Road Closed (7 page)

Geraldine gazed down at the corpse. Thomas Cliff looked so peaceful. It was strange to think of all the internal damage concealed beneath the neat bloodless scar. The sergeant and the DCI left straight away. Geraldine waited for the widow who was expected shortly. She watched as the body was wrapped in sheets, only the face showing white above a sheet tucked up to the chin.

Sophie Cliff arrived ten minutes early, wearing a grey coat, her hair concealed beneath a navy scarf. She was very thin.

She peered nervously at Geraldine through thick lensed spectacles, her magnified eyes bloodshot from weeping. ‘Are you the doctor?’ Geraldine held up her identity card and introduced herself. ‘A police inspector? Where is he? Can I see him?’

‘This way, Mrs Cliff.’ Geraldine gave the widow a sympathetic smile before leading the way, her heels tapping out a subdued rhythm on the floor. At her side, Sophie Cliff padded noiselessly.

Thomas Cliff had been laid out in readiness. Geraldine glanced at Mrs Cliff and looked away. There was something shocking about the dead man’s composure beside his wife’s
anguish. Geraldine wondered if Thomas Cliff had been as serene in life; certainly not in his final moments, the skin from his hands and shins clawed away by unbearable heat.

The widow didn’t move. Tears glistened on her pale cheeks as she stood crying silently.

‘Mrs Cliff, is this your husband? You can indicate your answer with a nod.’ Sophie Cliff didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Geraldine lowered her voice. ‘Would you like to be left alone with him for a minute?’

Sophie Cliff looked up. Geraldine was startled by the sudden harshness in her eyes. ‘A minute?’ Geraldine felt embarrassed by her clumsy offer of a moment alone with the dead man when Sophie Cliff had lost her whole future with him. There was a rustle of movement as the widow walked out of the room.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cliff,’ Geraldine said, catching up with her in the corridor. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened.’

Sophie Cliff spoke in a furious whisper. ‘I want to know who did this to my husband.’

‘I’m not sure we can say anyone’s to blame –’

‘I want to know who’s responsible. Tell me when you find him.’

Geraldine frowned. ‘We’re doing what we can,’ she repeated helplessly. Sophie Cliff turned and strode away down the corridor, her feet falling silently on the scrubbed floor.

Geraldine sighed and made her way back to the police station to type up her report but she found it hard to settle. She kept thinking about the widow’s eyes glaring wildly in her pale face, like the eyes of a trapped animal. That was what grief looked like, Geraldine thought with a guilty pang; she hadn’t even cried at her own mother’s funeral.

12

Widow

‘You’ve all read the Fire Investigation Team’s initial findings on the damage at 17 Harchester Close. The gas leak wasn’t caused by defective equipment.’ The DCI flipped through the report. ‘The kitchen was almost new, but not new enough to have teething problems. The appliances were installed by an accredited experienced gas fitter ten months ago. DC Hargreaves spoke to him and the fitter was adamant he followed correct procedures and the paperwork was in order to show everything had been properly fitted and tested. There was no evidence of any fault. The gas tap had been functioning fine since the kitchen was installed. There’s no reason for it to suddenly malfunction and the FIT have found nothing to suggest it did. They’re positive we’re looking at human error. Which opens up the possibility that we’re dealing with a crime scene, if the gas was left on deliberately, a possibility the FIT raised from the start. Polly.’ She nodded at the detective constable who had been talking to Ian Peterson that morning.

‘The victim took out a life insurance policy ten months ago,’ the constable said. ‘His life was insured for a million pounds.’

‘There’s nothing remarkable in that,’ the DCI took over again, ‘considering the victim got married two years ago, and they bought their house three months later. The property is currently valued at nearly a million pounds, and they’re making substantial mortgage repayments. It’s quite in order for him to have insured the house against his death. It was insured against his life only, not hers. That’s not unusual
except that she was earning more than her husband which makes it slightly odd that they took out insurance on his life and not hers.’

‘Perhaps they were thinking of starting a family and she planned to give up work?’ someone suggested.

‘Yes, they might’ve been thinking of starting a family. The widow’s not that young. Late thirties.’ Geraldine felt herself blush and looked down. The room suddenly felt hot and stuffy.

‘So now the house is paid off.’ Peterson said. ‘She could sell up and walk away with millions.’

