A young, female violinst was playing very softly in the corner, bent over – almost hunched over her fiddle. She was
playing a haunting, Dvorzak gypsy air. Martha listened to it with her usual mix of pleasure and passion. Music should not stir such powerful emotion. And yet it does.
Shelley was still staring out of the window listening to a record. It was from one of the Lloyd-Webber musicals. ‘Evita’. ‘Where do we go from here?’
It was a question she did not want to answer.
It was completely black in the cell. Callum too was listening to sounds. Doors slamming. Echoing. Cheeky shouts from some of the inmates. A scream. He dared not think what was behind that scream. Muttered curses. The sharp sounds of the screws marching up the walkways, shoving back the spyholes. Another door being opened. A shaft of light as his spyhole was slid back. And slammed closed again.
He needed human contact.
Perhaps he should scream too?
He walked her to her car and kissed her cheek.
‘Good night,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone for a few days then I’ll be in touch again.’
Still smiling Martha swung out onto the Ellesmere road and accelerated back in towards the town. She fiddled with the car radio and found BBC Radio Shropshire. It was strange but she always had this compulsion to find out what was happening in what she fondly regarded as
her
town before she went to bed. But she had missed the headlines. Instead she heard Krissi Carpenter’s voice. ‘That was a hit from 1964. Adam Faith singing ‘A Message for Martha’, written by Burt Bacharach.
And if any Marthas are out there listening this track is being played specially for you.’
Martha was thoughtful as she joined the bypass and swung south towards the woods and the White House.
She had been the focus of some strange and unsettling attention a few months ago – a wreath of flowers left on her doorstep, a dead mouse with a ligature tight around its neck, trees whispering this very song – A Message for Martha. The old ‘45’ had been dumped in her porch.
At first the events had frightened her. She had installed security lights and asked Agnetha to be careful that she always activated the burglar alarm and kept the safety chain fastened when she was in the house alone. She had suspected that the perpetrator must be connected with a case which the family had felt had resulted in an unsatisfactory verdict but although she racked her brains she had come up with nothing. Lately there had been no ghostly contacts and she had begun to believe that the person who taunted her had played out his or her vengeance.
She hoped so.
The hit still seemed personal.
The house was shrouded in darkness as she locked her car door. Agnetha and Sukey must be asleep.
And for that she was glad.
Shelley was on her fourth glass of wine and her fifth cigarette.
And Callum?
Was not asleep.
Martha woke early to an uneasy feeling. It took her seconds to locate the cause.
The phone was ringing.
She picked it up, glanced at the radio alarm. It was early, a little before seven. Already she knew it would hardly be good news and she was right. The voice was formal. ‘Martha Gunn? It’s Alex Randall here. Bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve got a death in custody.’
Inwardly she groaned. This was the beginning of the worst. Enquiries, allegations of police brutality, foul play.
‘Give me the details, Alex. Where did it happen? At the prison?’
‘No. Stoke Heath. A young lad. Thirteen. His name was Callum Hughes. He was a Shrewsbury lad. Up in front of the magistrates yesterday morning on a charge of attempted murder. You may have heard of the case. It made the headlines. He stabbed a classmate outside school. He was put on remand yesterday morning and transferred to Stoke Heath.’ Alex gave a deep sigh. ‘It looks like he hanged himself in his cell, Martha.’
‘Oh no.’ Every time she imagined herself inured to her job something like this happened.
‘I saw him myself the day before yesterday when he was brought in. Frightened rabbit of a boy. With his mother. Martha – he was only thirteen. First time offender.’
So it had touched DI Randall too.
‘I’ll call in to Stoke Heath in an hour or two. Do you want to move the body?’
‘Yes. Mark’s done a swift examination and he’s happy for us to take it down to the morgue – if that’s all right with you. I’m just on my way to break the news to his mother. I feel as the Senior Investigating Officer I at least owe her that.’
‘I don’t envy you.’
‘Part of the job, Martha.’
‘OK then, Alex. I’ll talk to you later.’ So much for a lie-in and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
Shelley hadn’t slept either but lain with an advancing headache, suspended somewhere between waking and sleeping, soberness and a hangover, day and night. She too was woken early in the morning, not by a telephone ringing but by hammering on the door. And like the hammering two days ago she knew it portended bad news. She was beginning to learn: no one except the police knocked on doors so hard or so early in the morning. She allowed herself the luxury of lying still for what she feared would be her last moment of peace. Something was very wrong. Ideas flashed through her mind as she tied her dressing gown around her waist and descended the stairs. Maybe DreadNought had died in the night. Perhaps, oh Heavens above, they had decided to let her
son go. And that was him, banging at the door.
By the time she reached the bottom step she was not sleepy any more but a hopeful, yet fearful automaton, watching herself go through the movements of shooting back the bolt, turning round the key, pulling open the door which always stuck. The faces which met hers were grim.
‘Mrs Hughes?’
