with the help of her therapist, she considers various alternative explanations of her experiences. The point is to increase her understanding of her symptoms and their cause. The aim is that even though the symptoms persist, she may more easily tolerate them.”
“Are the hospital authorities aware of her condition?” “Yes.”
“Does her condition affect her work?”
“Not adversely, no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Going without sleep helps if you are on night duty.”
“Does she do a lot of night duty?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you Mr Fellingham, you have been very helpful,” said Anna.
“Is that all?”
“For the time being, yes,” said Gerrard rising from his chair. He could see that Michael was relieved that the interview was over. The psychology teacher escorted the two police officers to the door where they said goodnight and took their leave.


“What do you think?” Gerrard asked Anna as they drove away from the house. “I’m still thinking about it all.” “There’s a pub at the bottom of the hill here,” said Gerrard pointing in the direction of the main road back to Bath, “do you fancy a drink and a chat?” “Yes sir.” Anna pulled into the car park and the two entered the lounge bar. After settling down with their drinks Gerrard asked Anna once again for her thoughts.

“From what we know so far, Tommy Mattheson has to be our number one suspect. I don’t believe he did murder Laura Fellingham, because he had little or no motive. However, on the evidence we have, the facts as we know them, there is a prima facie case against him. My working hypothesis is that Phil Dickinson knocked down Laura Fellingham, Tommy Mattheson then removed her unconscious body into Sydney Gardens where he opened her handbag and rifled through it. He found watch, phone, credit cards and cash, which he stuffed into his pockets. Laura Fellingham started to regain consciousness. Tommy panicked, saw the nail file in her bag and plunged it into her neck leaving her dead, or to die of her wounds. He ran from the park out of the main entrance, where Isabella Fellingham saw him. He went to the pub up the road where he tried to sell the watch, but because it had been broken when Laura Fellingham was knocked down, nobody wanted to buy it. Tommy Mattheson left the pub and went to his temporary accommodation in Twerton. What do you think of my hypothesis sir?”

“I think your analysis of the events of that Saturday evening is splendid. There are two outstanding problems. There ought to be a definite blood spatter on somebody inflicting an injury with a nail file on a person’s neck and killing her. If the forensic report shows that there are bloodstains on Tommy Mattheson’s clothing but no blood spatter I think he’s in the clear. Obviously, we depend on what the forensic team says. That’s the first problem, the second is this, if Laura Fellingham was thrown across the road by the car and sustained the injuries which the police surgeon’s report describes she would never regain consciousness until much later, if at all. But again, we need to seek the medics’ advice.”
“What are your thoughts on what happened, sir?” “I don’t have a very different explanation of events to the one you’ve given, Anna. I have more questions. One of the most important, which we must ask tomorrow morning is, did Tommy Mattheson know Laura Fellingham? In other words is there any link between these two people, however tenuous, that gives him a motive for killing her. And if Tommy Mattheson denies any previous knowledge of Laura Fellingham do we believe him? Should we dig into his personal life and try and find something, or would this be an entirely fruitless inquiry? He came from the Bristol area to Bath quite recently, so it’s not that probable that he knew her.” Gerrard had at the back of his mind, a suspicion that if he spent time on that particular avenue of inquiry he would have Tresillian breathing down his neck, accusing him of wasting police resources. Well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Perhaps he should have asked the relevant questions when he visited Tommy’s school and spoke to his mother earlier in the day. A phone call could put that right though. Anna drove her boss home and was glad to get home herself.

Michael was on the verge of calling Isabella when his telephone rang. He put the receiver to his ear and heard her familiar voice. “I was afraid that Paul would answer if I called you at home. I then thought of getting you on the mobile, but you still might be questioned by Paul.” “I’m at my mother’s house,” said Bella, “I’ve still got a business to run.”

