by M. R. Hall
She flipped open the lid of her laptop and ran a search on Father Lucas Starr. He was listed as Roman Catholic chaplain of Telhurst Prison. A short biography recorded that he was thirty-nine years old, the son of American and Mexican missionaries, and had spent his early life in Bolivia and New Mexico. While still a teenager, he had entered the Seminary of the Immaculate Conception in Huntington, New York, and was now in the sixteenth year of his formation as a Jesuit. He had spent time with missions in Nigeria, Angola, the Philippines, Bangladesh and Colombia, where he served in the chaplaincy of La Modelo prison, Bogota´. She began a fresh enquiry with ‘La Modelo’ and learned that it was considered the toughest, filthiest, most violent and dangerous jail in South America.
What would McAvoy have said? His answer sounded clearly: give the man a chance; you don’t devote body and soul to God for twenty years without becoming wiser than most. They’ll scare the hell out of you, these Catholic priests, with their iron wills and cold certainty of what’s to come, but they’ll go to places you wouldn’t dare and draw on strength you’ll never possess.
Jenny typed ‘Eva Donaldson’ and was met with a barrage of the sacred and profane, a galaxy of hardcore pornographic websites vying with reports on the Decency campaign. She clicked ‘images’ and wished she hadn’t. A single dignified portrait of Eva’s post-accident face sat amongst a carousel of lurid shots of her in every form of sexual congress. In one scene she was a delicate virgin, in others a whore, an unwilling victim, a cheating wife. Of all the roles it was innocence she performed best. She was such a successful commodity, Jenny realized, because despite the squalor of her poses she retained an aspect of purity. She encouraged in her voyeurs the fantasy that through knowing her they would somehow lift themselves out of their own wretchedness.
Jenny quickly navigated away and scrubbed her images from the machine’s memory. Be rational, she told herself, get a grip, behave like Her Majesty’s Coroner and follow the protocol, but she knew the battle was already lost. Attempting to reason away her emotional decision, she tried to convince herself that it was merely a question of showing respect for Father Starr. Surely it would be a proper and humane gesture to visit Craven in prison before letting Eva’s body be returned to the earth. Her thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the front gate and the sound of a man’s footsteps on the flagstone path. She craned forward to see Steve approaching. He was carrying flowers.
She brought the lupins out to the garden table in a tall clear vase that had belonged to her mother and saw him crouching at the edge of the stream. He pressed his fingers to his lips as she went over to join him. She knelt beside him and followed his gaze to what she called the swimming pool, a hollow in the stream bed deep enough to wallow in. A flash of silver broke the surface and leaped among the lazily circling flies. He turned to her and smiled, a day’s growth on his hollow cheeks. His face was tired, but his eyes were bright as he shielded them from the sloping sunlight with a cupped hand.
‘There’s scores of them. Must be the pure water,’ he said.
‘I suppose I should feel blessed.’
‘Too right.’ He held her gaze with a playful, questioning look. ‘May I?’
He leaned forward and kissed her mouth without waiting for an answer, his skin rough against her cheeks as he stroked her hair.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why would I?’
He drew back, letting his hand drop to her shoulder then slide down her back to her waist. ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s been a while.’
Jenny stared down into the stream, watching the school of fish dart through a shaft of milky light. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been useless.’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘I’m OK,’ she lied.
‘Ross decided to stay with his dad?’
‘Yes . . . it makes more sense for him to be in town.’
‘And you’ve been hiding away here getting lonely.’
‘I’ve had a lot of work.’
He gave her a look which said she could do better.
‘I know I’ve not been much of a girlfriend.’
Steve grinned. ‘Girlfriend? I’ve never heard you call yourself that before. Wow.’
She contrived to look hurt, but a laugh forced itself out. One of relief, of having a distraction from herself. And he looked handsome tonight, somehow more confident in his new life as a nearly-qualified architect. He still remained partly the romantic backwoodsman who had brought the countryside alive for her, telling her the names of every plant and tree, showing her where the deer stood at night and where the fox slunk through the hedges, but he seemed to inspire more trust now that his world had expanded beyond the boundaries of his out-of-the-way farm.
‘I know it threw you when I said those things . . .’ He sounded almost apologetic, referring to when he had told her he was in love with her, but too embarrassed to repeat it. ‘It must be tough coming out of a marriage, all the baggage . . .’
She nodded, no more ready to have this discussion now than she had been three months ago.
He paused, trying to fathom her expression. ‘That day you went to see you father – what happened?’
‘Nothing.’
He gave her the searching look, the one more intimate than the sex that had first disarmed her. ‘The shutters came down that day, Jenny, I felt it. Was it just because of what I said? I was only being honest.’
‘Partly . . . I don’t know.’
‘I didn’t want to spoil it between us.’
‘I know what you wanted.’