‘A million,’ Geraldine corrected him.

‘Let’s not get sidetracked into speculation,’ the DCI snapped.

‘It’s motive, not speculation,’ the sergeant mumbled audibly.

Gordon ignored him. She turned and tapped at a photograph on the Board before looking round the room again. ‘The victim’s wife.’ She didn’t say anything else but a question hung in the air. Geraldine studied the picture of the woman she had met in the mortuary the previous day. Sophie Cliff’s straight mousey coloured hair grew in a long fringe over her forehead. Her eyes looked unnaturally large behind her glasses.

‘Now let’s get going,’ the DCI said briskly and the team stirred. There was a general air of activity and purpose. Geraldine checked the schedule and found she was working with DS Peterson again. She found him talking to DC Polly Hargreaves.

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t find herself having to give chase in that skirt,’ Geraldine muttered as they walked away.

‘More likely find herself being chased.’ Peterson laughed. Geraldine forced a smile. She hoped the sergeant wasn’t going to allow himself to be distracted from the case. They were
both excited to discover they had been assigned to interview Sophie Cliff and her neighbours, and pleased to be working side by side again.

They drew into the kerb alongside a screen of tall laurel bushes. On one side of the Cliffs’ house cast iron numerals displayed the house number on a white fence post at the end of the hedge, beyond which a wide driveway led to a double garage. The house itself was concealed from the road.

‘Nice,’ Peterson murmured as he followed Geraldine through the gate and caught sight of a large double fronted house. Matching waist high fir trees grew in terracotta pots on either side of the front door which opened as soon as the bell chimed. A plump middle-aged woman stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, face slightly belligerent. ‘Whatever you want, the answer’s no.’ Geraldine held out her identity card and the woman’s expression softened.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said, glancing up the path behind them. ‘We’ve had reporters knocking since early morning.’

For all her willingness to help, the neighbour was unable to tell them anything new. ‘We didn’t see much of them,’ she admitted apologetically. ‘They only moved in about a year ago. We invited them in for drinks at Christmas but they never came. She was very polite. Said they were busy. They seem – seemed a nice young couple but they kept themselves to themselves. She works of course, so it’s not as if she’s around much during the day. She’s a doctor, I think. She goes out at all times. We hear her car coming and going at night.’

‘She works in IT,’ Peterson said and the neighbour frowned.

‘Did they seem happy together?’ Geraldine asked.

The neighbour just shrugged. ‘You know.’

‘That was a waste of time,’ the sergeant grumbled as they made their way back to the road.

‘At least she didn’t let her imagination run away with her,’ Geraldine replied. ‘Come on, let’s see if the other side have more to say.’ She tried to control the impatience in her voice.

‘She’s just here till she gets herself sorted,’ Jane Pettifer explained as she led the way across a wide hallway. ‘She didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go. My husband brought her in,’ she added over her shoulder as though Sophie Cliff was an abandoned kitten they had found on their doorstep. ‘She’s in the TV room.’

Jane Pettifer ushered them into a sumptuously furnished living room. Sophie Cliff was leaning forward in an armchair, head down, her thin arms wrapped around her chest. She looked very different to the passionate woman Geraldine had seen at the morgue.

‘Mrs Cliff?’ Geraldine said gently. ‘Sophie?’ The other woman raised her head. Her eyes barely registered Geraldine. Her lips, prim in the photo, hung slack. She looked like a stroke victim. Grief or guilt, Geraldine wondered.

‘She won’t speak. We’ve called the doctor,’ Mrs Pettifer said. ‘He should be here soon.’

Geraldine tried not to frown. Once the doctor arrived, he would probably prescribe a sedative and the opportunity to question Sophie Cliff would be snatched away for another day. There was no time for sympathy.

Geraldine sat down opposite Sophie Cliff. Behind her the sergeant spoke softly to Mrs Pettifer. Geraldine waited. A large flat screen television hung on the wall to one side. It had been muted. The screen was flashing with advertisements on the periphery of Geraldine’s vision. Beside it on a low table, a huge vase of lilies filled the air with their heavy scent. Geraldine fiercely dismissed the memory of her mother’s funeral.

