11/26/2018
Coroner Martha Gunn and Det. Insp. Alex Randall have a solid working relationship, though their personal friendship is a bit trickier, as shown in Masters’s unsettling and underwhelming seventh mystery set in Shrewsbury, England (after 2015’s Recalled to Death). As Martha admits to herself, they are “much closer than was right and proper for a widowed coroner and a married policeman.” When Alex’s wife takes a fatal fall down the stairs under suspicious circumstances, he’s relieved of his duties, and Martha must investigate alone the perplexing suicide of Gina Marconi. Why would beautiful and successful Gina kill herself on the eve of her wedding to a celebrated journalist? A short while later, 12-year-old Patrick Elson jumps to his death from a highway overpass. At one point, while seeking a link between the two cases, Martha puts herself in danger with no backup, but Alex shows up in the nick of time to save her. The potential for a full-blown romance between the protagonists overshadows the twisted machinations behind the suicides. This one’s for series fans only. Agent: Juliet Burton, Juliet Burton Literary (U.K.). (Feb.)
Bridge of Sighs
Narrated by Patricia Gallimore
Priscilla MastersUnabridged — 10 hours, 2 minutes
Bridge of Sighs
Narrated by Patricia Gallimore
Priscilla MastersUnabridged — 10 hours, 2 minutes
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Overview
Editorial Reviews
"Another strong procedural in this consistently entertaining series that will appeal to those who look for multifaceted female sleuths"
"Another strong procedural in this consistently entertaining series that will appeal to those who look for multifaceted female sleuths"
2018-11-13
A coroner faces the toughest case of her life.
Since Martha Gunn avoids watching the news on her time off, she's taken aback when DI Alex Randall arrives at her office first thing Monday to discuss a suicide. Gina Marconi, a beautiful, successful lawyer with a young son, was about to marry renowned reporter Julius Zedanski. Why would she drive straight into a wall at 60 miles per hour in the middle of the night? She left no note, and Martha wonders what could have driven her to suicide. She's used to bouncing ideas off Randall, whose longtime friendship with her borders on a romance that can never blossom because he's married to Erica, a mentally disturbed woman he feels obliged to care for. Randall calls about another suicide after 12-year-old Patrick Elson jumps off a bridge onto a major highway. A clever boy with everything to look forward to, he was a bit of a geek who may have been bullied. Martha, who suspects that the cases are related, is busy conducting interviews when a third death sends her into a panic. Erica Randall's fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, and Alex is being questioned by his fellow officers. Knowing that she can't act as coroner on a case involving Alex, Martha asks another coroner to take over. But she's still desperate to find proof of his innocence, a tough task in the absence of witnesses. Doggedly investigating, Martha comes up with some clues that promise to lead to both a conclusion and a peck of trouble for the investigator.
The latest of Masters' character-driven procedurals (The Devil's Chair, 2014, etc.) holds your attention from the first chapter to the last.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940177415192 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Soundings, Limited |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2020 |
| Series: | Martha Gunn , #7 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Friday, 10 March, 3 a.m.
Now!
It was the middle of the night when Gina finally realized that this was the time. She sat bolt upright in bed, for now giving up even the idea of sleep.
Terence would be deeply asleep; he would not wake. She threw back the duvet, her thoughts racing towards their conclusion. She had been moving towards this point ever since ... In the darkened room she blinked back a tear for what might have been. Ever since. The bolt of realization had found its target. She had known there was no escape and now she had reached the end of the line. With her analytical brain she had explored every single possible escape route and found none. She had explored every possible route, thinking up explanations, justifications ... but in the end she had known there was no way through. It was a blind ending. Softly she stepped out of bed. She didn't want to take the chance that he would wake. That would have twisted the knife too far. She slipped her track suit on. Every night it had been laid out, ready for the moment. After a swift glance at the screen she flipped her phone back on to the bedside table and padded out through the bedroom door, pausing for just a minute outside her son's bedroom. There was not a sound. She couldn't even hear him breathing. She pressed the palm of her hand to the door, as though it had palm recognition and would swing open. She was tempted, even now, to open it, to check he was still alive. But she knew he would be. She knew he would be OK. Better without the shadow she would have cast over his life. She now pressed her face to the panel painted Terence's Room and kissed it. 'Be happy,' she whispered. 'Have a good life, better than mine. Goodbye, my darling. I love you more than you can ever know. Believe me. And this is why I go.'