It was the tall policeman with the craggy face and nice eyes. But his eyes looked at her differently now. They met hers with pity and an apology. Behind him hovered an awkward WPC. Shelley Hughes brushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘Callum?’ she said, clutching the doorframe because the dizziness threatened to send her reeling.
‘May we come in?’
She knew it was a bad sign. It was
all
a bad sign. She nodded and backed along the narrow hallway.
They followed her into the lounge and waited for her to sit down.
Another bad sign.
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
She looked from one to the other, her head turning without any conscious movement, gliding over her neck. ‘What sort of accident?’ Her voice was harsh and gravelly. Hostile.
‘It’s your son.’ The eyes met hers fearlessly and with honesty now. She stared back at him, waiting. Waiting. Not hoping any more.
‘Mrs Hughes, I’m sorry. It appears that he’s committed suicide.’
She stared, uncomprehending.
‘He hanged himself in his cell some time during the night.’
She could feel herself sinking into oblivion, straight down into the black spiral of her worst nightmare.
‘You’re telling me he’s dead?’
Alex Randall nodded.
‘Weren’t you watching him?’
‘Not enough – obviously.’
‘You let him do this – when you knew he was terrified of being inside?’
The policeman nodded again. ‘There will be an enquiry.’
And these words made her anger erupt. ‘An enquiry? A fucking enquiry? Oh well, that’s OK then. An enquiry’ll solve everything, won’t it? Fine. Just great. My son hangs himself in your care and you tell me there’ll be an enquiry?’ She dropped her head on her arms and submitted to great, wracking sobs.
Inspector Randall stood up then. ‘Do you want us to take you to see him?’
Martha padded downstairs to make the coffee, taking it back to the bedroom with her to cool. It was seven o’clock. She took a quick shower first then drank the cooling coffee. Agnetha would have to walk Bobby this morning. She wanted to get to Stoke Heath in good time. The wheels must crank into motion. Mark Sullivan would be in touch later, after the boy’s mother had identified him. He would want to proceed with the post-mortem as soon as possible. Her day was filling up.
Agnetha and Sukey staggered downstairs minutes later, both brushing long blonde hair out of their eyes. Agnetha was the more awake. ‘Good morning, Mrs Gunn. I hope you had a good evening last night with your friend.’ Agnetha, in
baby-doll pyjamas, gave her a sly wink.
‘I did, thank you, Agnetha. Morning, Sukey.’
‘Hello, Mum.’ Sukey gave her a sleepy kiss, putting her arms around her. ‘How’s things?’
‘OK.’ Martha had never involved her children in her work. Having lost their father it was hardly necessary to remind either of them about the consequences of mortality. It was there, staring down at them from the mantelpiece every day of their young lives. She didn’t want them to think too much about death.
‘How’s your new class, Sukes?’
‘OK.’ Sukey was winding a lock of hair around her finger so Martha knew she wanted to ask something. She watched her and picked up on some of the agitation. But Sukey was not to be hurried. She eyed Martha’s grey work-suit with undisguised distaste. ‘Are you off to work?’
Martha nodded.
‘What time’ll you be home, Mum?’
‘Darling – I can’t say.’
Sukey nodded then tugged Agnetha by the hand. ‘Come on. I want you to braid my hair.’
They both skipped out of the room and Martha felt a sudden pang.
In concentrating on providing I have failed both my children.
She started up her car and headed towards the bypass. Stoke Heath is to the north-east of Shrewsbury, an easy
twenty-minute
drive starting on the Shrewsbury bypass, fanning out along the A53 towards the Potteries and then a right turn at
Tern Hill Barracks, south, down the A41 in the direction of Wolverhampton. Stoke Heath Young Offenders’ Institute is a little way down, on the right hand side. You cannot miss it. High fences, flood lighting throughout the hours of dusk and darkness, numerous road signs to guide in the relatives who travel, sometimes from far away.
Martha was tuned in to the local news station. The news was of the financial problems at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital and the report of a horrific car crash along one of the many country roads. The news hadn’t broken yet. When it did it would soon take over the headlines.
It is not strictly speaking necessary for a coroner to visit the scene of the crime but Martha knew, from experience, that mere computer simulations were never as good as the real thing. In a case such as this, actually
seeing
the room in which the suicide had occurred was invaluable. This would be a high profile case with numerous enquiries to follow. She would need to have a clear picture of what had happened.
When Jericho, her assistant, rang her at a little after eight on her car phone she took malicious delight in telling him that she knew about the suicide and was already on her way to Stoke Heath. ‘Well,’ he said, miffed, ‘why didn’t they inform me?’
She took pity on him. ‘Detective Inspector Randall rang me just before seven,’ she explained. ‘I don’t suppose he thought you’d be in the office so early.’
She was smiling as she spoke, thankful she and Jericho did not have a video link. But she knew that Jericho was as reliable as the BBC one o’clock pips. He always arrived at eight am. Not before.
