by M. R. Hall
Jenny came away feeling that she’d learned more from Maggie Harper than she would have done from Eileen Reardon. With a little pressing she had established that the Friday night she had talked about was either the third or fourth in March. It meant that whatever had caused the dip in Freddy’s mood had pre-dated Eva’s death. Jenny wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign. Maggie had been certain of one thing, though, there had been no girlfriends. ‘He was far too innocent for any of that,’ she had said. ‘He was still a mummy’s boy, except his mum was hopeless.’
Back at the office Alison was tapping furiously at her computer. Jenny didn’t mention her lunch date with Martin and nor did she; they didn’t have to. They both knew where she had been and Alison was doing her best to demonstrate she was making up for lost time. She briskly handed over a batch of new death reports and rattled off a list of urgent phone messages, including several from various members of Michael Turnbull’s legal team protesting at her demand that he return to the resumed inquest. Jenny retreated to her office and endeavoured to cram a day’s work into what remained of the afternoon. There were new cases to log, hospital consultants to call, post-mortem reports to wade through, a host of deaths to certify and bodies to release, but Eva and Freddy refused to leave her thoughts. There was something she had yet to find out; she felt sure there was a person who would unlock them both, but she still felt far from knowing who that might be.
The fading sun had retreated behind a bank of dark cloud as Jenny turned off the valley road at Tintern and climbed a mile up the narrow lane to Melin Bach. The dull evening light coupled with an unseasonal chill gave the countryside a melancholy air that reflected her mood. It was an evening for ghosts and regrets, the lengthening shadows seemed to say.
She resented the fact that her emotions could shift as swiftly as a child’s, that something as mundane as the changing weather could cause her mood to plunge. The thought of returning to her empty cottage filled her with irrational dread, but as she rounded the penultimate bend and spotted its slate roof through a gap in the trees, the sky opened again and a stretch of brilliant blue appeared over Barbadoes Hill. Just enough to repel the anxious, unwanted thoughts which had started to intrude.
There was no time to be neurotic, she told herself; all that would have to wait until Eva’s inquest was over. Then she would set aside the necessary few weeks to resolve her problems. It would be good to feel properly human again. She couldn’t wait.
She was surprised to see Steve’s Land Rover parked in the lane outside the house. Alfie, his sheepdog, shot out from the verge in pursuit of a rabbit, which zigzagged along the road for several yards then disappeared into the hedge with Alfie hard on its tail. She pulled into the overgrown cart track and stepped out of the car to the smell of ripe grass and lavender. Steve wandered across to meet her from the back garden, beating a path through the weeds with a stick.
‘You could do with someone to sort this place out,’ he said with a smile.
‘It’s good for the wildlife. I thought you were in Edinburgh.’
‘Signed up the client before lunch and caught an earlier plane.’
‘That sounds like good news.’
‘Could be. But if they kept me on to manage the project it’d mean spending a lot of time up there.’
‘What about France?’
‘Still stringing them along.’ He swished distractedly at a clump of thistles.
Jenny absorbed his tired and thoughtful face; he’d changed in a year. Study and responsibility had diluted the carefree spirit, but she liked the man who was emerging. He was sensitive, searching, and he wanted her. Yet she remained frightened to give, scared of letting him down. And perhaps fearful of what he would ask from her. He wanted to know parts of her that her ex-husband wouldn’t have even known existed.
Jenny said, ‘Do you get the feeling that you’re being dragged out of the woods at last?’
‘Maybe I don’t want to be. Something might work out.’ He tossed the stick aside and looked at her. ‘What about you? Do you ever think this place is just a staging post, somewhere to hide out for a while?’
‘Ask me in a couple of months’ time.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Maybe I’ll be out of the trees and the world will look different.’
A gust of wind blew her hair across her face. Steve reached out and pushed it back, brushing his fingers against her cheek. He moved his lips, as if about to speak, but instead stepped closer and touched her hand. ‘If you weren’t here, the decision would be easy.’
