by M. R. Hall
DI Tony Wallace was the last witness of the morning session. Brusque and businesslike, he described the condition in which Jacobs’s body had been found and summarized his investigations into Jacobs’s recent history. He produced a lab report which confirmed that the phenobarbital in Jacobs’s stomach had come from the packets which were found along with his clothing, and delivery notes that proved that the drugs matched those in a consignment delivered to the Con-way Unit’s pharmacy. In the absence of any forensic evidence suggesting a violent struggle, DI Wallace was in no doubt that Jacobs had taken his own life.
Jenny said, ‘There is a suggestion in the pathologist’s report that the body may have been turned over some hours after death occurred. Do you have any idea how or why that happened?’
‘I don’t believe it was the two kids who dialled 999. They claimed they were too frightened to go very close and I have to say I believe them.’
‘So it’s possible someone else disturbed the body beforehand?’
‘Yes. Most likely they rolled him over, realized he was dead and took fright. It might even have been whoever he had sex with.’
Avoiding Mrs Jacobs’s gaze, Jenny said, ‘Do you have any idea who that person might have been?’
‘None at all, I’m afraid. Internal swabs were taken, but the DNA profile didn’t match any currently held on the national database.’
‘Were you able to establish Mr Jacobs’s movements after he left home?’
‘We just got a piece of information through this morning
– he bought petrol at Easton Road at four-thirty in the afternoon. He used his MasterCard. We asked the filling station for any CCTV footage but it gets overwritten every day.’
‘That means he was heading south from his home towards the city centre. Where was his car found?’
‘Around the corner from the church. The tank was nearly full so I assume he didn’t drive far.’
‘Do we know when he obtained the phenobarbital?’
‘According to the pharmacist, it could have been any time in the last two weeks, but definitely not Saturday. The unit has an electronic entry system; the computer log had no record of him having returned after he left work on Friday afternoon.’
Jenny made a note that Jacobs had obtained the drugs at some point during the two weeks before his death. It was looking increasingly as if he had been secretly fighting a devastating wave of depression. In common with most suicides, he could have been managing a low-level condition for some time and his part in Emma Derwent’s death had probably pushed him beyond the limits of his ability to cope.
Jenny said, ‘You took Mr Jacobs’s laptop computer from his home but returned it wiped blank. Can you explain how that happened?’
‘I have apologized to Mrs Jacobs,’ DI Wallace said. ‘It’s nothing sinister, but I admit it doesn’t cover us in glory. We employ a private contractor to carry out our data retrieval. He removed the hard drive from the laptop, uploaded the contents to his machine, and then accidentally confused Mr Jacobs’s drive with others containing illegal images which he had been asked to reformat.’
‘That seems a rather basic error.’
‘It happens, unfortunately. I’ve arranged for the copied contents to be handed back to Mrs Jacobs if she’d like them. The data, such as it was, contained nothing of relevance. Mr Jacobs seemed to use his laptop chiefly as a diary and for browsing the internet.’
‘Did he visit any sites in particular?’
‘Sports ones mostly. I think I’m right in saying he was a football fan.’
Mrs Jacobs smiled for the first time that day.
Jenny found it hard to believe that a man wrestling with his sexuality wouldn’t have explored it online. He would be in a saintly minority if he hadn’t. Perhaps DI Wallace was acting out of compassion for the widow, but it seemed unlikely. She would have expected that from a comfortable detective sergeant with no eye on promotion, but Wallace gave every impression of still being on the way up, and of going about his business strictly by the rules. Nor could she see him covering up the fact that a dangerous psychopath had been negligently released from the Conway Unit, or that Jacobs was suspected of having an affair with a former patient.
No, DI Wallace simply didn’t seem the type to save others’ feelings.
It was left to the quietly spoken Daniel Randall to suggest, in faintly embarrassed tones, that the police had conspired with Deborah Bishop and others to disguise the fact that the dead man was drugged and sexually assaulted, most probably by a former patient, who should have remained under lock and key.
DI Wallace said, ‘He swallowed twenty-four pills, possibly without water. There were no other drugs in his system. He was six feet two inches tall and weighed fourteen and a half stone. Tell me how it could have happened and I give you my word we’ll look into it.’
‘At gunpoint?’ Randall suggested.
‘No one was pointing a gun at him when he lied to his wife and left home to drive into town.’ Then, as if to mitigate the harshness of his statement, he added, ‘I’m prepared to make this offer. If the family wish it, I will send officers into the gay community to try to find the person with whom he spent his final hours.’
He was met with silence.
Jenny said, ‘Would you like that to happen, Mrs Jacobs?’
The widow crossed her arms tightly across her chest with a look of revulsion. Her mother answered with a firm, ‘No thank you.’