‘If you don’t want things complicated, why don’t you just say so? Put me out of my agony.’
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, longing for an answer she couldn’t give. As he lifted his hand she caught it and brought it to her lips. ‘Can we talk about this afterwards?’
They didn’t make it to the bedroom or even indoors. They made love on the grass as urgently as they had the first time last summer. She was young again, feeling his every touch, his every minute caress with an electric thrill, until at last they both exploded in the scattering colours of grass and sky and spiralled slowly back to earth, a pair of gently fading butterflies.
She brought tea outside to the table as the sun dipped beneath the crest of the hill. They sat side by side, she leaning into him as he told her about his plans for when he was qualified. The firm he was attached to had lost out on a lot of business recently: clients’ budgets weren’t stretching to the extra cost of the ecological buildings in which they specialized. The chances of a full-time position were slim and he’d no choice but to start looking elsewhere. So far the only interest had been from a British firm in Provence. The money was appealing, but it would mean taking beautiful old farmhouses and turning them into vulgar, air-conditioned villas for ex-pat retirees. He hadn’t spent seven years of study only to ditch his principles at the first sight of a cheque.
‘At least you’d see the sun,’ Jenny said.
‘You sound as if you’re trying to sell it to me.’
‘There are worse places to be than the south of France.’
He looked a little hurt. ‘Would you visit?’
‘If you’d forgive me for using the plane.’
‘We might even see each other more often.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I’m serious, Jenny. I’m going to get an answer out of you one way or the other.’ Despite the light-hearted tone she could tell he meant it. After her months of evasion he was pressing her for commitment.
‘By when?’
‘I qualify in six weeks.’
‘Then what? You’ll give up on me?’
‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘But after that I’ll leave it up to you to make the moves.’
It occurred to her to tell him the truth then, to confess that it had taken all her strength to try to cope with her demented father accusing her of being a child killer. It would be a relief to share it with him, to have someone to reason
it through with. But what if he recoiled and turned his back on her in horror or disgust? She couldn’t face his rejection, not now, not on top of everything else.
Jenny felt tears in her eyes. She hurriedly moved to wipe them away.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. It’s just . . . There are some things I need to get straightened out. It’s healthy. You’re giving me a spur.’
‘Anything you can share with me?’
‘No.’
‘I’d better head back.’ He got up from the table.
Jenny reached out and touched his fingers. ‘I’m glad you’re being honest, really. And I’m trying to be. Just give me a little more time.’
He smiled again, decent enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. Better than she deserved. He stooped down to kiss her goodbye. As he walked away towards the old cart track that led around the side of the house, he stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, by the way – there was a man with a little girl who seemed to be waiting for you around the front last night.’
‘A man?’
‘Yes. I drove past at about six. They were still there when I came back up around seven.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘He was in his thirties, the girl can’t have been more than five or six.’
Jenny shrugged. It didn’t sound like anyone she knew.
Steve said, ‘Maybe they’d got the wrong place. You’ll call?’
‘I promise.’
Jenny spent what was left of the evening working, the only light in the house coming from her ancient desk lamp. It was nearly midnight and her eyes were smarting from staring at the computer screen when the return email from Father Starr arrived. He had arranged for her to visit Craven the following afternoon and Craven’s solicitors were forwarding their files to her office. Her diary was already full, but Starr’s tone brooked no argument. She dithered, then replied that she would meet him at the reception desk. Frustrated with herself for being such a pushover, she slammed her laptop closed and switched off the lamp. Feeling her way into the tar-black hall, she fumbled for the light switch. The single bulb stuttered into life like a guttering candle. Starting up the foot-worn treads of the narrow staircase, she heard the sound of gentle rapping at the front door: the cautious knock of a small hand. She turned, startled, telling herself it was only the wind. It came again: four patient, evenly spaced taps.
She told herself it was nothing, a plant knocking against the porch, a restless bird nesting in the eaves. She listened to the reassuring silence for a long moment and resumed her climb. As she reached the landing, feet shuffled on the path outside the front door accompanied by whispered voices: a child’s whimper, a man, patient and reassuring. Jenny stood frozen, her heart pounding in her ears, waiting for the next tap, willing it to be real people outside, but they faded away. She waited for the squeak of the gate, for the turn of an engine, but nothing came.
She tiptoed softly across the creaking boards and fetched her sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet. She shook one out, then made it three.
Telhurst Prison was set anonymously outside a small hamlet on the southern plain of the Severn estuary. Surrounded by wheat fields, there was nothing to indicate its presence except a discreet sign directing visiting traffic from the main road down the narrow lane leading to its front entrance. Shielded from the surrounding countryside by a screen of poplars, it occupied a site the size of several football pitches. The main building was of modern construction, red brick with tiny windows like the arrow slits in the walls of a medieval castle. The perimeter was contained by two twenty-foot-high fences studded with cameras and patrolled by officers with dogs.