Jenny wanted to tell him that his life was his own, that he mustn’t let her hold him back, but as he kissed her the thought of losing him was too painful to bear. She held him tightly, pressing herself to his hard chest, aware of how selfish she was being but powerless to do a thing about it. He was her release, her glimpse of freedom.
They made love on the grass beneath the last rays of the dying sun. Afterwards, Steve ran naked into the stream, daring her to join him. When she pleaded that she was too cold, he came and picked her up, squealing, and tumbled backwards into the water bringing her with him. The freezing water took the breath from her; she shrieked and protested but he clung on to her until the feel of it against her skin was like a million hot needles. And when they walked back to the house scooping up their clothes, the blood coursed hot through her veins, and for a short while she felt alive and invincible.
Steve lit a fire in the grate and they lay entwined on the sofa sipping tea and waiting for the shivers to subside. Jenny leaned back against him as he stroked her hair. Alfie stretched out on the hearthrug, his eyes half-closed in bliss.
‘How are you feeling?’ Steve said.
‘Good . . . tired.’
‘Are you going back to Dr Allen?’
‘When this inquest’s over. Let’s not talk about that now, hmm?’ Jenny sensed that he was tense. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
His hand slid from her head and rested against her arm. ‘I had a message on my phone when I got home. The man said his name was Detective Sergeant Gleed, based at Weston. He left a number.’
Gleed. It wasn’t a name she recognized.
‘Did you call him? What did he want?’
‘Yes. He was polite enough—’
Jenny put down her mug and sat up, tugging away from him.
‘What did he want?’
‘He said he understood that I knew you, and had you ever talked about an event in your childhood? If so, he’d like to meet and discuss what you had told me.’
Jenny looked at him in disbelief.
‘I said I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘A detective?’ Jenny said, incredulously. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I was going to. That’s why, well, one of the reasons I came—’
‘But you thought you’d have your fun first.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Jesus. God.’ Jenny sunk her head in her hands. ‘You bastard.’
‘Jenny, it’s not like that. You know it’s not. I care about you. I—’
‘Don’t say it!’
‘I do. And I want to be with you, but you’ve got to deal with this stuff.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or nothing. You just have to. You know you do. Why don’t you call this man? See what he wants.’
‘He can go to hell. I was a child, for Christ’s sake.’
‘He wants something. These people don’t just go away.’
‘It’ll be Dad. He’ll have said something to one of the nurses.’
‘All the more reason to clear it up.’ Steve reached to his shirt pocket. ‘Look, I’ve got the number—’
‘I don’t want to know.’
He grabbed hold of her wrist. ‘Jenny, you’ve got to face this.’
She wrenched free. ‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got to do.’
‘How else are you going to sort yourself out?’
‘Leave me al
one.’
‘Why don’t you call him while I’m here?’
‘Stop trying to control me.’
‘I’m trying to help.’
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ She shot off the sofa. ‘Get out! Go!’ She wanted to punch him, to lash out and hurt him and make him hit her back, to turn her anger and confusion into physical pain she could rail and pound her fists against, but Steve absorbed her outburst without a word. He left the scrap of paper bearing Gleed’s number on the corner of the sofa and turned to leave.
He stopped briefly in the doorway with his back to her. ‘I’ll be here for you, Jenny, but—’
‘Please go.’
Softly, but with a finality she knew was real, he said, ‘You know what I mean.’
She sat and stared into the fire for the time it took the logs to dwindle to embers, her mind racing with angry thoughts and wild theories. She had never felt more exposed or more furious. Why? Why now? Who could the events of nearly forty years ago possibly be of interest to? It was past eleven when she snatched up the phone and punched in his number. An anonymous answer message played. Jenny said, ‘Detective Sergeant Gleed, it’s Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’ll expect your call tomorrow.’
She screwed up his number and tossed it into the grate.