“I’ve had the police round here.” “When?” “They left a few minutes ago.” “What did they ask you?” “They wanted to know my movements on Saturday night. Your mother was murdered not just knocked down by a car.” “Murdered! How?” “They think it was with a metal nail file,” said Michael calmly, simply repeating what the police had told him. “Have they got any suspects?” “They say they have but they didn’t elaborate.” “I’m going to do a bit of investigating myself… going to go through all our accounts to see if she owed money to anyone or if there is a disgruntled customer out there somewhere…” “…who would commit murder?” asked Michael, finishing the sentence for her. “Stranger things have happened,” said Bella, defensively. “They also told me that Paul was in the area on Saturday night.” “In Sydney Gardens?” “They didn’t specify, but he must have been checking up on us.” “Yes, but he hasn’t said anything to me about it. He only knows I was supposed to be meeting my mother last Saturday.” “He knew that I was meeting you,” said Michael. “Yes, we talked about it this afternoon. I admitted to him that I was seeing you. I said that there has not been any sexual relationship.” “Fair enough. He must be very angry all the same to think that his brother has been deceiving him.” “Yes, but he has been deceiving me.” “Has he?” “Yes, and you have been deceiving Rita.” “Yes, but she’s gone. She left today, leaving a letter that told me she was not coming back.”

“I want to see you as soon as possible.” “Do you think that is wise under the circumstances?” “Yes, as I said, I want to see you as soon as possible. Have you any free time?” “It just happens that I will be free tomorrow afternoon. There’s a career lecture on for all my students and thankfully I don’t have to attend, so I will leave college at lunchtime, one o’clock.”
“I’m going to the inquest tomorrow morning. So, if I come over to Bathford in the afternoon, at half past two, usual place, we can go for a walk together.” “Yes, that sounds fine to me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Until tomorrow.”

Isabella replaced the receiver and sat back in her chair. So, mother was murdered, she thought. Our relationship may have been strained to breaking point recently but she didn’t deserve to be murdered, did she?


CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friday, October 27: morning

The custody sergeant looked in through the cell window to see the face of a youth who lay stretched out on the narrow bed, fast asleep. He unlocked the door and entered. The sound of his key in the lock had woken the occupant, who now looked up rubbing his eyes, obviously wondering where he was. “I’ve brought you some tea and a bite to eat,” said the policeman in a friendly voice. The youth mumbled his thanks and turned over to go back to sleep. Tommy Mattheson had found life quite luxurious in custody compared to his living accommodation when at liberty. He was the undisturbed, sole occupant of the heated room. It was warm enough for him to stay in bed longer than he would normally. Furthermore, he was being served food and drink. There were therefore, distinct advantages in being a criminal. Whether he would enjoy being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for a much longer period was another question, but it was not a question that Mr Mattheson was asking on this early Friday morning.

At nine o’clock Tommy was brought from the cells to be questioned by Gerrard and Rossi. When he appeared in the interview room and had sat down, Gerrard carefully laid out a watch and a mobile phone on the table in front of him. Tommy looked expressionless as Gerrard, pointing to the items said, “These were handed in to us. They both belong to one person, Mrs Laura Fellingham. How did they come to be in your possession?” “I’ve never seen them before.” “Your girlfriend Samantha handed them over. So, don’t waste my time,” said Gerrard patiently. “I found them,” replied Tommy “Where?” “I can’t remember,” persisted the young man. “I told you not to waste my time. These items were removed from Mrs Fellingham either shortly before she died or just after,” replied Gerrard. “She’s dead, then?” “Yes, and the evidence points to the conclusion that you killed her.” “No, I didn’t.” “How do you know if you can’t remember?” “I wouldn’t kill anyone.” “Start remembering,” said Gerrard firmly.

“I had been drinking all day but I knew I needed money for food. I had no money. I thought I’d try walking up Pultney Street. I thought I might ask some people for money.” “You were going to try begging?” “Yes.” “Carry on. What did you do?” “I crossed the road, walked past the museum and saw this car coming down the hill, hit a woman.” “Outside Sydney Gardens?” “Yes. The car didn’t stop though; it just kept going. It was travelling at quite a speed. The driver didn’t brake, didn’t swerve, didn’t seem to take any avoiding action. As I said, it just kept going.” Now for an important question. Gerrard swallowed hard and asked, “Were there any other witnesses to this accident?” “No,” replied Tommy, “there was no one else there as far as I could see.”

