Death Rope Page 4

  Her first task was to read all the reports of the incident. Returning home from the shops, Charlotte had discovered her husband’s body hanging in the hall. With the help of the gardener she had tried to release her husband from the noose, but she had been too upset to be much use and he had struggled to both support the body and cut it down by himself. It wasn’t until the police reached the scene that the body had been successfully lowered to the floor. That much was uncontentious. The doctor judged Mark had been dead for at least an hour by the time his wife had come home and found him which meant he must have hung himself as soon as she had driven away. That seemed to confirm that he had committed suicide, waiting only for his wife to leave the house before taking action.

  The scene itself had been subjected to forensic examination. No sign of a struggle had been found, nor any evidence that anyone else had been in the house at the time of the hanging. CCTV footage from the local supermarket confirmed that Charlotte had been out shopping for at least an hour, coinciding with the time that her husband was at home dying. The dead man had been suspended from a brand new rope, which he was presumed to have purchased expressly for the purpose of killing himself. So far the purchase of the rope had not been traced, but that meant nothing. Anyone could buy a length of rope from a hardware store or garden centre, anonymously, for cash.

  Not only was there a lack of evidence to suggest anyone else had been present at the hanging, but the final piece of evidence that had put an end to the enquiry was that the victim had left a suicide note which appeared to wrap up the case. When she tried to track it down and look at it for herself, Geraldine learned that it had been returned to his widow.

  8

  This time, the widow looked anxious to see her, rather than surprised.

  ‘Have you found out anything?’ she asked straight away. Her face was blotchy and she looked as though she hadn’t slept for a while.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Charlotte’s stepson was sitting in the front room. He looked sullen rather than upset.

  ‘I’d like you to leave my mother alone,’ he said. ‘She’s been through a lot.’

  ‘Be quiet, Eddy,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘I want to hear what she’s found out.’

  ‘There’s nothing to find out. Someone’s persuaded my stepmother that my father didn’t kill himself. It’s understandable, but she has to stop grasping at straws. It’ll be better for all of us in the long run if we face up to the truth and come to terms with it.’

  ‘We don’t know the truth,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Of course we do. Anything else is just prolonging the agony. We have to accept what happened, and do our best to deal with it. In private,’ he added, scowling at Geraldine.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ she said, ‘and I’m afraid I haven’t brought you any news. But I’d like to talk to you if I may.’

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve been going over and over what you said, and I think you could be right. There’s more to it than they say.’ She stared intently at Geraldine. ‘You don’t believe Mark killed himself, do you? It’s just that –’ she hesitated, struggling to explain herself. ‘I’m not sure I really believe it. Mark always looked after himself.’

  Eddy growled incomprehensibly.

  Geraldine sighed. It would be cruel to lead the poor woman on. ‘Honestly, I’ve no idea. I wasn’t involved in the initial investigation. I assure you this is just a routine enquiry, in preparation for the inquest.’

  That was a lie, but she couldn’t think what else to say to explain her interest in the death without raising false expectations. It was terrible to think that it would be easier for the widow to cope with the thought that her husband had been murdered than that he had committed suicide, but anything must be preferable to believing someone you loved had taken their own life.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered. ‘The last thing I want to do is cause you any more distress.’

  ‘Leave us alone then,’ Eddy said.

  Privately Geraldine thought Charlotte’s son was right. It was time to stop. She could no longer remember exactly what had brought her there to intrude on the family’s grief. On the strength of a vague hunch, based on a couple of unsubstantiated comments, she was opening up wounds that were better left alone. She was about to stand up, when Eddy spoke again.

  ‘Look,’ he said, relenting. ‘I know you’re just doing your job and you want to help us. But there’s nothing you or anyone else can do. It is what it is. The inquest is going to be difficult enough as it is. But the harsh reality is that my father, for whatever reason we don’t know, decided to do what he did. He even left a note.’

  Geraldine nodded. Having concluded that she would back off, she couldn’t ignore the opening that Eddy had inadvertently given her. Cautiously she reiterated her condolences, and her regret at having to raise the issue at all.

  ‘But it would be helpful if I could have a look at the note your father wrote.’

  Charlotte left the room and returned a few moments later, clutching an envelope. Belatedly, Geraldine slipped it into an evidence bag. It was frustrating trying to piece together an incident after the event. She was accustomed to attending the scene of a death promptly, able to examine all the evidence first-hand. Studying other people’s reports was a clumsy way of approaching a potential crime scene. She already knew the suicide note had not been examined by a forensic handwriting officer. Clearly the investigating team hadn’t thought it worthwhile, since the note had been typed on Mark’s laptop at home and printed out on the printer in his office. Apart from the scrawl which served as a signature there were no other distinguishing features to the note which was worded quite simply and clearly, merely stating that he was ending his life. He gave no reason.

  After promising to return the note as soon as she could, instead of going home she went back into the police station.

  ‘Working late?’ the duty sergeant greeted her.

