River Deep by Priscilla Masters

frequently pronounced that alcohol had contributed significantly to a victim’s death, whether through drink-driving, alcoholism, simple lack of judgement or an increase in aggression – and the same was true of cigarette smoking – she had never believed that marijuana was even a minor contributory cause of mortality. Therefore she held a tolerant attitude towards the drug. Besides, she was relieved to be inside. The scene behind her was so surreal.So disturbing. So frightening.
    He was staring at her. “You all right?”
    She nodded. Not trusting her voice to sound normal.
    “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
    She managed a strained laugh. “Not a ghost. A tableau.” Another nervous laugh to match a nervous voice. “Munch’s
The Scream,
actually.”
    Finton took another deep, thoughtful drag and his eyes were far away. “One evening I was walking along a path with the city on one side. The fjord behind me. I was tired and ill; I stopped and looked out across the fjord – the sun was setting – the clouds were dyed red like blood. I felt a scream pass through nature.” He scrutinised her. “Sounds like a hell of an evening out there. What exactly happened?”
    “I saw only the picture,” she said. “That awful, unbalanced terrible nightmarish picture.”
    “What precisely did you see?”
    Before she’d said a word she knew how silly it sounded. “A man walking across the English Bridge – towards me.”
    He took another deep, thoughtful drag from his cigarette. “Why did it remind you of
The Scream?
”
    She shook her head. She could not say. She tried to explain the inexplicable. Rationalise.
    “It must have been the light effect. As he drew level he put his hand up like so.” Her hand was shaking as she covered her ear, mimicking the action. “It was just a mobile phone. But it’s a very bloody sunset out there.” She wanted to use his name. “Mr Cley.”
    Finton gave a humorous stare at his joint. She knew had she been younger he would have teased her about her formality before offering her a drag. But even as he looked up he had already rejected the idea and said, quite seriously, “Finton’s my name.”
    She acknowledged with a nod.
    “And was he dressed in dark clothes?”
    “A suit.”
    “Well – whoever he was – he’s certainly got to you. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
    Was that what she had seen? A ghost? Was it not James Humphreys but the corpse, searching for his identity? Was there then some significance, some warning, in the vision?
    She tried to change the subject. “You’re obviously familiar with the painting, and the painter.”
    “I took a degree in art,” he explained. “Specialised in Symbolism. So, for fjord think River Severn?” He was still laughing at her. When she didn’t reply anything he lapsed into reverie. “I always thought the tortured subject was Munch himself. It would have fitted into his life. Bit of a mess like plenty of artists.”
    His joint had gone out. He gazed at it with mild regret. “‘Fraid I haven’t any Munch to sell you, Martha Gunn.” His eyes gleamed with a hidden joke. He was laughing at her. “But if you can wait a couple of days I’ll see what I can knock up.”
    She allowed her eyes to drift down towards his empty fingers and she smiled at him.
    “That’s better,” he said. “Come on. Have a brew. I can spare you one. I think you need one. Now tell me all about it.”
    She sat down nervously. The work of a coroner must of necessity take place behind closed doors. Newspaper headlines sit on the shoulders of violent, unexpected death, so coroners must be bound by the strictest rules of decency, privacy and confidentiality. She could not discuss any of it with this gypsy boy. Certainly not the reason behind the crazy, puzzling vision she had had on thebridge, not five hundred yards from this shop. Not any part of it. But as she accepted the mug of tea and wrapped her chilled fingers around to steal its warmth