“What happened next?” “She was thrown across the road and landed on the pavement. She was half on the pavement, half in the road. I picked her up and carried her into Sydney Gardens. I laid her down behind some bushes. She wasn’t making any sound but I was sure she wasn’t dead, just unconscious.” “How do you know she wasn’t dead?” “Her body was warm.” “Well it would be wouldn’t it if she had only just been run down?” “I suppose so,” said Tommy weakly. “What did you do then?” “I thought she might have something worth taking. I was desperate to get some money. I took a watch off her wrist, some credit cards and a mobile phone out of her bag.” “Her handbag?” “Yes, her handbag.” “Anything else?” Tommy paused and then decided to tell the whole truth. I took some cash from her bag as well.”

“How much?”
“I can’t remember. Some notes. Three tens I think it was.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I went through the park and came out of the main entrance… I went to a nearby pub to see if I could sell any of the things I’d got.”
“Have you any idea of the time that these events took place?”
“Yes, it was 7.33 p.m.”
“How can you be so specific?”
“When I looked at the watch it said 7.33 p.m. It wasn’t working, so I assumed that a woman like that wouldn’t go around with a watch that was broken and that it must have stopped when she got hit.”
“It seems reasonable,” said Gerrard.
“Is there anything else you want to add to your statement?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“How did you carry her, face up or face down?”
“She was lying on her back when I found her and I laid her on her back when I put her down.”
“Now, let’s go over some of this again. Why did you move a seriously injured woman? Why did you not get help, call an ambulance?”
“I saw it as an opportunity to pinch a couple of things from her bag. I thought it best to hide her so I would have more time, if nobody found her for a day or so.”
“She did not die of her injuries in the road accident,” said Gerrard. “She died as a result of a stab wound to the back of the neck, from something like a nail file,” he continued.
“I don’t carry a nail file,” said Tommy.
“But Laura Fellingham did and you might have killed her with it,” suggested Anna.
“No I did not.”
“You didn’t find a nail file in her handbag when you went through it?”
“No.”

Gerrard sat back in his chair and thought hard. After a few moments he said, “I don’t know whether you killed her or not. Until we have evidence to the contrary, you are our chief suspect. You haven’t helped yourself by running away, either,” said Gerrard. “Why did you run away?”
“I got frightened. Sam told me that she’d heard on the news that the lady had died. I thought I would be blamed for hiding her and letting her die. I didn’t want this to happen. I never thought it would turn out like this.”

Tommy was put back in the cells until his appearance at the inquest. “I don’t think he is a killer,” Gerrard told Anna. “Neither do I,” replied his colleague, “it hardly seems worth killing someone for a phone and a watch and a bit of cash. We need to find the nail file and get some finger prints from it so that we can eliminate Tommy from our inquiries.” “Yes,” said Gerrard, “the area round the body has been thoroughly searched of course. We ought to search right the way back along the path to the main entrance to the gardens. If Tommy ever had it and used it he could have thrown it anywhere in the vicinity. I doubt that he would take it into a pub with him. It would have been covered in blood. I’ve got the inquest to go to. You get his statement signed and printed up and we’ll meet together after the inquest."
“Yes sir,” said Anna.

The inquest, commencing at 11.30 a.m. was a desultory affair, with both Phil and Tommy giving what was, to Gerrard’s ears, very familiar evidence. It did give Gerrard the chance to think about it with these two key witnesses in front of him, listening to their testimony. Three key words kept going through his mind, means, opportunity and motive. If Dickinson really did what he said he did and kept going he had no opportunity to kill, except on impact with the deceased. He certainly had no motive, but the evidence the police had so far suggested that Dickinson and Mrs Fellingham were unknown to each other.

Tommy’s case was trickier. He possibly could have found a nail file in Mrs Fellingham’s handbag and therefore had the means to commit murder. He also had the opportunity to commit murder, if, as he said, he was responsible for moving the injured woman. The stumbling block was the motive. He was not a stupid youth, quite intelligent really. It was unreasonable surely to suppose that he would kill someone for the sake of a couple of almost valueless stolen items. Second hand mobiles and watches are as cheap as chips.