  She smiled, pleased to see Ted on the desk. ‘Just a few odds and ends to tidy up.’

  ‘And they can’t wait until morning?’

  ‘Well yes, they could, but I was passing and thought I’d just pop in and finish off.’

  For an instant, Geraldine wasn’t sure whether his curiosity was intrusive, but she decided he was just being friendly. It must be her own concern that she was pursuing this death too far that was making her uneasy. With a quick smile at him, she hurried into the open-plan office and over to her desk. A couple of other officers were working late, but no one else took any notice of her as she sat down and opened up her iPad to study the report into the suicide note again. The envelope and its contents had already been examined. It was frustrating, but the only fingerprints discernible on the paper belonged to Charlotte herself. Other than that, there were a few smudges that appeared to have been made by at least one person wearing gloves. She double checked to confirm that the dead man had not been wearing gloves, although that wasn’t significant because he had printed out the note a week before his death. At any rate, the absence of his prints or even of his DNA on the paper was deemed to be inconclusive by the team who had conducted the initial investigation.

  ‘You’d think he would have breathed on it, at least,’ Geraldine muttered to herself.

  One of her colleagues was passing her desk. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.’

  He laughed. ‘You know what they say about people who talk to themselves?’

  Geraldine smiled. ‘They have no friends,’ she thought. Aloud she replied, ‘It’s the first sign of madness?’

  Her colleague grinned and returned to his own desk. Geraldine looked down. She hadn’t intended to voice her thoughts aloud. It was too late to do anything more about the note that night, so she printed out as many copies of the dead man’s signature as she could trace on official documents, and slipped the samples into an evidence bag along with the suicide note. Over the weekend, she would try to see what, if anyt
hing, might be discovered from further examination of the note. With that, she packed up her bag and went home. It had been an inconclusive lead. Wherever she turned, the report into Mark’s suicide seemed to raise more questions than it answered.

  9

  Although Geraldine was close to her sister, Celia, she felt hemmed in whenever she visited her. However long she stayed, Celia never wanted her to leave. It was tough for both of them, but Geraldine could never fill the void left in Celia’s life by their mother’s death. One day they would discuss the impact of their mother’s death on both of them, but not yet. It was tricky, as Celia was their mother’s natural daughter, and Geraldine had been adopted. Only as an adult had Geraldine finally met her birth mother and learned that she had an identical twin. She hadn’t yet mentioned her birth sister to Celia. Geraldine told herself that she was avoiding the subject out of consideration for Celia’s feelings, but in reality she knew she was keen to escape an emotional confrontation with her adopted sister. The longer she procrastinated, the trickier it became to bring up the subject.

  Visiting her birth twin posed a different kind of challenge. Geraldine had arranged to spend that weekend in London. Arriving around midday on Saturday, she would take her twin sister out for an early lunch. It wasn’t a meeting she was looking forward to with any pleasure. She was never quite sure what kind of greeting she would receive. As a recovering heroin addict, Helena needed more support than Geraldine was able to offer her from a distance, but she did as much as she could. To her relief, one of her former colleagues, Sam, had agreed to keep an eye on Helena, which meant she hopefully wasn’t feeling completely abandoned. But whatever Geraldine did, Helena always seemed ready to give her a hard time.

  ‘I’d rather face a difficult witness any day,’ Geraldine complained to Sam. ‘I can keep my temper with just about anyone else, but Helena always manages to get under my skin.’

  Sam laughed. ‘That’s sisters for you. Everyone thinks my sister’s lovely but –’ she made a sound somewhere between a groan and a snort.

  ‘I don’t think that’s it. I mean, I’m not like that with Celia, and I grew up with her,’ Geraldine protested, citing her adopted sister as evidence that their inability to get on had nothing to do with Helena being her sister.

  Sam was forced to concede. ‘Well, she is a difficult character, but just look what she’s been through.’

  ‘I know, and I’m not blaming her. I just wish she’d cut me a bit of slack.’

  ‘It must be tough,’ Sam sympathised. ‘I do wonder why she’s like that, when you’re so generous to her. I don’t know if I would have your patience.’

  Geraldine sighed. ‘There but for the grace of God and all that. Besides, I promised my dying mother I’d look after Helena. I do little enough for her really.’

  Their relationship was fraught with unspoken recriminations. Sometimes Geraldine wanted to yell at Helena. It wasn’t Geraldine’s fault she had done nothing to support her sister before their mother’s death. Only in a letter from their dying mother had Geraldine learned of Helena’s existence. Since then, she had done her best to help her sister but, far from being grateful, if anything Helena seemed to resent Geraldine’s assistance. On this occasion Geraldine’s reservations turned out to be well founded.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ Helena whined as they sat down to lunch. ‘You’ve got a job and a home –’

  ‘You’ve got a home.’

  Reluctant to argue with her sister, Geraldine refrained from retaliating to Helena’s barbed comments by pointing out that it was only thanks to her that Helena had been able to stay in her flat at all.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ she said instead, in an attempt to change the subject.