SEVENTEEN
DETECTIVE SERGEANT GLEED DIDN’T RETURN her call. Nor did Jenny manage to reach him through the switchboard at Weston police station as she sped over the Severn Bridge en route to her reconvened inquest. The detective’s affectation of making himself unreachable infuriated her and she cursed him out loud for his petty attempt at intimidation.
Shouting out her frustrations in the privacy of her car was a release of sorts but, Gleed apart, Steve’s challenge had been salt on an open wound. The pain had raged through a long, restless night and refused to be dampened by her morning dose of Xanax bolstered by a top-up of Temazepam. The drugs might have stopped her heart from racing and steadied her hand, but they did nothing to dull the inner ache. He had confronted her with the undeniable truth: there was something buried inside her she had to uncover, or she would be truly lost. McAvoy had seen it from the moment they met. Father Starr had interpreted his intuited insights into her unsettled mind as a word of the spirit; Alison had betrayed her suspicions in countless minor manifestations of disapproval. All of these Jenny had been able to disregard as quirks of character, but Steve was different. He knew her past and was forcing her back to it. Anyone else could be pushed away, but Steve had cornered her. He had locked her in a space alone with herself.
The news crews were already busy setting up as Jenny squeezed her Golf between their vans and parked on the rough grass at the side of the hall. They were a different crowd from those who had been present on the first day; she recognized the faces of several national television reporters among them. Making her way to the hall, she overheard an earnest young woman explaining to camera that the sudden apparent suicide of a witness who had failed to testify, coupled with Cassidy’s allegation that Eva had lost her faith, suggested there were many questions the police inquiry had failed to answer. Or even ask, Jenny wanted to butt in.
‘The parties are all assembled, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison announced as she appeared in the office doorway, ‘but counsel would like to speak to you in chambers before we begin.’
‘What about?’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Didn’t you ask them?’ Jenny said as she gathered her papers, trying to ignore the sudden palpitations that the prospect of facing a row of awkward lawyers had caused to erupt.
Alison swallowed defensively. ‘I didn’t think it was my place.’
‘I see. Has Michael Turnbull answered his summons?’
‘I didn’t notice him.’
‘So he’s failed to attend. Are his lawyers aware that amounts to contempt?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Jenny took a deep breath, struggling to hold her impatience with her officer in check.
Alison hovered uncertainly. ‘Shall I tell them to come in?’ Jenny marched towards the door, her apprehension turning to anger. ‘You can tell them to stand up.’
Christopher Sullivan and Ed Prince wore expressions of surprised indignation as Jenny took her seat at the head of the packed hall. She could see Father Starr and Kenneth Donaldson amidst the swollen ranks of reporters, but there was no sign of Michael Turnbull. She did, however, spot a new face alongside Prince: a female lawyer with the hard attractiveness and sharp-eyed gaze that could only belong to a seasoned litigator, and wearing an outfit that could only have been afforded by a partner in a wealthy firm. She was their new tactician, Jenny guessed; a woman sent to read and undermine her.
Sullivan was first to his feet. The new lawyer flashed him a look that reminded him to remain polite. ‘Ma’am, might counsel be permitted to address you briefly in chambers?’
‘I don’t see counsel in chambers, Mr Sullivan,’ Jenny said, still battling a racing heart. ‘As a matter of principle I conduct my business in public and on behalf of the public whose interests I represent.’
He strained to be polite. ‘As an exceptional deviation from the rule, it would be much appreciated.’
‘This isn’t like a criminal court, as you well know, Mr Sullivan. It is my inquest, and as counsel you have the right to cross-examine any witnesses I may call, but not to dictate procedure. Now do you have anything you wish to say before I call on Lord Turnbull to answer his witness summons?’
Sullivan glanced back at Prince and his female colleague and exchanged whispered words. Jenny noticed Fraser Knight QC and Ruth Markham, passive observers to their colleagues’ discomfort, exchange a hint of a smile across the length of the advocates’ bench.