He was mollified. ‘Well Doctor Sullivan’s been on the line and I didn’t know anything about it. He wants to know when he can do the post-mortem.’
‘Ring him back, Jericho, can you? I’m driving. I’m going to be in Stoke Heath until late morning then I’d better call in on you. Tell him some time this afternoon would be best.’
There was a pause. She pictured him scratching his grey pate to find some fact he knew which she so far did not. Then he cleared his throat. ‘The deceased’s name is Callum Hughes,’ he said importantly. ‘And the next of kin has been informed.’
She had to hand it to him. ‘Thank you, Jerry,’ she said politely. ‘Who is his next of kin?’
‘His mother. She lives in Harlescott. She’s identifying him now.’
‘Poor woman,’ she said.
Poor woman,
she thought.
Poor woman. On one day she learns her son has stabbed another boy. The next she is at the magistrate’s court. And on the third she learns that he is dead by his own hand. Poor woman.
‘Yes,’ he agreed and rung off.
Martha had reached Stoke Heath. She pulled onto the small car park set aside for visitors and approached the front door.
It was not the first time that she had been here and she had always been surprised that she was so sensitive to this place and its atmosphere. A naughty boys’ correction centre with the underlying flavour of prison.
They were expecting her. The two prison guards who had been on night duty were hanging on in a small ante-room.
They would already have been questioned by the police. As she was signed in a familiar tall figure walked through the door.
‘Alex,’ she said. ‘You’re still here.’
His eyes lit up. ‘I’m so glad you came out, Martha,’ he said. ‘We didn’t expect you for another half hour.’
‘The traffic was light and you woke me early.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, still smiling. And there was not a hint of an apology in his voice. He looked around him at the watching guards, a few police officers and the very public corridor. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
He led her to a room at the side of the main hatch, Martha aware, all the time, that the beady eye of CCTV was following their every move along the corridor.
They sat down in scruffy, red armchairs, either side of a scratched pine coffee table. This was obviously an interview room for the relatives.
‘So?’
Alex’s eyes were intelligent, perceptive, hazel-tinged and curiously sharp.
‘The deceased is a lad named Callum Hughes. Thirteen years old. No sign of Dad. Lives with Mum up towards Harlescott in a small, privately-owned semi-detached. She works as a cleaner in a local office block. On Tuesday afternoon Callum assaulted a classmate, Roger Gough, outside the school. Stabbed him once in the chest with a knife. Gough is currently at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital with a collapsed lung. He’s not in any danger but he’s pretty uncomfortable.’
‘Just stop there a minute, Alex. Right or left lung?’
‘Left.’
‘How near the heart?’
He held up his hand, his finger and his thumb one inch apart. Martha winced.
‘Had Callum ever used a knife before?’
Alex shook his head.
‘Had he ever threatened this boy before?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Did he have a record of criminal activity?’
‘No.’
‘So are you saying that a perfectly normal schoolboy with absolutely no record whatsoever of previous violence took out a knife and without provocation stabbed a schoolmate an inch from the heart?’
‘That’s about it.’
She watched his face. ‘And?’ she prompted.
‘He bought the knife specifically for the purpose a couple of weeks ago – just before the schools went back.’
She waited.
‘At the same time as he bought the knife he also bought a sharpening stone. We could see the marks on the knife where he’d used it. I think it was that that made us charge him with attempted murder rather than GBH. There was no question of bail for the lad.’
She nodded. She could see the logic behind this. ‘Did he offer any explanation?’
‘He was fairly shocked by it all. He said very little.’
‘Yet he must have planned something. Did you ask that question?’
Alex gave a tired smile and she remembered that he would
have been up from first light. Deaths in custody were always bad news – particularly when the victim was a first offender and a minor. It made the prison service appear uncivilised. Monstrous. One offence and you died?
‘Did you get
any
sort of explanation?’
‘His mother made allegations that Gough had been bullying her son.’
‘What do you think, Alex? Are we looking at a potential killer? Or a young boy trying to defend himself?’
Alex sighed. ‘I don’t know. By all accounts on Tuesday it was a completely unprovoked attack. I didn’t know last night what sort of person Callum was. I just couldn’t make up my mind. One minute he looked like a no-hoper then next it all fitted. He was a violent villain. And yet, Martha, his mother is a pleasant, decent sort of a woman. And he seemed a decent sort of boy. Their claims hung together even though there was no corroboration. None of the boys’ schoolmates have confirmed the bullying story.’
‘And the boy he stabbed?’
‘I’d only seen Roger Gough when he was in agony having all sorts done to him in the hospital. I could imagine him being a bully whereas Hughes appeared a frightened rabbit. A very scared and very young boy. Gough must have been twice the weight of Callum Hughes. If he’d wanted to bully him he could easily have done it – particularly with a cheering gang around.’
‘A cheering gang? Then why haven’t any of them come forward? Surely young Callum must have had
some
friends,
someone
to speak up for him?’