Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

The kitchen was large enough to hold two large cookers and twin freezers, and an industrial size dishwasher with its front door open revealing a full load of breakfast plates and cups and saucers waiting to be done. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a few dried leaves nestling against the foot of one of the freezers.

The matron noticed Riley’s glance and looked defensive. “The cleaner hasn’t been yet. She takes care of that.”

“What happened, Mrs Marsh?” Riley asked. She reached past the matron and switched off the kettle. Mrs Marsh stirred herself and began to make the tea.

“I just…. found him,” she said, replacing the teapot lid with a clatter. “After your call.” Her eyes welled and Riley guessed she was terrified that she was going to be held professionally responsible for Page’s death. She felt sorry for her — there was no accounting for one of your patients suddenly becoming a target on someone’s death list.

“He was dead,” she continued. “Just like that. No warning at all.”

“Was there normally one — a warning, I mean?” Riley asked. For a moment she had a grisly image of inmates filling out a departure card before they could pass on to the next life.

Mrs March shook her head, turning to pour the tea.

“How healthy was he?” Riley asked.

“As fit as you or me,” the matron said firmly, pushing a cup and saucer towards Riley. “He may have been confined to his room — voluntarily, I might add — but there was nothing really wrong with him. Physically, anyway.”

“Physically?”

Mrs Marsh shrugged. “The problem was all up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I don’t mean the sex thing, either.” She looked up at Riley and pulled a face. “Well, you know how some old men get.”

Riley didn’t, but she could guess.

“So what did he die of?”

Mrs Marsh held her cup and stared at the tiny bubbles moving slowly round on the surface. In the street a car horn sounded.

“What killed him, Mrs Marsh?” Riley repeated. There wasn’t much time left.

Mrs Marsh’s eyes suddenly filled with something other than professional concern, and she turned and placed the cup on the work-surface. She took a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose.

“Natural causes, of course,” she replied defensively. “Mr Page wasn’t unwell, but he wasn’t strong, either.” Her words sounded unconvincing.

“May I see him?”

The matron looked horrified at the idea. Then, to Riley’s surprise she nodded with something approaching eagerness. “Yes. I suppose so. But you mustn’t touch anything.”

Riley followed her from the kitchen past heavy pieces of utilitarian furniture dark with age and shiny with polishing. Up stairs lined with thick carpeting and lit by an art-deco window showing wan fairies hovering over large, colourful lupins. The air was musty and over-warm with a heady tang of air-freshener.

The room was cooler than Riley had expected, and if there was any smell lingering here, it was of aftershave. The furniture was simple and practical, and if Page had wanted any personal touches, his wishes had either been ignored or he had no family, no interests and no artistic feelings. It was more of a cell than a home.

The form under the duvet was smaller than she had expected, too. Whatever Page had been in life, he had not been very imposing immediately before or after death.

Mrs Marsh lifted the duvet and revealed the dead man’s face. It was little more than a mask, neither good looking nor evil. There was no obvious sign that his death had been anything but natural, and Riley felt a small twinge of disappointment.

“I came up after your call and checked on him,” said Mrs Marsh quietly. “He was fine, I’m sure… apart from his pillow on the floor. I left it to go back down to get his medicine. He was such a light sleeper.”

Riley looked down to where the pillow had fallen to the floor between the bed and the window. As she bent to pick it up she noticed a large indentation in the fabric. As she placed the pillow on the bed Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She held her hand above the pillow, fingers spread wide. The indentation was much bigger than her hand, but followed the same outline, with clear impressions of thumb and fingers.

She picked it up again, this time by sliding her hand beneath it. There was a damp patch in the centre on the other side. The old man must have drooled on it. Or coughed. The thought made her nauseous.

Mrs Marsh seemed unaware of anything, her eyes dull with shock. One thing Riley was sure of was that while the matron had followed instructions about restricting access to Page while he was alive, she had taken no part in his death.

“You’re certain no one else has been in here?” she asked carefully. “In the last few hours, for example. When did you last see him alive — for certain?”

Mrs Marsh hesitated momentarily before shaking her head. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “Probably last night, when I gave him his last dose. But those leaves you noticed downstairs? They were there when I woke up this morning… in the hallway. The back door must have been left open.” She looked away guiltily.

Before Riley could say anything, a vehicle drew to a halt outside.

“It’s the ambulance,” the matron explained. She glanced towards the door, stopping Riley before she could move. “The doors make a special sound… you get used to it in this job. You won’t say anything, will you — about being in here? I could lose my job. They’re clamping down on security now.” Her eyes looked imploringly at Riley, desperate for the whole thing to go away. Yet even she must have known it was not as simple as that.

“I won’t say a word, Mrs Marsh,” Riley assured her. “But I think you’ll have to. They’re bound to do a post-mortem.”

Riley suspected that while Mrs Marsh might have taken some financial favour here and there to give special consideration to a resident, going against the law by covering up what she suspected to be a death from unnatural causes was beyond her.

She put a hand on the matron’s arm. “Mrs Marsh. Were you expecting him to die?”

The woman shook her head. “No. He was weak, of course, but not terminally ill.” She looked beseechingly at Riley. “Who could have done such a thing?”

Without waiting for a reply she left the room and went downstairs to admit the ambulance crew. The moment she was out of sight, Riley went through the bedside cabinet, but it was devoid of any papers save for some cheap books and magazines. Evidently anything of a personal nature had been cleared out. She checked the cabinet over the sink but that revealed no helpful clues, either. And no aftershave.

There wasn’t time to get Palmer in here to take a look; he’d have to rely on her observations. She followed Mrs Marsh downstairs. A private ambulance stood near the front door and one of the crew was just entering. Mrs Marsh’s voice floated out from inside, giving directions, telling them to mind the furniture. She sounded more in control now she was on familiar ground.

Palmer was leaning against the car smoking, with the cat they had seen earlier winding its way round his ankles. When he saw Riley he flicked the cigarette into the hedge and shooed the cat away before sliding into the rear seat. “Any luck?”

Riley shook her head and tossed her shoulder bag into the back. “He’s dead. The matron’s terrified and thinks he was helped along. So do I.” She explained about the indentations in the pillow and the leaves lying around inside.

“Convenient,” Palmer muttered bluntly. “Any chance she deliberately left the door unlocked?”