Gerrard emerged from the inquest deep in thought, oblivious to his surroundings. He was awoken from his reverie by the sound of a familiar voice, calling his name. He turned round to see an old friend. “Peter, how are you?” “Not so bad.” Andrew Thorpe was a detective with the Wiltshire Constabulary. Gerrard had forgotten that he was going to be at the inquest. It was an idea that had been cooked up by Chief Superintendent John Tresillian and his counterpart from the Wiltshire Constabulary. Gerrard had received a communication from Tresillian, which had been languishing in his in-tray for some time. When he found the time to read it he skimmed through it, ticked his initials at the top and passed it on to the next recipient. Now he recalled reading it, a new initiative in co-operation between police forces. The practical outcome here was that Tommy Mattheson would be kept in custody in Trowbridge by the Wiltshire police and charged with the offences connected with car theft. They would oppose bail being granted because he had tried to avoid Bath police. In the event of Gerrard not being able to find any other suspect, Mattheson could be charged with murder and satisfy the demands of Tresillian.

“Had you forgotten about me?” D.I. Thorpe asked Gerrard. “No,” he replied, “but I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment. I was thinking of the issues involved in the inquest. Have you come to collect Tommy?” “Yes, it’s our Chief Super’s idea. He told my D.C.I that he wanted me to come. So here I am.” The two returned to the police station where they met Anna in the canteen. Gerrard made the introductions as they sat down together. They had not been sitting together long when a uniformed constable strode into the room with a message for D.C.I. Gerrard. He read it quickly. “Thank you constable,” he said, “please tell him I’ll be there as soon as I am able.” “Yes sir,” replied the young man and promptly left the canteen to make the phone call.

Gerrard made his excuses saying he had to go to an address in Queen Square where Laura Fellingham’s solicitor had called the family together for the reading of the last will and testament of the deceased. Andrew Thorpe was delighted to be alone with Anna and almost said so, but then thought better of it. Instead, he asked her how she was getting on working with Peter Gerrard. She was rather evasive in her reply, a point that was not lost on the policeman from Wiltshire. “How long have you known him?” she asked. “We were at school together, so we go back a long way.” Anna was glad she had been guarded in her remarks about her chief. She felt sure that whatever she said about Gerrard would eventually get back to him and she wanted to remain on good terms with him. Although it was a bit frustrating at times, she was very happy to be working with the likes of Peter Gerrard and she did not want to jeopardise any opportunities of working with him in the future by any off the record remarks she might make to D.I. Thorpe.

“It’s a pity I’ve got to go back to Wiltshire today, otherwise I would ask you out to dinner,” he said. “Trowbridge is only down the road from here,” said Anna brightly. “I don’t live in Trowbridge, I live in Marlborough… it’s a fair way and we’ve got a big case on at the moment.” “Ah, I see,” said Anna, noticing the slight frown he gave her when she did not ask him about the big case. That can wait, she thought.

Meanwhile, Gerrard had found his way across the Abbey courtyard to the elegant Queens Square. This boasts a lovely park at its centre where the visitor can sit at his leisure for as long as he can bear the noise of the constant traffic that is fighting its way out of Bath on to the Upper Bristol Road. The square was very familiar to Gerrard, because it used to house the Reference Library. Here he would come as a student to read the huge tomes that were only available in such a building.

Today though, much more sombre fare was on the menu at the solicitor’s office, on the second floor of the building in Queen Square. He entered the room to find the rest of the family already gathered. They sat at a large oak table where the solicitor, dressed in a dark grey suit, with thinning hair and half-moon glasses, was peering at a document in preparation for reading it out loud. There was nothing startling in it and nothing much to interest Gerrard. It simply recorded the fact that after a few small gifts to persons who had been of service to Laura Fellingham, the bulk of the estate was divided equally between the four remaining members of the family, Isabella, Marherita, Paul and Michael. There was no discussion and the family took their leave quite quickly.

Gerrard followed suit. He assumed that Laura had drawn up her will in the way that she did because much of the disposable capital would have gone to Paul and Michael had their father not married Laura. It seemed a perfectly reasonable course of action. There was no hidden motive for murder as far as Gerrard could see, unless of course, the murder prevented the changing of the will and thereby provided a motive for murder… He retraced his steps to the station and found Anna in his office completing some paperwork.

