Yesterday morning Anna had been woken by the arrival of Garbutt’s car, the sound of voices. Conway told her about the fruit, the present of jam. She had insisted on getting up to thank Garbutt herself.
The pathologist was of the opinion that Anna had died around an hour to an hour and a half after swallowing the drugs and the chocolate drink. The delay had in all probability been deliberate, to allow the medication time to take effect, so that when she did step into the bath she would feel no disabling agitation, would be able to deal calmly enough with the unpleasant business of slitting her wrists.
Kelsey cast his mind back to the estimated time of death given to them by the police doctor summoned to Ferndale. It was scarcely ever possible to be precise in such matters but in the case of Anna Conway it was particularly difficult. The bathroom was heated, the body had lain a considerable time in water at first hot, gradually cooling. The doctor’s best estimate – and it could be no more than a very rough estimate, he strongly emphasized – was that death had occurred between eight and eleven on Monday morning.
The Chief was very much inclined to put the time of death towards the latter rather than the earlier part of this three-hour period. It had been a dark morning. There had been no light on in the bathroom when Garbutt kicked the door in. Anna would surely have switched the light on if she’d gone into the bathroom before nine-thirty or ten. Kelsey couldn’t see a young woman like Anna Conway taking her life in the dark.
It was well after one o’clock when Detective Sergeant Lambert drove the Chief over to Ferndale to give Conway the results of the autopsy. The Chief had eaten nothing since a sketchy breakfast; post-mortems always destroyed his appetite.
He gazed unseeingly out as they drove through the spectacular colours of the autumn landscape. A fair proportion of self-inflicted deaths would appear to be unintentional, the attempt being in the nature of a cry for help, made in the sure confidence of being found in time, dragged back from the brink. But some accident, some chance or whim takes a hand. The person cast all unknowing in the role of rescuer doesn’t behave as expected. He meets a friend, stops for a chat. He is seized by hunger or thirst, he steps into a cafe. Or he merely catches a later bus than usual. The door opens too late, there is no rescue.
Then there was the other group, where the attempt was far removed from any kind of play-acting, very serious indeed, the would-be suicide making absolutely certain of not being found too early, not being dragged back, carefully choosing a time when there was no chance whatever of that door opening.
It seemed to Kelsey that Anna Conway’s death fell unmistakably into that second category.
When they reached Ferndale Kelsey got out of the car and paused before pressing the doorbell. He glanced round the garden. It wore a melancholy appearance: ragged clumps of old perennials, untidy borders. A wheelbarrow half full of clippings was visible over by the shrubbery. On the ground beside it lay a billhook and a pair of shears.
Conway answered their ring at the door. He had been in the kitchen, clearing away the remains of a late lunch. He looked drained and apathetic but in control of himself.
He offered them coffee, asked if they had eaten – it wouldn’t take him many minutes to knock up a few sandwiches. He couldn’t offer them a drink, he didn’t touch alcohol himself, never kept any in the house.
Kelsey declined the offer of sandwiches but would be glad of coffee. Conway carried the tray along to the sitting room. He saw Kelsey’s eye rest on the photograph of Anna on the mantelpiece.
‘That was taken on our honeymoon.’ Conway’s voice strove for composure. ‘We had a week by the sea in February.’ He mentioned a sheltered resort on the south coast. He looked across at the photograph. ‘It was taken in one of those instant photo booths. That was the best one of her, I had it enlarged.’ He handed round the coffee.
As Kelsey gave him the results of the autopsy Conway sat in silence, his head lowered. He looked up when the Chief had finished; distress showed clearly in his face.
‘What time do you believe Anna took the pills?’ His tone was urgent and unsteady. ‘Do you think it was soon after I left the house?’ A terrible thing to have to live with, Sergeant Lambert thought: someone so close to you on the very brink of self-destruction, but you noticed nothing out of the ordinary, you kissed her goodbye and went blithely off for the day, leaving her in that dreadful state of despair, utterly alone.
The Chief did his best to let Conway down gently. ‘There’s no reason to suppose it was soon after you left.’ He explained in greater detail why it was impossible to be exact about timing. ‘It could have been as late as nine-thirty when she took the tablets. She may have gone back to bed after you left. She could have dozed off, had a bad dream, perhaps, or woken in a fit of panic. She could have made her decision on a sudden impulse that you couldn’t possibly have foreseen.’
The Chief shook his head. ‘No way you can get inside someone else’s head, fathom out their thought processes, however close you are to them. It does no good at all to start blaming yourself. There was no reason why you should have been able to guess what was in the wind.’
Conway’s expression lightened fractionally.
‘We’ll let you know when the inquest’s to be held,’ Kelsey went on, adding that in all probability the body would at that time be released for burial.
He asked about Anna’s parents and relatives. Did they live locally? Had they been informed of her death? Was there any way the police could help over that?
‘I’m afraid I don’t know about any relatives. None at all.’ Conway’s voice shook. ‘I don’t even know where Anna came from, where she lived as a child. She wasn’t in touch with any of her family while I knew her. She would never talk about them. I don’t even know if her parents are alive.’
He drew a trembling breath. ‘As far as I could make out, she must have left home a few years back. I’ve no idea what the trouble was, she never spoke of it.’
He looked earnestly across at the Chief. ‘I’m pretty sure the family situation, whatever it was, was at the bottom of her depression. I tried to get her to talk about it, I tried several times. I was sure it would help her, even if she found it painful. But she would never open up about it. She wanted to forget it completely. She was adamant about that.’
‘We may need to get in touch with you again over the next day or two,’ Kelsey said. ‘There are always some points that need clearing up. When are you likely to be at home? What’s the situation about your job?’
Conway told them he had spoken to Zodiac on the phone. They had been very understanding. He looked at Kelsey, his eyes full of pain. ‘I didn’t explain what had happened. All I told them was that my wife had died suddenly. I couldn’t face going into details. They were very kind, they didn’t ask any questions. I asked them not to say anything about it for the present to any of the workforce.’ He drew another shuddering breath. ‘The thought of being asked about it, people being sympathetic—’ He shook his head. ‘It would be more than I could stand right now.’
He had told Zodiac he wouldn’t be working today and that he would probably have to take more time off in the immediate future. But he was anxious to get back to work as soon as possible.
‘I’ve been trying to do a bit of gardening,’ he told Kelsey, ‘but it doesn’t occupy my mind. And being here, on the premises, doesn’t help. Being out at work would be a lot better.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Some kind of normal routine, being out and about all day, that would help me to stop thinking, force me to concentrate on what I was doing.’ And he had a list of appointments, customers expecting him, he never liked letting folk down.
If it was all right with the Chief Inspector he’d like to go back to work in the morning. He would be at home