  She knew her twin well enough to understand that Helena wanted to make out she was hard done by, in an attempt to wheedle more money out of her. It was galling as Geraldine already paid Helena’s rent and felt she was good enough to her, but she was desperate to keep her twin happy and stable, to prevent her running back to her former associates. Giving up heroin was hard enough. Being forced to turn her back on everyone she had ever known must have made it even more difficult.

  ‘Has Sam been to see you?’ she asked brightly.

  Helena merely grunted. Geraldine knew her former colleague had visited her twin several times. Unwilling to admit she wasn’t totally alone, nevertheless Helena could hardly deny it. She must realise that Geraldine would hear about it from Sam.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ Geraldine asked finally, as they finished their lunch.

  Helena promptly reeled off a list of things she needed for her flat. Listening, Geraldine felt an unexpected wave of pity for her twin. Apart from the rent, her demands were pathetically modest. Geraldine nodded. It was an unspoken agreement between them that Geraldine would buy things for her twin, but she flatly refused to hand her any cash.

  ‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’ Helena grumbled. ‘After all this time. What the fuck do I have to do to get you to see I’m a reformed character? I’m never touching that shit again, not for no money.’

  Despite Helena’s complaints, Geraldine was hugely relieved to see that her twin had put on weight, making the resemblance between them more pronounced than before. When they had first met, at their mother’s funeral, Helena had been skeletal. Now her cheeks had filled out and the bones and tendons in her hands were no longer so pronounced. Her teeth remained stained and broken, and her skin was as blemished as before, but it was obvious now that they had been born identical. As usual, Geraldine felt an overwhelming feeling of regret at the estrangement that persisted between them, despite her efforts to draw closer to Helena. She wasn’t sure what more she could do to help her sister. It seemed that whatever she did would never be enough. For all that Helena whinged about her having moved to York, Geraldine suspected they would have fallen out by now had she lived in London. It was sad, but some relationships only worked at a distance.

  ‘I’ll come and see you again as soon as I can. And in the meantime, if there’s anything you need, you can call me, or speak to Sam.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ Pulling on her jacket, Helena didn’t even look up.

  After lunch, Geraldine had arranged to meet a forensic handwriting analyst for a drink. She had worked with Sandra Bentley before and had been impressed with her acumen. It was an added benefit of her trip to London that she could consult a handwriting expert in her own time without anyone in York knowing about it.

  ‘This is off the record, right?’ Sandra asked her when they had exchanged greetings.

  Geraldine looked at Sandra’s broad fleshy face and hesitated. ‘Yes and no,’ she hedged.

  Sandra arched her neatly pencilled eyebrows.

  ‘I’m following something up in my own time,’ Geraldine explained. ‘So there’s no need for any formal record of our discussion.’ She paused.

  ‘So, off the record then?’

  Geraldine shrugged and returned Sandra’s smile. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘So, what have you got for me? I hope it’s a good sample.’

  Geraldine took the suicide note out of the evidence bag, together with another sample of Mark Abbott’s signature.

  ‘I need to know if this is a forgery,’ she said, pointing to the suicide note.

  Sandra’s eyebrows rose again when she saw what Geraldine had brought for her to examine. ‘Is this all you have?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘The problem is, it’s very difficult to say much with any certainty, given such a small sample. You’ve given me nothing much to compare with, and a signature can easily be forged. These aren’t even written on similar paper, and the ink isn’t the same either.’ She held up the suicide note. ‘This was written with a cheap biro.’ She indicated another signature. ‘The nib used here was thicker.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sandra stared closely at the various samples, first with her eyes and then t
hrough a microscope.

  ‘If you had to write a report stating whether or not you thought this was a forgery, what would you say?’ Geraldine pressed her.

  ‘The pressure of the strokes is considerable in the alleged suicide note,’ Sandra said, ‘but that’s probably not significant if they were written at different times. And if this is a genuine suicide note, the writer might well have been stressed at the time of writing, which would also affect the way he signed his name. The slant of the strokes looks similar, the base of the letters are aligned more or less the same, and the size of the letters is almost identical which means we can measure the spacing between the letters.’ She took out a ruler and using the microscope made some detailed measurements. ‘The height relationship between the letters is more or less the same, and the connectors and loops are almost identical. No one replicates their own signature every time they write it.’

  ‘What does that mean in layman’s terms?’ Geraldine asked impatiently.

  ‘Forgers tend to write shakily, with slight tremors and blots, rather like elderly people. This signature,’ Sandra pointed to the suicide note, ‘looks quite steady and confident, suggesting it wasn’t forged. Of course the writer might have practised until he or she could reproduce the signature closely enough without any wobbles.’

  ‘So do you think it’s a forgery, or not?’

  Sandra shook her head. ‘Honestly, it’s impossible to say. This is far too small a sample, and if it is a forgery, it’s too skilled to detect. It could be genuine, or it could be a decent copy of the original signature.’