“Andrew Thorpe has taken quite a shine to you,” he said. Anna coloured on hearing these words from her chief. “Has he?” she asked in a matter of fact tone, without looking up from her work. “Yes, I think so,” he replied, going over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “He hasn’t said as much but that’s the conclusion I’ve reached.” Anna made no response. She did not want to be drawn. She certainly was not prepared to discuss her feelings for Andrew Thorpe with Gerrard. He did not pursue it, but contented himself with a faint smile as he concentrated his attention on searching through the files.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Friday, October 27: afternoon and evening

Isabella drove to the village of Bathford. There she met her brother-in-law outside the parish church. He was waiting for her as she drew up and parked her car opposite the church. He looked at his watch and saw that it was exactly two-thirty.
“Hello,” he said, “right on time, too.”
“Did you expect me to be late?”
“Well I …”
“You thought I would be late,” she said, playfully.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Just shows you how much I want to see you.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Brown’s Folly, known locally as the ‘pepperpot’. This way,” Michael said, indicating a rather overgrown path that wound past the churchyard towards a monument on a hill, overlooking the valley. It was a bright afternoon with a few wispy clouds scudding across the sky in a fair breeze.
Isabella led the way as the couple walked in silence along the narrow path in single file. When it opened out at a housing estate she took hold of Michael’s hand, but said nothing to him. She was happy to be outside in the fresh air, to be in Michael’s company once more. She was also happy in the knowledge that anyone who knew them and saw them together would assume that she was her twin sister Margherita.
They came upon an open, grassy field and walked across it, arm in arm, though the going was rather more difficult. On the far side of the field they climbed over a stile leading into the woods. Isabella sat on the stile while Michael stood leaning on it next to her, looking back at the village. He noticed that her skirt had ridden up as she sat down, exposing her bare thighs, but this did not seem to bother her. She felt free from such moral constraints. The couple maintained their silence; a natural silence, which was neither forced nor awkward, but allowed them the simple pleasure of enjoying each other’s company.

All around them was silence. Far away in the distance they could hear the whine of electric saws from the sawmill at Bathampton and the sound of an express train bound for London, which gradually died away. Isabella looked into Michael’s eyes and smiled at him. Eventually she broke the silence. “I’m glad we’re together,” she said. “I’m very pleased to have someone to talk to,” replied Michael, “it’s been very strange being without Rita for the last twenty four hours or so. We’ve never spent a night apart since we were married.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And what about us?”
“We’re good friends. We’re very different, though. I enjoy being with you, but I don’t know what the future holds for us. How do you feel about Paul?”

“We’ve grown apart since we were married. I thought we would be starting a family by now, but Paul won’t hear of it. He wants to carry on as we are for many years more yet. Perhaps he will never want children, I don’t know.”
“Do you think having children will bring you closer together?”
“It might do. If he has responsibility for a child he might see there is more in life than work.”
“On the other hand he might abrogate any responsibility he has and leave it all to you.”
“Yes, there is always that possibility.”
“Do you love Paul?”
“I would describe it as more of a trial of love,” replied Isabella.
“He doesn’t have any interests outside work does he?”
“No, it’s work, work, work, with Paul. He’s a workaholic. When he’s not in London he’s off abroad somewhere. I don’t see much of him, but he always expects me to be at his beck and call when he does come home. I’m tired of being treated like a doormat.”
“Shall we walk on? I’m getting a bit cold.”
“Yes, come on,” she said.
“Let’s try and make it to the ‘pepperpot’.”
“I don’t know whether I’ll be able to manage to clamber up there.”
“I’m sure you will, if we take it slowly and steadily.”
“I shall need some help up the steep bits.”

