River Deep by Priscilla Masters Page A

Dickensian interior, with an oak dresser hung with gaudy Welsh mugs, a log fire, chintz sofa, Christmas tree spangling in the corner. It had been the last Christmas she had shared with Martin and she had known it would be. Maybe it was that that had seared the Greetings Card picture into her brain. A lost idealism. A tragedy about to happen. Giving warning.
    Closing her eyes for no more than a fraction of a second, only a long blink, she recaptured the terrible longing of that moment, that Martin would somehow, miraculously, not die.
    “What a difference a couple of feet of water makes,” Alex said, smashing into her thoughts with an observation. “And we don’t even know when it’ll be safe for the inhabitants to return.” He sighed. “Despite today’s sunshine more rain is threatened – particularly over the Welsh hills. And we all know where that ends up.”
    Martha cleared her throat. “So where exactly was the body lying when Coleman first saw it?”
    He covered the space to a door in the corner in three giant steps and pulled it open. Instantly the dank smell rolled up like a London smog. “These steps lead to the cellar,” he said, flashing his torch downwards. “The body hadbeen dumped down there. It moved up when the waters rose and pushed the door open. The door opens inwards. Poor Coleman. He won’t recover from that in a hurry.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    How quickly normality descends.
    She was at the top of the cellar steps now, peering down. “So what was in there?”
    “Nothing. We’ve scoured it. No knife. No wallet. No mobile phone.”
    “No wine, no fuse box?”
    He flashed the torch on her face.
    “There would have been no reason for Humphreys to go down there,” she explained. “Did he even know there
was
a cellar?”
    “Yes. He admitted it.”
    “Hmm. And was there anything else to find?”
    “Nothing down here.”
    “And in the rest of the house?” She was anxious to leave the cellar, close the door.
    “Various belongings. A smart suit laid out on the upstairs bed, as though Mr Humphreys was planning on going somewhere.
    “Or had just arrived in from work and got changed.”
    Randall agreed.
    “And I suppose he wouldn’t have realised the implication of the river rising.”
    “Possibly not, not being a native of Shrewsbury.”
    “Have you any idea who the dead man is yet?”
    “Not a clue. No one else has been missing from the garage. We even took Humphreys down to the morgue to view the body but he couldn’t enlighten us.” A brief pause. “Or at least that’s what he
said
.”
    “Oh? Should I be reading something more into this?”
    Alex half turned back towards the light. New lines wereengraved between nose and mouth. Joined by recent frown lines. “You know me, Martha. Everyone lies.”
    Maybe it was a hint towards his personal life. But if it was she could not interpret it.
    Tacitly moving together they emerged outside, in the fresh, chilled air. Alex locked the door behind him.
    “And where is Mrs Humphreys now?”
    “They’re booked in to the Prince Rupert. It’s not really anything to do with us after that. A domestic.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Randall laughed – almost coyly – and she caught sight of very white, very healthy teeth. “The friend he’s been staying with is a female, a receptionist from the garage.”
    Martha felt her eyebrows lift. “And what exactly was his story?” They were walking through the gloom, up the steps, back towards the orange lights of the lamp-posts which lined the English Bridge.
    “He said he’d been advised to leave Marine Terrace on Sunday – about five in the evening – by our boys who were putting out the warning that the river was rising. Interestingly this is exactly true. We were warning people then. Marine Terrace is one of the first places to get flooded. However the two officers in charge of the area near the English Bridge -”
    “Roberts and Coleman.”
    “Exactly. They don’t remember anyone