This time they all visibly balked.
‘Our first thought was suicide,’ the sergeant added.
Mariner looked up at him. ‘But you’ve changed your mind.’ He had a sudden unwelcome flashback to several years before, a suburban house and an apparent suicide that had changed his life for ever.
‘The stepdaughter tells us she wasn’t suicidal.’
‘Families always say they’re not suicidal,’ said Knox reasonably.
The sergeant placed another photograph on the desk. This time it was a still life of a collection of items on a table-top; a bunch of flowers, wrapped and awaiting a vase; a grey plastic bottle of the kind that might contain detergent; a Chardonnay bottle and a single wine glass. He pointed to the detergent bottle. ‘This is what killed her. It’s industrial-strength drain fluid, according to the label.’
‘And this stuff would be easy to get hold of?’ Mariner asked.
‘Looks as if it’s the kind of thing you can pick up at any number of DIY stores locally. As you can see, though, only one wine glass, and the wine bottle is empty,’ he said. ‘The stepdaughter also tells us that Mrs Silvero wasn’t a drinker. She wouldn’t drink alone, and she certainly wouldn’t drink a whole bottle herself.’
‘Unless she was plucking up the courage to switch to the other bottle,’ Mariner said, feeling as though he was stating the obvious. ‘People do deviate from their habits -’
‘- and kids don’t always know what their parents get up to,’ added Knox. He spoke from bitter experience. Estranged from his wife for three years now, Mariner knew it grieved his sergeant that he hardly ever saw either of his grown-up children.
‘We also found this.’ With a flourish that suggested he’d saved the best till last, Powell handed Mariner a poly pocket that contained a document. It was a letter headed with the crest of Buckingham Palace, informing Nina Silvero that she had recently been a recipient of the MBE. The date suggested that it had arrived only a few weeks previously. ‘It seemed to me like a weird way to celebrate,’ Powell observed.
‘Not necessarily,’ Mariner began. ‘It could be that -’
But Sharp cut him off. ‘I know it’s not conclusive,’ she admitted. ‘And poisoning’s rare these days, now that we’ve come up with rather more imaginative and convenient ways of killing each other. But I think there’s enough here to keep our minds open until we know more. And until that point is reached I’d like you and DS Knox to take this one on.’
There was something the DCI was keeping to herself here, thought Mariner, studying her face. As he did so the familiar ring of the name crystallised into something more. ‘You said that Mrs Silvero was a widow?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Would that be as in “the widow of a former chief inspector”?’
Sharp had the grace to look uncomfortable, and Mariner wondered at what point she had been going to tell them. ‘She was the widow of Chief Inspector Ronnie Silvero, yes.’
Mariner and Knox exchanged a lengthy glance.
‘I see,’ said Mariner.
‘It genuinely isn’t certain,’ Sharp continued, in self-defence. ‘If it was, believe me, I wouldn’t be prolonging this.’
On balance, Mariner thought that was probably true. One of the first things he’d learned about Sharp was that she wasn’t a bullshitter. The likelihood was that pressure was being applied on her from above. Now, in front of the others, wasn’t the time to broach that one, but he’d raise it with her at some point.
‘And for what it’s worth,’ she added, clinching it for Mariner, ‘Stuart Croghan has serious doubts too.’ The pathologist was an experienced one and had worked with Mariner on numerous cases before. If he was questioning it, then it was good enough for Mariner.
‘You say you’ve spoken to the daughter?’ Mariner asked Powell.
‘Stepdaughter,’ Powell corrected him, ‘and only by proxy. She lives away, so Somerset police broke the news to her and reported back on her initial reaction. She’s driving over with her husband now. They’re going straight to the morgue for the identification. Should be there at any time, so you’ll be able to talk to her.’
‘This Ronnie Silvero, is he the one who . . .?’ Knox began.
‘Conveniently died? Yes, if that’s at all possible,’ Mariner said. ‘Just as he was about to be prosecuted for manslaughter.’
The city mortuary was never a favourite place among police officers, and wasn’t a visit to look forward to. Knowing they wouldn’t have much appetite afterwards, Mariner and Knox stopped on the way to get something to eat. Despite Mariner’s efforts to broaden his DS’s culinary outlook since his arrival in Birmingham several years ago, Knox still resolutely refused anything that had been near garlic for his lunch. ‘A curry after a few pints, like, is fine,’ he was fond of saying. ‘But not in the daytime.’ So today they had detoured via a Greek deli for soup and cheese rolls. While they sat in a lay-by and ate, Mariner filled Knox in on what little he knew about the late Ronnie Silvero.