Jenny declined the standing invitation to lunch in the judicial dining room, and made do with a tired sandwich from the public canteen. There were more pressing issues than lunch. Both lawyers had agreed before the break that Dr Andy Kerr’s post-mortem report could be admitted in evidence without the need for him to appear in person, leaving Jenny with no more witnesses to call and a verdict to reach. The law required her to be satisfied ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ of her decision. She had no real doubt that Alan Jacobs had deliberately taken his own life, but such was the stigma of suicide that case law required all other possible explanations to be totally ruled out. Filling out the form of inquisition and sealing it with the official stamp should have been a formality, but a nagging voice told her that there was still more left to be discovered, and that any verdict would be open to question until Alan Jacobs’s lover (if that was what he had been) was found. Despite his widow’s refusal, it was within Jenny’s power to order the police to go out and search for the man. With the proliferation of traffic cameras and CCTV, she had no doubt he could be found, but at what cost to Mrs Jacobs? Never having known him, not having a face forever etched in her memory, would allow her to invent her own fiction. Her daughter could grow up without being haunted by a spectre forever associated with her father’s grisly death. Jenny vacillated. An open verdict wouldn’t carry the stain of suicide and the bitter sense of cowardly desertion that went with it, but nor would it bring closure.
It had to be suicide. She picked up her pen to record the finding when there was a knock on the door. Alison entered.
‘It seems we may have another witness, Mrs Cooper – a woman who went to the same church group as Alan Jacobs.’
‘She’s here?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does she want to say?’
‘I’ve no idea. I just saw her in the corridor being collared by the priest who was sitting at the back.’ With a faint air of disapproval, Alison added, ‘I think they’re discussing ethics.’
‘Get her name,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll call her anyway.’
The elderly priest wore an expression of disappointment as Mary Richards entered the witness box and whispered the oath. She was a fragile, bookish young woman who stated her occupation as mature student. She was studying for a doctorate in tropical medicine. Jenny could picture her working for a charity in a disease-stricken part of Africa, driven by a sense of controlled compassion.
Ceri Jacobs reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it hard, disturbed and frightened by the appearance of
this unexpected interloper.
Jenny said, ‘How did you know Alan Jacobs, Miss Richards?’
‘He and I attended the same enquirers’ course at St Xavier’s. We had been going most Wednesday evenings for just over four months.’ She glanced at the priest. ‘Father Dermody ran it.’
‘Would you mind explaining what that is?’
‘It’s for people who want to learn about Catholicism – its teachings, doctrine, tradition.’
‘And you got to know each other?’
‘A little, though not so that we’d socialize – it wasn’t that sort of group. But we did participate in various exercises together. Praying for one another in pairs, for example.’
‘And you prayed with Alan Jacobs?’
Mary Richards hesitated. The priest wore a look of grim warning.
‘Miss Richards, you have sworn an oath to tell the whole truth,’ Jenny prompted.
‘I know—’
‘And anyone who attempts to stop you doing that is acting quite improperly, not to say illegally.’
Father Dermody’s face turned to granite. The witness gave an anxious nod, then closed her eyes, as if offering a prayer for forgiveness.
‘Of course, our prayers were offered in strict confidence, but given what’s happened I feel justified in repeating what little he told me.’ She turned to Mrs Jacobs. ‘I only prayed with Alan once. He prayed for his wife and his daughter and for several people I believe he was caring for in his work. It was all sincerely meant, not unusual in any way, but I remember he fell silent for a moment. I sensed there was something else he wanted to say and I tried to prompt him, then suddenly his face started running with tears. It surprised me. I’d always seen him as very in control, strong, but calm. I asked him what the matter was. He said, “I’ve become involved with some people I shouldn’t have. I thought they were helping me but now I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on. I feel as if I don’t know who I am any more.” I remember the look of despair on his face. I tried to get him to say some more but he wouldn’t. So I prayed for him. It must have been at least three weeks before he died, but he more or less avoided me in the sessions after that.’
‘Might he have spoken to anyone else in the group before his death?’
‘I somehow doubt it. He kept his distance from all of us. I think he felt he had embarrassed or compromised himself. I was in a difficult position—’
Jenny said, ‘I understand.’
Neither of the lawyers had any questions for Mary Richards. The images her sketchy evidence had conjured were vivid enough without causing further distress to the widow. Jenny hastily summarized the evidence, eager to bring proceedings to an end. The faces of Ceri Jacobs, her family and priest, as they waited for the word they all dreaded, were pictures of desolation. As she started to read aloud from the form of inquisition, a lump as hard and dry as pumice stone formed in her throat. But at the last moment, as if succumbing in a struggle with a supernatural force, she struck a line through the word ‘suicide’ and recorded an open verdict.
SEVEN
THE RELIEF OF SEEING THE Jacobs family greet her inconclusive finding with smiles and grateful embraces was shortlived. As if to punish her for her weakness, Alison pursued Jenny into the corridor behind the courtroom and handed her a list of urgent calls that had to be made before close of business. Jenny promised to deal with them later and locked herself in the tiny office for a few moments’ peace.
She made the return journey to Jamaica Street on foot. It was only a mile across the city centre and the afternoon was warm enough for road-menders to be working shirtless and teenagers to be paddling in the public fountain while perspiring policemen stood by smiling. A few rays of sunshine and the city was transformed. All was peace and goodwill. She fetched out her phone and tried Ross’s number.