Three large armchairs and a matching settee covered in a velvety red fabric stood in a semi-circle around the television.
This probably wasn’t even the main living room. Geraldine recalled the Cliffs’ skeletal black kitchen, metal shreds of an extractor fan hanging from the scorched ceiling, the air choking with sooty dust and the foul stench of smoke. It was hard to imagine Sophie Cliff and the figure in the mortuary sitting together in a well furnished living room of their own, relaxing in front of the television.

Mrs Pettifer was hesitating. ‘I called the doctor. He’s on his way.’ She looked from Geraldine to the sergeant who was holding the door open for her. Peterson ushered her from the room and closed the door.

Geraldine waited for the sergeant to sit down and take out his note book before she leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘Mrs Cliff?’ No response. ‘Sophie? I’m sorry about Tom.’ Hearing her husband’s name, Sophie Cliff raised her eyes to look straight at Geraldine through the thick lenses of her glasses. Having caught her attention, Geraldine tried a direct question. ‘Mrs Cliff, do you know who left the gas on in your house last night?’ Sophie Cliff didn’t answer. Geraldine took a different tack. ‘Mrs Cliff, Sophie, your husband died in a fire caused by a gas explosion. We want to find out how it happened. We want to know why Tom died.’ Sophie Cliff moaned softly. She began to rock backwards and forwards on the armchair. ‘For the record, can you tell me if you turned the gas on in your kitchen last night, for any reason?’ Geraldine insisted. Sophie Cliff didn’t answer.

‘You work in IT?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. ‘Can you tell me why you were called out last night?’ Sophie Cliff looked blankly at Geraldine. ‘Were you called out to work last night?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. Geraldine adopted a conversational tone. She leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘We know it’s nothing unusual for you to be called out at night. It must be very difficult for you. I sympathise. I know it’s hard driving
when you’ve just woken up. Do you have a routine on such occasions? I know I do. I expect you make yourself a cup of coffee before you go out, to wake yourself up before driving?’

‘Where’s Tom?’ Sophie Cliff’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Geraldine sighed. Dealing with grieving people was the worst part of her job. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, your husband died in the fire.’

‘He wasn’t burned.’

‘No. He was overcome by smoke. He’s dead, Sophie. Tom’s dead.’

‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘What are they doing to him?’

‘He’s still in the mortuary. Do you remember? You saw him there. You identified him. You’ll be able to make the funeral arrangements as soon as we know what happened.’

‘I want to see him. I want him back.’

‘Yes, you’ll be able to see him. You’ll have him back soon, Mrs Cliff.’

‘I want him to come home.’ The last word drew out into a wail. Sophie Cliff started shaking. Geraldine struggled against feeling pity for her. Time was pressing. The first few hours in any investigation were crucial. She had to consider the possibility that Thomas Cliff had been murdered.

‘Sophie, please concentrate. This could be important. We know the explosion was caused by a gas tap left on in your kitchen overnight. We need to find out how that happened. Did you go in your kitchen before you went out last night? Think carefully.’ She paused. Surely the woman wasn’t too far gone to realise the significance of what Geraldine was saying.

‘I went out. I didn’t want to wake Tom. I had to get to work as quickly as possible. I drove…’ Sophie Cliff gave a start and
turned to Geraldine, her face suddenly alive. ‘I know who did it. I saw him.’

‘Was your husband up in the night?’

‘No. I was quiet. I never woke him up.’ Her features changed, suffused with tenderness. She was almost attractive. ‘He was sleeping like a baby. But I saw someone.’ Her face grew taut again. ‘As I was leaving last night.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know who he was. But I’d recognise him anywhere. I’d know his eyes.’

‘Who are you talking about?’ Geraldine was aware of the sergeant, pen poised, staring at Sophie Cliff. ‘Who did you see? Where was he?’ Geraldine felt an impulse to seize the dazed woman by the shoulders and shake her. She gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘As I was driving out of the house, I saw a man. I don’t know who he was. I’d never seen him before. I’d know if I had. I’d recognise that face. He just appeared from nowhere in front of the car. I could see him clearly in the headlights. I nearly ran him over. He just appeared from nowhere and ran right across the drive in front of me. He had horrible eyes, kind of bursting out of his face. I had to swerve to avoid him. I slammed my foot on the brake and skidded into the hedge.’ She stood up, suddenly agitated. If she was fabricating the story to protect herself, it was a convincing act. ‘It was him, wasn’t it? He started the fire.’ She was trembling and her voice rose.