Sullivan turned back to the front, still wearing his expression of mock civility. ‘Ma’am, I have to inform you that it has not been possible for Lord Turnbull to appear as promptly as requested. You may not know – and the fault may be ours for failing to inform you – just how busy a parliamentary timetable he has at the present moment.’
‘On the contrary, your instructing solicitors informed me yesterday afternoon. And I told them that he was required to give evidence here at ten o’clock this morning.’
‘Ma’am, it simply hasn’t been feasible—’
‘Where is he, Mr Sullivan?’
‘Ma’am, a degree of reasonableness is customary—’
‘Where is he?’ Jenny insisted.
Sullivan’s eyes flared, but fighting every instinct he contained his anger. ‘In London. On urgent business, I believe.’
‘And when is he proposing to attend?’
‘He’s very busy with parliamentary business all next week, ma’am.’
At her desk, Alison sat hunched over the tape recorder, avoiding the lawyers’ gaze, pretending she was part of the furniture. It suddenly occurred to Jenny that they must have intimidated her into arranging the cosy meeting in chambers in which they hoped to ensure that Turnbull’s absence would be excused and never mentioned in front of the press.
‘Members of the jury,’ Jenny said, ‘in the light of Mr Cassidy’s evidence about Eva Donaldson’s state of mind prior to her death, I issued Lord Turnbull with a summons; he was to attend this morning to see if he could help us any further with the issue. Failure to comply is a contempt of court, an offence punishable by fine or imprisonment.’
Sullivan interjected: ‘Ma’am, my client can hardly be said to have wilfully absented himself.’
‘That’s just what he has done, Mr Sullivan. The law applies to a wealthy member of the House of Lords as much as it does to a street sweeper. I find him to be in contempt and I’ll sentence him when he appears. Do I need to issue a warrant?’
‘He’ll be here this afternoon, ma’am,’ Sullivan said, through gritted teeth.
Jenny saw Ed Prince and his companion trade a glance that said they’d taken a punch, but could ride it. She sen
sed there was something else in play, a deeper strategy, but right now she had neither the time nor the mental space to ponder what that might be. She glanced down at her copy of the witness list. Apart from Turnbull’s name, there was only one other yet to be ticked.
‘Is Mr Joel Nelson present?’
The man who had greeted her in the office at the Mission Church stood up. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Please come forward, Mr Nelson. We’ll hear from you now.’
As Nelson walked the short length of the hall Jenny noticed Prince and his female colleague both sending messages on their phones. Two rows behind them, Father Starr was sitting perfectly still, his steady, piercing gaze telling her that she was being judged, and by the most exacting standards.
Jenny studied Nelson carefully. Beneath the sober suit and tasteful tie he was an attractive young man with sky-blue eyes and sandy hair. He wore no wedding ring, she noticed, and had the slim frame and well-defined features of someone who took good care of himself. He exuded ambition and purpose.
‘Could you please state your full name?’
‘Joel Henry Nelson.’
‘Your age.’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘And your occupation?’
‘I am employed by the Mission Church of God based in Bedminster, Bristol. My official title is administrative director – which in practice means I run the office,’ he added with a polite smile.
‘How long have you worked for the Mission Church, Mr Nelson?’
‘A little over two years.’
‘And prior to that?’
‘For eight years I worked for the corporate finance arm of an investment bank. Then I saw the light, as it were.’ The smile again.
‘I’m intrigued. How did a banker come to work for a church?’
‘I answered an ad.’
His quip drew a ripple of laughter from the jury.
‘Actually I’d become rather disillusioned with finance,’ he continued. ‘Money does indeed make the world go round, but among my colleagues I witnessed levels of greed and excess that made me uncomfortable. I’d started looking for something more rewarding when I went to a talk given by Michael Turnbull. It was an epiphany; here was a man who had made a vast fortune then committed himself to working for good. I knew I had to be part of his project.’