She hadn't left a note for her mother. For her to understand the full story would be to drag her into the slurry pit that her life would become if she stayed. It was not a choice. Not her choice anyway. She must go, vanish. She had no option.
She told herself this on every step as she descended the stairs, each step taking her farther away from her life until at the bottom she felt she was already in freefall. She let herself out through the front door, closing it behind her with the softest of clicks. And now she was outside in the cold clear night of early March. She could see stars above, identified the Plough, maybe Cassiopeia. No time to search for the rest. No time left at all. Her car was already facing down the drive in readiness. She had known as she had driven home from work and manoeuvred the three-point turn that this would be her last night on earth.
She eased herself into the driver's seat, buckled up and started the engine. If she could have done that quietly she would have, but engines make their own noise. They do not alter through grief or exuberance. There is no volume control on the internal combustion engine.
She had reconnoitred her spot too, driving along the A528 north out of Shrewsbury, knowing the road to be winding and in some parts treacherous. In fact, ideal. She had found her blind bend with a wall ahead. Perfect.
Driving through the still night she encountered few cars. One or two making their way home after a night shift, another heading into work for a very early shift. She passed them, envying them their ordinary, un-dramatic lives, their futures, their having somewhere to go whereas she had nowhere. Except the wall.
She sensed when she was nearing the spot. And then she saw it, the road sign heralding a sharp and dangerous bend. TAKE CARE, it advised in bold letters. She smiled. She would.
She had worked it all out step by step. Almost a week before she had explored all the possibilities to see if there was a way out, looking at each alternative from every angle, using her lawyer's brain to search for that chink of light. But her conclusion had been inescapable.
She must not survive.
For a moment her thoughts veered towards self-pity. Why me? In the end she had answered this one too. Because you earned it. You popped your head above the parapet, became successful, wealthy, famous, one blessed by the gods. And you wonder why you got targeted? Don't forget, little Gina, those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. She smiled. The real answer was not madness but visibility. She had become visible and attracted attention. A high-vis person. A target. And now the only way to stop herself from being the bull's-eye was to exist no more, to remove herself body and soul.
But the word 'soul' had uncomfortable connotations. It had conjured up her mother – mouth open, her tongue ready to receive the sacrament, head scarfed as she prayed. She seemed to look straight into those warm green eyes, kind eyes, the salt and pepper hair and the stoop which was a recent acquisition and gave the only clue to her age. Her mother was an Irish Catholic who believed as firmly in the soul as she did in hell and purgatory. Gina shivered. What if her mother was right?
Suicide was a sin. Destroying what God had created.
She was there. A jumble of thoughts pushed her foot further down on the accelerator, underlining her determination. There was no alternative. The Information Super Highway – she was zooming along it and the road pretty fast. As she released her seat belt only one thought snagged her brain: Terence. And yet even now, at the back of her mind, was the sweetness of stolen honey. Then resolutely she gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles shone like moonbeams. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, pressed her right foot down to the floor and waited for the impact, hearing a howl of protest from the engine which she overrode. Faster. Faster. Harder. Harder.
The car smashed into the wall, glass, plastic, metal splintering as it screamed. She heard the noise, felt the crushing pain and then nothing.
CHAPTER 2Friday, 10 March, 3.18 a.m.
Graham Skander was dreaming.
He was diving the coral reef in Tobago where he had been only one short month ago. A fish was ahead of him, jewelled scales bright blue. He felt the sun on his back, heard his breathing rasping loudly in the snorkel mask, as he sucked on the pipe. He pursued the fish, camera in hand. He wanted to —
Bang!
Startled, it took him a while to surface, to leave the coral reef, open his eyes and process the sound, wondering whether it had been part of the dream. He lay for a minute, still confused, and then he heard a hissing sound. He knew what that was. Not part of a dream.
He threw back the covers, planted his feet on the floor and crossed to the window.
The Grange was an eighteenth-century house, symmetrical, red brick. It had been there long before the A49 had become such a rat run. It was his wall that cars had to manoeuvre and one or two had hit it before. He knew the sound and it made him angry. The insurance companies might rebuild but they never did it quite like it was before. Graham lived there alone since his wife, Rita, had left, citing his irascible nature which apparently was peppered with 'boringness'. Her word, not his.