‘What was the manslaughter for?’ Knox wanted to know.
‘Death of a prisoner in custody,’ Mariner said, through a mouthful. ‘The inquest verdict was unlawful killing, and Silvero as the senior officer was deemed responsible. The CPS had just made the decision to go ahead with the prosecution and were assembling the case, when Silvero keeled over with a heart attack.’
‘So what happened to the case?’
‘Big, fat nothing. Silvero obviously couldn’t stand trial and lesser charges against the other officers were dropped through “insufficient evidence”.’
Mariner’s mobile buzzed again. ‘Christ, what now?’ he muttered, retrieving it. There was another message from Stephanie, asking if she could see him tonight.
Knox was waiting expectantly. ‘Everything all right, boss?’ he asked, when no explanation was forthcoming.
‘Fine,’ said Mariner shortly. ‘I met this woman last night. It was just a casual thing, you know - or at least I thought it was.’
‘You must have made an impression,’ said Knox. ‘Either that or she’s desperate.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You think there was a cover-up because Silvero died?’ Knox asked, as if the interruption had never occurred.
‘That’s what the victim’s family alleged, of course, and who knows?’ Mariner said. ‘They certainly thought he’d got away with murder.’
‘Tough on the grieving widow,’ Knox observed.
‘Yes, but from what I remember, Nina Silvero didn’t fold. I seem to remember some statement when she complained that her husband had been persecuted.’
Finishing his roll, Mariner crumpled the paper bag into a ball and, disposing of the rubbish in the nearest bin, he and Knox made for the city mortuary.
Mariner parked in one of the reserved bays at the end of Newton Street, alongside a modest-sized people carrier with a child seat in it and a sticker in the rear window extolling the virtues of Cheddar Gorge. Nina Silvero’s stepdaughter had already arrived. Mariner and Knox went directly to Croghan’s office, where it was also lunchtime, and they found the pathologist tucking into half a roast-beef baguette. The other half sat on the plate, the rare-meat filling pink and glistening. Mariner didn’t know how he could stomach it. Though he must have been approaching forty, Croghan still looked boyishly young, with keen, dark eyes and his dark hair always fashionably tousled. He had Nina Silvero’s spanking new file open in front of him.
‘What do you think?’ Mariner asked.
Croghan swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this, not first hand anyway. I’ve only read about it in the history books.’
‘This has happened before?’ Knox, like Mariner, was surprised.
‘Not recently, and usually only accidentally,’ Croghan said. ‘Years ago before the advent of safety caps, and when people used noxious ingredients more indiscriminately, you’d occasionally get a child helping themselves to the brightly coloured bottles under mum’s sink. There were some terrible cases, but, like I said, not for years.’
‘And you go along with the theory that this was murder?’ Mariner asked.
‘If Nina Silvero wanted to kill herself, there are much quicker and less painful ways of doing it,’ Croghan pointed out.
‘Would she have realised what she was letting herself in for, though?’
‘Unless you’re pretty sure of your chemistry, drinking noxious substances is always a huge gamble,’ Croghan said.
‘You never quite know what they’ll do. Did Nina Silvero have that kind of background?’
‘Not that we know of.’
‘Well, what killed her in this little cocktail was the sulphuric acid; it’s the most active ingredient among other things. I guess most people would know a little bit about it, but at the same time would be able to roughly predict the kind of effects it might have. Acid burns - most of us know that. Armed with that knowledge I think there are not many folk who would choose to inflict that kind of damage on themselves, not unless they had some kind of weird penitence thing going on.’
‘And that’s why you think this wasn’t suicide?’ It didn’t seem much, Mariner thought.
‘It’s one of the reasons,’ Croghan corrected him. ‘The other thing was the crime scene. It was all a bit too neat, don’t you think?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I saw the body
in situ
, got to look at the scene and presumably you saw the snaps? The wine glass she apparently used was sitting there neatly on the table beside the bottles, which doesn’t add up. When she drank this stuff it would have hit immediately and she would have fallen where she stood. It’s pretty unlikely that Nina Silvero would have had the time or the presence of mind to replace her wine glass tidily back on the table.’