To her surprise he sounded almost pleased to hear her. ‘Mum. How are you?’
‘Feeling guilty. Sorry I missed our call. Things got a bit frantic.’
‘No problem.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re free tonight.’
‘Could be—’
‘I thought we could go for dinner. It’s been ages.’
‘Why not?’ Ross said, trying hard not to sound over-enthusiastic.
‘Pick you up around seven?’
‘I could come into town.’
‘No need. I ought to say hello to your father.’
The heat must have gone to her head. Having friendly feelings towards David had to be a sign that she wasn’t in her right mind.
Alison shoved a note into her hand the moment she stepped through the door. ‘Simon Moreton called, twice. You’re to phone him back immediately.’
‘What does he want?’
‘Didn’t say. But I’d guess it was your blood.’
‘What have I done now?’
Alison shrugged and went back to her emails. Jenny noticed that she had swapped her dark trouser suit for a slim-fitting skirt and matching jacket that was stretched a little too tightly across her shoulders.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Jenny said.
‘Just meeting a friend.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ Alison thrust a second piece of paper in Jenny’s direction, her cheeks colouring. ‘You might want to look at this.’
Jenny cast her eyes over the email from someone calling himself Doc Scratch.
He claimed to be the tattoo artist who had drawn Eva Donaldson’s design. He said his diary showed she’d come on the morning of Friday, 23 April, a little over two weeks before she died. She had called herself Louise Pearson and paid in cash, but everyone in the studio had recognized her from the television. You couldn’t mistake the scar.
Alison said, ‘I sent emails to all the studios I could find. There seems to be one on every street corner these days.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Only briefly. He said she was very quiet. She came in knowing what she wanted, lay back and let him get on with it.’
‘Is that all?’
‘He said she seemed subdued, not down, but as if she were preoccupied with something.’
The phone rang. Alison checked the caller display. ‘It’s Moreton again.’
Jenny hurried through to her office.
‘I’ll see you on Monday, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison called after her. ‘I’m off now.’
‘Have fun.’
Jenny snatched up the receiver with a sense of dread. ‘Hello, Simon. I’ve been wondering where you’d been.’
‘It’s Amanda Cramer,’ a humourless voice replied. ‘You may have seen the circular; I was recently appointed assistant director for coroners. Simon’s concentrating more on strategy. From now on operations and personnel will be chiefly my responsibility.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Jenny said, taking an instant dislike to Amanda Cramer. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Briefly, at the Christmas drinks.’
Jenny cast her mind back to the tedious evening in Gray’s Inn Hall spent sipping orange juice amidst a sea of anonymous, suited officials getting drunk on cheap wine. Oh God. Now she remembered. Moreton, who for all his conformism was good fun at parties, and Jenny had been laughing at one of his suggestive jokes, when a joyless young woman with bad skin and flat shoes stepped between them. ‘Dear God,’ Moreton said when Amanda Cramer had finally taken the hint and moved on. ‘I’ve never said it about any woman I’ve worked with, but I just couldn’t, not even with Viagra.’
‘Of course, I remember,’ Jenny said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Two things. Firstly, we’ve received a complaint about your handling of the death of Eva Donaldson. We understand there’s no reason cause of death couldn’t have been formally recorded after the verdict in the criminal trial, but for some reason you’ve neglected to do so.’
‘That would be because I’m conducting an inquest.’
‘Why would you do that? The superior tribunal has reached its decision. There�
�s no possible justification for more public money to be spent on a needless formality.’
‘With respect, Ms Cramer, that is a matter in my discretion. And the Crown Court is not a superior tribunal. It has an entirely separate function.’
‘But you have no power to contradict its verdict.’
‘I’m well aware of my powers.’
‘Then I would advise you to exercise them appropriately. You could start by releasing the body. This should have been done immediately after the Home Office post-mortem.’
‘The release form is on my desk ready to sign at the appropriate moment. Is that all?’
‘No. We’d like your assurance that Mr Donaldson and his family won’t be caused any more distress.’
Jenny felt her fragile patience ready to snap. Civil servants had a flimsy grasp on the concept of judicial independence at the best of times. Simon Moreton would at least have tacitly acknowledged that he was merely playing the part expected of him; Cramer was a straightforward bully, unafraid to do the Minister’s dirty work. The morning newspapers had reported that the Decency Bill was on the brink of winning government support. That meant Michael Turnbull and his new political allies would be desperate to avoid any hint of negative press surrounding the final surge of their campaign.
Jenny couldn’t resist a retaliatory blow. ‘You’re surely not attempting to influence the judicial process, Ms Cramer?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Cooper, but if you won’t abide by your wider responsibilities, we can’t be expected to abide by ours.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Let me put it this way: you’ll be sailing into this particular storm without a lifeboat.’
‘I can’t say I haven’t been warned,’ Jenny said sarcastically. ‘You said there was a second matter.’
‘Yes: your erroneous verdict in the Alan Jacobs case. Bristol CID is furious. Your local paper is running a story saying they failed to investigate the possibility of murder.’