She climbed down from the style and walked in front of him. As she walked he looked at her. He saw the same shapely figure now as when he looked at his wife. When Isabella turned round to say something to him he saw his wife’s face. Then he said to himself that though these identical twins looked the same, the two personalities were so different. Rita had always been tense, earnest, on edge at times. Michael had realised a long time ago that he had never felt relaxed in Rita’s company. And now it was very strange to be in the company of someone who looked like his wife but was so much more relaxed than Rita. And he had to admit to himself that he was enjoying it.
The path became steeper and they fell into silence once more apart from their heavy breathing. They paused for breath after five minutes or so, and stood holding on to each other. Then they started off again. Now the wood gave on to a small clearing and they could see the monument looming over them in the distance. They knew they had not far to go, but the path was becoming steeper and more difficult to negotiate, as it wound round some rocky outcrops and more dense foliage. For the last few yards they were climbing rather than walking.
“I shall have to stop again, Michael, to get my breath,” gasped Isabella. She sat down on a step cut into the hillside and looked up at him, grinning, her arms clasped round her knees. Her cheeks were flushed and glowed a healthy shade of pink. After a few minutes she held out her hands for Michael to pull her to her feet and continue their ascent.
Eventually they arrived at the summit, both feeling that they had achieved something in climbing that hill. They sat together on a smooth slab of rock in front of the ‘pepperpot’ and stared down at the valley far below them, with its lush green farmland divided by the River Avon. “It’s quite a view from up here, isn’t it?” said Bella.

“Yes, it is, and so near home. Haven’t you been here before?” “Never. I had never ever noticed the monument before, either. I’m rather unobservant aren’t I?” Michael made no reply. He did not want to cast aspersions on her intelligence but he knew that although Bella was good company and great fun to be with, he had always regarded her as an empty headed, leggy blonde. However, as she said these words, turning to look at him with that engaging smile of hers, he now found her more desirable than ever. His senses were filled with her delicate, sweet perfume. She knew that, despite his reticence, he was very attracted to her.

She was so alluring he wanted to pull her towards him and enfold her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her passionately on the mouth. But Michael was blessed with a great deal of self-control; he had never given in to his desires. He now, as always, remained calm and steady, contenting himself with drinking in the panoramic vista they had both come to enjoy.
It was Isabella who, in the next moment, pulled him towards her and enfolded him in her arms. It was Isabella who kissed him passionately on the mouth, for what little self-control she possessed, she now abandoned; she had always given in to temptation. She had always lived for the moment with scant regard for the consequences. Now, all she wanted was Michael and given her encouragement he succumbed at last to his desires.

He put his arms around her shoulders and held her towards him closely. He felt the warmth from her body and the reassuring clasp of her hands on his back. He wanted these few moments to last and last. She also, was reluctant to let go. She held him for a long time in her tight embrace. They finally released each other and struggled to their feet.
They made their way slowly back to the village at the bottom of the hill. When they reached the stile they both rested their elbows on it. Suddenly Michael asked, “Have the police interviewed you yet?” “Yes,” replied Isabella, “they came round on Tuesday evening. I was there on my own. Paul was away in London.”
“He left you on your own at a time like this?”
“Yes,” she said, simply, then added, “the police were annoyed too, saying they wanted to see Paul immediately. He came home that evening and went to the police station the following morning.”

“You do realise that if the police think that this vagrant chap they have in custody at the moment did not do it, the murder I mean, they are likely to come knocking on your door, because you have a motive and no alibi.”
“Innocent people don’t need alibis,” said Isabella, perceptively.
“They once made a film in Bath called Eighty Thousand Suspects. That’s the way the police will look at it. You’re a suspect”
“And so are you if you are involved with me.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Late on Friday afternoon Chief Superintendent Tresillian was sitting in his office with Gerrard, who was describing the progress, or lack of it that he and Sergeant Rossi were making. Tresillian listened carefully to Gerrard’s description of the crime scene, the evidence supplied by the few witnesses, namely Mrs Phelps and Sam Stone and the only real suspect Tommy Mattheson.
“You should have picked up this Mattheson lad earlier and then he wouldn’t have had any chance of running off… or driving off… pinched a car didn’t he, to Marlborough or wherever it was,” said Tresillian, firmly.
“We did our best, given the resources available,” replied Gerrard, guardedly.
“Did you? When did you hear about Mattheson?”
“On Wednesday evening, sir”
“And when did you know that Mrs Fellingham had been murdered, stabbed wasn’t it?”
“Officially, on Thursday morning, when we received the interim report from Dr Ray at the path. Lab.”
“And unofficially?” demanded Tresillian. “Didn’t Dr Ray go to some trouble on Wednesday night to phone you, despite his not feeling well?”
“Yes, but…”
“No buts… you should have had Mattheson picked up on Wednesday night and banged him up. Then he wouldn’t have buggered off to Berkshire, would he?”
“Wiltshire, sir.”
“What?”
“Wiltshire, sir. Marlborough is in Wiltshire.”
“That’s as maybe but Mattheson should have been in custody, here in Bath, in Somerset.”
“Yes sir,” intoned Gerrard, rather lamely. Tresillian was probably right. If Eve Terry hadn’t come round he would have probably done something about it on the Wednesday night. As it was, he was hoping she might have spread more pathological light on the case. But she hadn’t. Ray was sitting on the key piece of evidence. “I would have thought that Dr Ray would have found that stab wound at the crime scene, sir.”
“Don’t try and shovel the blame on to him. He did his job well as far as I am concerned. Now, this bloke Mattheson; have we got enough to charge him with murder yet?”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“Why not?”
“He had no motive, sir.”
“He had the means, the file in the victim’s bag. He had the opportunity, an unconscious woman lying at his feet and he had a motive in that he’d just stolen from the victim. What more do you want?” demanded Tresillian.