‘She’d have dropped it,’ Mariner said. ‘Or someone took it from her. How much did she swallow?’
‘A couple of mouthfuls would have been enough. Barely any made it as far as her stomach; it would have been absorbed on the way down. Rest of the stomach contents were a pasta-based meal consumed earlier in the evening, but interestingly no trace of the Chardonnay she was meant to have drunk. I hope you’re having that bottle tested.’
‘As we speak,’ said Mariner. ‘At least it looks as if we’re dealing with an amateur here.’
‘Either that or someone in a tearing hurry,’ Croghan said. ‘On the surface it’s designed to look like a straightforward suicide, but it hasn’t really been thought through.’
‘So, if we’re saying this is murder, this is also someone who wanted to make her suffer,’ Mariner said.
‘If they knew what they were doing, yes. I understand it happened not long after she got the call from the palace. Maybe she’s got some jealous friends,’ said Croghan.
‘What about the time of death?’ Mariner wanted to know.
‘It would have been late on Sunday evening.’ Croghan wobbled his head from side to side. ‘Somewhere between eight and midnight.’
A knock on the door interrupted them and one of Croghan’s assistants put her head in. ‘The family are ready,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Kirsty.’ Wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, Croghan got to his feet. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to get Mrs Silvero ready for her close-up.’
At roughly the same time, DC Jamilla Khatoon was sitting in the lobby of Wood Green School. It was a typical inner-city Victorian primary, not dissimilar to the one Millie herself had attended, though, unlike this one, most of her classmates had, like her, been from the Asian sub-continent.
Eventually the school secretary reappeared with Julie-Ann Shore, Lucy Jarrett’s best friend, at her elbow. Julie-Ann was as pretty as her bridesmaid photo; petite, blonde and tanned as a catwalk model, although Millie was surprised that as a teacher she could get away with the low-cut T-shirt and tight trousers she was wearing. One way of encouraging fathers to attend parents evening, she thought. Julie-Ann smiled a white toothy smile and offered Millie a limp handshake. ‘Let’s go down to the classroom,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a few minutes before the little horrors come in from the playground.’
It was a while since Millie had been inside a primary school, and her first impression walking into the classroom was that everything seemed to have shrunk.
‘Do you mind if I carry on with my preparation, only I need to sort out these work sheets?’ Julie-Ann went over to a pile arranged on top of a low cupboard.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Millie, perching on one of the tables, where she couldn’t resist letting her legs swing. ‘I just wondered what you could tell me about Lucy Jarrett. We’re following up on some malicious phone calls she’s been getting.’
‘She’s still getting those?’ Julie-Ann said. ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Anything. First off, can you think of anyone who might want to make her life a misery?’
Julie-Ann looked up. ‘I really can’t, Lucy’s lovely; sweet and caring.’
‘She told you about these calls?’
‘She did mention it, but I didn’t realise what a big deal it was. It was a bit of a joke when she told me - I’ve got a heavy breather, she said. In fact, we laughed about it.’
‘When was this?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
‘And since then?’ Millie asked.
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘How long have you known Lucy?’
‘Oh, since the year dot,’ Julie-Ann began. ‘No, that’s not quite accurate. We met at secondary school.’
‘Which one?’
‘St Felix.’
‘Is that local?’ Millie didn’t know it.
‘Yes, but it’s a private school and it’s pretty small. It’s the one your parents send you to if they want the kudos of an independent, but can’t quite stretch to Edgbaston Girls.’
‘And you made friends with Lucy there. You and Tamsin too?’
Julie-Ann looked up at her.
‘Lucy showed me her wedding photos.’
‘That’s right. The fabulous three.’
‘It sounds like you guys were close,’ Millie said. ‘But when I talked to Lucy yesterday she seemed quite in need of friends.’
‘To be honest, I haven’t seen much of Luce since the wedding,’ Julie-Ann admitted. ‘Newlyweds have better things to do than hang out with their mates, don’t they?’ She raised a suggestive eyebrow at Millie. ‘Babies to make and all that.’
‘It’s possible to do both, surely,’ said Millie, slightly affronted, though she knew Julie-Ann wasn’t being personal.