Peering through the window, he recognized the signs instantly. A blaze of lights obscured by a cloud of steam. He could hear the hiss from the radiator, smell the stench of burning tyres as he breathed in petrol. Another bloody car taking the corner too fast now embedded in his bloody wall, he thought crossly. He slipped his bony feet into his slippers, tied his dressing gown around his waist and stomped down the stairs.
Fumbling for the key, he spared a fleeting thought for the driver. But when he reached the car and shouted, 'Hello, are you all right?' he saw that the damage to the car was much worse than usual. The bonnet was completely crumpled but, worst of all, he saw something he had not seen since seat belts were made compulsory. Someone ... A woman? Slumped half through the windscreen, her face embedded in the wall. Blood everywhere. And her face. Oh, God, her face.
His 'Hello' died in his throat. He didn't need to have a medical degree to see that she was dead. And, he harrumphed bravely as he turned back towards his house to ring the emergency services, looking at the state of her face, thank God she was.
But he couldn't say that to the operator when she asked which service he required and what had happened.
For a moment, he couldn't speak. 'Umm.' It was as far as he got at the first attempt. He cleared his throat. 'Graham Skander here.' He could hear the shock making his voice waver. 'From The Grange. Preston Gubbals. A car has ...' Again, he cleared his throat. 'Embedded itself in my wall.' He recovered himself a little. 'Not for the first time. A woman driver. I think ... I'm afraid I think ... I think she's dead.'
The operator provided the solution. 'Ambulance then, and the police.' Something of Felicity Corwen's character peeped through. 'Are you all right, sir?'
'Nothing a good malt won't cure,' he said bravely. Then added, 'Poor woman. Her face, you know. Gone through the windscreen. Met the wall.'
'You leave it to the police,' she soothed, 'and go have that malt.'
'Happy to.'
He knew he would get no more sleep tonight. And if he did, after hours of questions and recovery vehicles and the inevitable noise and delay, he would not be dreaming of coral reefs again this night – and probably not for a long time.
CHAPTER 3Saturday, 11 March, 9 a.m.
The weekends always seemed to creep towards Martha Gunn, leapfrogging in hops, skips and jumps, so when she awoke on Saturday morning it was invariably with a feeling of surprise. It was always a slight shock to find that she did not have to drive into work or dress in sombre clothes. No, today, she thought with a skip of her heart, was a free day. A day for jeans, boots, a sweater and a long walk through the woods with Bobby, their Heinz 57 Collie cross. The weather men had been optimistic, forecasting sunshine, though, as usual, they were qualifying it with 'may not reach all places until after the weekend'.
Even that didn't dent Martha's spirits as she showered and slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt. Nothing would, she thought. Sam was playing an away match against Chelsea, which kicked off later today, so that was him accounted for. And Sukey had her new boyfriend, Pomeroy Trainer, known as Pom, to occupy her. So Martha felt very free and practically danced her way into her boots, out of the house and into the woods even under a cloudy grey sky that scowled at her. There was one cloud darker than the rest. The truth was she didn't really like Pom, who had a way of making snide comments usually focused either against Sukey and her acting career, or Sam's enthusiasm for football, or even Martha's cookery skills. Whatever he turned his attention to he seemed to have a knack for finding the vulnerability in one's happiness and could turn even a cosy family supper into something unpleasant, besmirching anyone's pleasure. 'Gosh, isn't this meat tough?', 'I don't like your hair like that, Sukey', or, with a bored yawn and eye-roll at Sam, 'Do you ever talk about anything other than football?' He didn't seem to realize how fucking rude he was being.
Martha quickened her pace. Even telling herself that Pom's negativity was probably the result of his insecurity hadn't made her like him.
Bobby scampered ahead as her thoughts reflected back to Sukey's previous boyfriend, the intellectual, quiet, clever William Friedman. She had much preferred the solemn, bespectacled lad who had never made a single derogatory comment in the brief time she'd known him. Actually, she smiled to herself, stepping over a fallen tree, William had kept his views very much to himself, so it was anyone's guess what his private thoughts were. Maybe they were equally negative. Pom, however, was an abrasive, critical character and Martha felt uneasy and inadequate around him. But now the sun was peeping through the trees, dappling the pine-needle path with equal parts sunshine and moving shade. The scent of the trees was strong. A rabbit tempted Bobby into a brief, unfruitful chase. Even thoughts of Pom couldn't swamp the weekend feeling. She extended the walk until way past lunchtime since today she had no one to cook for.