“The murder weapon would be a great help in this inquiry, sir,” replied Gerrard.
“What do you think has happened to it?”
“I don’t know, sir. If Tommy Mattheson ever had it, and I don’t believe he did, he’s thrown it away.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, sir. SOCOs have searched the area. The most likely place to find it now is in the canal.”
“Let’s get it searched. We need that weapon.”
“If it is in the canal there won’t be any forensic on it, sir.”
“We’ll see. Let’s find the thing first and keep Mattheson in custody until we’re ready to charge him. If necessary get an extension.”

“He’s already gone back to Trowbridge sir,” said Gerrard.
“Has he? Why?” Gerrard explained the plan concerning his deal with the Wiltshire police. Tresillian begrudgingly accepted that it was a good idea, arising as it did from his own policy. “As long as Mattheson is under lock and key…” he said. “He is, sir,” said Gerrard, rising from his seat to leave.
“And another thing, Peter,” said Tresillian, “keep your eye on the ball, you know what I mean.” “I must say sir, that I disagree with you about Dr Ray. I think his work has been negligent in not telling us about the knife wound, or whatever it is, earlier. Before the forensic autopsy the known facts of the case are discussed by the investigating police and the forensic pathologist. The stab wound should have formed part of that discussion. Dr Ray said nothing about it when my sergeant went to visit him at the lab.” “Perhaps you should have gone,” suggested Tresillian, “anyway the man has retired. But maybe you’re right. Perhaps we shouldn’t use him any more. I’ll have a word with those who can take such decisions.” “Thank you, sir.” Gerrard left the room, feeling that he had been more than a little savaged.

He found Anna in the office. “The Chief Super wanted us to charge our friend Tommy with murder,” he announced, “but I don’t think he’s guilty. If we do charge him and then we have to let him go, we’ll look rather foolish. The press will have a field day with us. I don’t think we’ve enough evidence yet. The Chief Super also wants the murder weapon found… don’t we all? So, I think we’re going to have to send a diver down into the canal. It seems the most likely place… to throw it away. We’re not charging Mattheson yet, not while Wiltshire police have got him, but they can’t keep him in custody indefinitely.” Anna noticed the anger and frustration in Gerrard’s tone of voice as he paced up and down the room. She had also learned that Chief Superintendent John Tresillian could be tough when he felt the need to crack the whip. He obviously had not been impressed with Gerrard’s handling of the case.

Anna was keen to support and help her immediate superior. “Do you want me to organise the canal search, sir?” she asked. “No, I’ll do that myself,” replied Gerrard wearily. “There’s no need for you to get involved.” He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. “Is there anything else you want me for, sir?” “No, I don’t think so.” “I’ll get off then, sir,” said Anna, “I’ve a lot of domestic chores to see to.” “Okay, I’ll see you later,” said Gerrard as he began to concentrate on making the important call to have the canal searched.

(TBC)

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Texte: Bergotte
Bildmaterialien: Bergotte
Lektorat: Bergotte
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.10.2012

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