Alison had objected on principle to the coroner being summoned to interview a convicted murderer, and having voiced her objections sat in stubborn silence for the entire journey. Still suffering the effects of the previous night’s sleeping pills, Jenny was too tired and preoccupied to attempt talking her round. She was thinking about ghosts, whether they were real or imaginary, and if it made any difference either way.
Alison broke her silence as they walked across the rain-spattered tarmac to the prison’s main entrance. ‘They’ve got no sense of perspective, priests. Just because they’re governed by conscience they think everyone else should be, too.’
‘I thought you were a believer,’ Jenny said.
‘I was, but things change. And so do people.’
‘How is DI Pironi – are you two still friends?’
‘He calls now and again.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing – but I can’t help remembering that the two of you used to go to church together.’
‘There was never anything between us, Mrs Cooper. Certainly not in that way.’ Alison tugged indignantly at the strap of her handbag. ‘Anyway, I was still with Terry.’
Father Starr was waiting for them inside the door. After a polite greeting, he led them to the front of a queue of impatient lawyers waiting to collect their security tags and signed them in. The officer behind the glass screen treated him with unquestioning respect, as did each of the guards they encountered on their journey through an unending series of corridors interrupted by heavy steel gates. Even Alison started to thaw, calling him ‘Father’ as if she were a devoted member of his flock.
He explained that Craven was being held in the close supervision circuit inside the segregation unit while his mental health continued to be assessed. The stress of being locked in a cell around the clock was destabilizing him further, but he was caught in a catch-22: the prison psychiatrist’s idea of help was to persuade him to accept responsibility for a crime he hadn’t committed. Protestations of innocence were treated as delusional.
Jenny said, ‘This prison must seem quite tame after La Modelo.’
Starr smiled, as if she had mildly embarrassed him. ‘I see you’ve been doing your research, Mrs Cooper.’
‘I’m intrigued to know what brought you here.’
‘We’re an international organization. We go wherever we are needed.’ He attempted a joke: ‘And you’ve been short of Catholic priests ever since your King Henry decided we lived better than he did.’
He stopped outside a room at the end of a window-less corridor and knocked on the toughened glass pane. The door was opened from the inside by a heavy-set prison officer with the flattened nose of an ex-boxer. Father Starr asked him if he would mind waiting outside during their interview. The officer glanced dubiously at Jenny and Alison.
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Starr said. ‘You know I trust him like a son.’
‘You’re a better man than me, Father,’ the guard said, and stepped into the corridor. He turned to Jenny. ‘I’ll be right here if you need me.’
They entered an interview room not much bigger than a cell. The man sitting at the small table in handcuffs rose to his feet. ‘Good morning, Father.’
‘Paul, this is Mrs Cooper, the coroner, and Mrs Trent, the coroner’s officer.’
Craven glanced at them shyly and nodded in a cautious greeting. He waited for them both to be seated before following suit. Jenny had read on the file that he was in his upper thirties but his face looked much younger. A prison-issue navy tracksuit hung shapelessly from his skinny frame. There were tiny hints of his age in the creases on his forehead, but it was as if the teenage boy had been held in suspended animation.
Father Starr said, ‘As I explained to you, Mrs Cooper has to determine Eva Donaldson’s cause of death. She does this free of the police and criminal courts and has a reputation for dogged independence.’ Jenny shot him a glance. He ignored her and continued. ‘She needs to take a statement from you. You have to tell her precisely what happened.’
‘I’ll be taking the statement,’ Alison interjected, and pushed a form across the desk. ‘This states that what you have to say is the truth and that you’re liable for prosecution if anything you include in it is false. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Craven spoke quietly, looking to Starr for reassurance.
Jenny said, ‘You mustn’t think of this as being like a police interview. We’re here to listen to what you have to say, not to judge.’ She felt Alison bristle, the detective in her refusing to entertain the idea that their visit was anything other than a sop to a troublesome and bloody-minded priest. ‘We’ll start at the beginning, shall we? Eva Donaldson was killed on the night of Sunday, 9 May. I believe you were released from prison on Thursday, the 6th.’
‘That’s right.’
Alison coughed pointedly. Jenny sat back in her chair and let her officer take over.
‘Where did you go when you left prison, Mr Craven?’
He stalled before answering, requiring a nod from Father Starr to prompt him. ‘The probation service fixed me up with a bedsit.’
‘Address?’
‘19b Clayton Road, Redland.’
Alison wrote it down in laborious longhand, determined not to put him at his ease.
‘And what did you do once you were installed at this address?’
Craven shrugged. ‘I stayed inside mostly, went to the shops once or twice, saw my parole officer on the Friday – she’d sorted my paperwork and that, told me where to go to collect my benefits.’
‘And on the Saturday?’
‘I don’t remember . . . I think I stayed indoors. And the next day.’