Stoke (and Sam) drew against Chelsea and Pom and Sukey went to the pictures on Saturday night followed by dinner somewhere in town. And Sunday? Recovery for Sam, a lazy day reading The Sunday Times from cover to cover for Martha, and Sukey and Pom spent the day with friends in Market Drayton.
Perfect.
She always avoided the local papers or the local radio station over a weekend. If there was tragedy she would learn about it soon enough via her job. And much as she loved her work as coroner, the weekends needed to be death-free.
But this meant she remained unaware of local events.
CHAPTER 4Monday, 13 March, 9 a.m.
The 'after the weekend' prediction of the weather forecasters proved to be true. It was a fine morning, bright sunshine beckoning her towards the town, and as Martha pulled up outside her office she wondered whether the week ahead might, for once, be plain sailing. Sometimes they began that way but got trickier towards the end of the week; other Mondays began with a bang and that continued right through until Friday. Her job was as unpredictable as the grim reaper. She rarely had an entirely quiet week, although just occasionally, usually in summer, she was blessed with nothing more than a few elderly persons dying naturally and peacefully, surrounded by family and with doctors' certificates present.
This proved to be one of the weeks when first thing Monday morning was calm and relatively quiet, and she had a couple of hours to sort through her emails, with coffee provided at regular intervals by Jericho Palfreyman, the coroner's officer.
10 a.m.
Sometimes she learned about a death through Jericho. He had a keen (some might call it nosey) involvement in local events – particularly mopping up bad news via the papers or BBC Radio Shropshire. He considered it a coup if he learned of a death before the coroner. At other times Martha was informed by email or the telephone or simply a new set of notes placed on her desk. But there were occasions, usually cases of homicide or other violent or unexpected deaths, when she was informed either by phone or in person by DI Alex Randall himself. This was one of those mornings. He arrived, unannounced, a beige folder under his arm, frowning slightly as he knocked, but when she opened the door to him the frown was quickly erased and he grinned at her. 'Good morning, Martha,' he said. Then added with a hint of mischief, 'Hope I'm not disturbing anything?'
She wanted to respond. You? Disturb? Never.
But it would have been unwise and a little presumptuous, so she simply swallowed the words and shook her head. 'Come in, Alex.'
It must be something out of the ordinary to bring him here so early on a Monday. She was on instant alert.
But he didn't speak straight away. Instead, after a quick glance, as though asking her permission, he crossed the room and settled into the armchair in the bay window as he had so many times before. For a moment he remained silent as he looked around at the room so familiar, lined with bookshelves, the books a random selection of titles from gardening to law, from medicine to natural history, fact to fiction. It was representative of her eclectic mind. He smiled to himself, thinking of the ragbag of subjects contained somewhere inside the unruly red hair, peering out from behind those witchy green eyes. The desk stood alone in the centre of the room, facing the window as though she kept watch over the town of Shrewsbury. To him the scent of lemons, roses, lavender, the room itself was all so familiar, so comfortable, so reassuring. So her. He said nothing, though his eyes, somewhere between hazel and grey, were expressive in their appreciation as they roamed the space.
It was up to her to begin. 'So,' she said briskly, 'what brings you here this morning?' She paused, adding, 'Alex?'
He put the folder down on his lap. And in his eyes she now read pain.
He half smiled. 'I take it you kept to your usual practice of avoiding any local news over the weekend?'
How well he knew her private life and foibles.
She nodded. 'Absolutely. I have enough death, sadness, grief and mayhem in the week.' Her eyes rested on the folder and she raised her eyebrows. 'So?'
'A suicide,' he said, then, knowing her pedantry, he corrected himself. 'It looks like a suicide.' And almost to himself, he added, 'I can't see what else it can be.'
He handed the folder to her as he spoke. 'Gina Marconi, thirty-six years old. Successful barrister specializing in criminal law. Divorced seven years ago, from Mr Marconi, due to be married for the second time in September. One son, Terence, aged eight.'
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Bridge of Sighs"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Priscilla Masters.
Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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