It was far too beautiful a day to be surrounded by death, Andrew Foster thought as he trudged up the narrow gravel path which led off from the main walkway.
It had been on a day like this, a day of clear blue skies and gentle breezes, that death had first touched their lives, and the memory seemed to grow stronger with each successive visit.
Croydon Cemetery was bathed in the soft warming rays of a sun which had risen proudly to take its place in a sky the colour of washed denim.
The scent of flowers, some freshly laid, wafted on the breeze. The scene was idyllic, even down to the birds perched in the leafy trees whistling happily, oblivious to the misery below them, unaware that for every joyful note they uttered in those branches, a tear had fallen below them: tears of pain, helplessness, regret and anger.
Andrew had felt every one of those emotions the day he’d been told his son had died.
Ahead of him, his wife Paula walked with her usual purposefulness, moving surefootedly over the path and grassy ridges, stepping around the many other graves as they made their way to their usual destination.
They were both in their early twenties. They should be playing with their baby boy now, not bringing flowers to lay on his grave. A grave so small that Andrew could reach from one end to the other without stretching his arms.
Suffocation, the doctors had said. The child had been strangled by its own umbilical cord while still inside the womb.
He’d stood at his wife’s side as she sobbed and screamed in her efforts to birth a child who was already dead.
Andrew had cried when he’d seen that tiny body removed, wrapped in a sheet.
Cried with sorrow and rage. Why did it have to be their child?
Paula had taken it remarkably well, but the doctors had warned him there could be a delayed reaction to her grief. They’d rattled off some psychological bullshit names for the condition, most of which he’d forgotten.
He’d heard her crying at night.
He’d woken in the darkness, disturbed by his own nightmares, and he’d heard her weeping in the next room; sometimes he went to her to share her pain, and other times he allowed her to grieve in private.
Two weeks had passed since their son’s death, and Andrew was struck by the appalling irony - they had been expecting the beginning of a new life with his birth, but instead had witnessed only death. Birth and death had become inseparable. They’d become one.
His wife had given birth to a dead child.
And the weather outside on that day had been so beautiful. A day full of the promise of life had brought only pain.
A day like today.
They passed graves bearing fresh flowers, and some which needed tending; some where the headstones sparkled in the early morning sunlight: others where the stones were dull and neglected.
It seemed they were the only two people in the cemetery. They’d seen an old man almost every morning, visiting, Andrew assumed, the grave of his wife. He always nodded a greeting to them. But not this morning.
This beautiful morning seemed to have been created solely for them.
Andrew sucked in a deep breath but it tasted sour. He noticed Paula slow her pace as she reached the path leading to their son’s grave.
It lay beneath a small oak tree, the branches dipping low over the tiny grave.
A sparrow was perched on one of the lower branches, chirping gaily.
The sound grated on Andrew’s nerves and he was relieved to see the bird fly off.
He watched it rise and disappear from view as it flew towards the sun. He shielded his eyes to protect them from the glowing orb.
Then he heard Paula gasp.
She had stopped dead and was pointing ahead of her with one shaking hand.
The flowers she had been carrying had fallen to the ground. Andrew almost trampled on them as he brushed past her, his own eyes now bulging wide as he took in the horrific scene.
He paused, his breath coming in gasps, his mouth open as if he was about to say something. But no words would come. What could he say? What feeble exhortations could express the feelings that swept through him now? What words could begin to describe what he saw?
The grave of Stephen Foster had been dug up, flowers and wreaths scattered across the dark, overturned soil.
The coffin, so tiny in its small resting place, was visible through the earth.
A split snaked across the top.
The brass nameplate had been smashed off.
And, all around, dirt had been scattered. It looked as if the coffin had erupted from beneath the ground, spraying earth in all directions.
From behind him he heard Paula sobbing hysterically, and now he found the voice for one astonished cry of his own.
It felt as if it was wrenched from his soul.
He dropped to his knees in the disturbed earth.
Twelve
Phillip Barclay’s office at New Scotland yard was small and incredibly well kept. It seemed to mirror the man himself. Immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place, he was the picture of efficiency as he set down two files on his desk, arranging them with almost manic neatness. He then sat down, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.
Across from him, DI James Talbot was snapping a Kitkat into four separate pieces. He balled up the silver paper and left it on Barclay’s desk, watching as the coroner frowned and pushed an ashtray towards him, indicating the foil with an accusatory glance.
Talbot made an exaggerated gesture of picking up the silver paper between his thumb and forefinger and dropping it into the ashtray.
‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one of these days, Phil,’ the DI said,
smiling.
Barclay pulled the ashtray away then glared at Rafferty, who was in the process of lighting a cigarette.
‘Not in here, please’ snapped Barclay.
Rafferty looked at him in bewilderment.
‘No smoking,’ Barclay reminded him, watching as Rafferty replaced the cigarette in its box.
‘So, come on, Phil, what’s the story on Peter Hyde?’ Talbot got down to business. ‘Did he top himself or what?’
Barclay flipped open one of the files and glanced at its contents.
‘The autopsy showed no sign of alcohol, drugs or anything stronger than caffeine in his bloodstream at the time of the accident,’ said the coroner.
‘Could he have fallen?’ Talbot asked.
‘He could, but it’s doubtful. I’ve seen victims of tube accidents before.
There are usually severe burns to the palms of the hands and the upper arms, where they’ve tried to break their fall. There were no such marks on Hyde’s hands. That would seem to indicate that he wasn’t pushed either.’
‘Suicide, then?’ Talbot murmured.
‘Plain, simple suicide,’ echoed the coroner. ‘No suspicious circumstances. If I were you I’d close this one, Jim.’
Rafferty looked at his superior. ‘What if it was made to look like an accident?’ he prompted.
Talbot chuckled. ‘Piss off, Bill. Hyde killed himself, just like I said.
That’s it. End of story.’
‘I’m sorry to cheat you out of a murder enquiry,’ Barclay added.
Rafferty shrugged.
