by M. R. Hall
‘So the point is,’ Moreton continued, ‘you can expect your every last word broadcast to the four corners of the earth the moment they’ve left your lips.’
Jenny detected a note of panic in his voice. ‘I have conducted one or two sensitive inquests in my time, Simon.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘Well, what?’
‘No discourtesy intended, Jenny, but you can rather shoot from the hip occasionally.’
‘Which makes me wonder – why me? No one seems to have registered my “Somerset burr” yet, by the way.’
‘They’re slippery fish, these military types. A bit of robustness won’t go amiss in dealing with them, but for God’s sake don’t give them any ammunition. You know what I’m saying.’
‘Not entirely, no.’
Moreton changed the subject. ‘How’s the office?’
‘Rather civilized. Why?’
‘I asked that you be well looked after.’
‘Thank you, I think.’
‘I also insisted on privacy, but even so, mind how you go.’
Jenny detected genuine concern in his voice. Even when he was being deadly serious, Moreton invariably delivered his lines with at least a hint of playful irreverence.
‘Has something happened, Simon?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You make it sound as if I’ve been inadvertently tossed into a shark pool.’
He was briefly silent. She heard him give a short, strained sigh. ‘Beware the rolling snowball, Jenny, that’s all. We want a quick, clean, conclusive inquiry. No hostages to fortune.’
‘You’ve been ticked off for appointing me, haven’t you?’
‘Leave the politics to me, Jenny. And make sure to keep me posted.’
‘I will,’ Jenny said, choosing to mollify him.
‘Thank you. And don’t be shy of that accent – it suits you.’
‘Goodbye, Simon.’
She sat back in her large, reclining chair and tried to make sense of the call. Office politics had never been her strong suit, but she was beginning to have an inkling why Simon had sounded so anxious. She knew that his boss, the new Chief Coroner, considered her lucky to be still in position after her many run-ins with the authorities over the years – no matter that her instincts had invariably been proved right. She owed her career to Simon – since her earliest days in the job he had consistently backed her when others were calling for her head. Now nearing retirement and with the looming prospect of the knighthood he so desperately yearned for, he had to prove that his judgement had been sound. Jenny had, until now, naively assumed that his keenness for her to conduct military inquests had been a show of confidence in her abilities. In fact, it had simply been an attempt to neuter her awkward tendencies.
Simon had flirted with her tirelessly ever since she was appointed. Fortunately, he had been too timid to make a determined pass, even when she had been at her most vulnerable, but it was transparently obvious that he secretly entertained the thought that if he did, just maybe, she might respond. She never would, of course – married, emotionally arrested public schoolboys weren’t her type – but nevertheless, she couldn’t help being fond of him. Poor old Simon. She could only imagine how anxious he must feel with his fate in her hands.
The officers’ mess was a short walk from the administration block and situated in one of the many anonymous, solidly rectangular buildings that dotted the camp. The unpromising exterior proved misleading. Once inside the doors Jenny found herself in surroundings that mimicked those of a smart London club: thick, crimson carpets, elaborate candelabras and polished oak panelling decorated with portraits of the regiment’s great and glorious. To her left was a large dining room almost entirely filled by a vast mahogany table that was being set for dinner by a small team of staff in starched white jackets. To her right, a gentle babble of voices sounded from behind a door marked SMOKING ROOM. She suppressed a flutter of nerves and went through.
Jenny entered a spacious, comfortable lounge in which twenty or so officers, nearly all of whom were men, were mingling in small groups, some standing, others seated on deep leather sofas.
Colonel Hastings emerged from a cluster to her right.
‘Mrs Cooper. So glad you could come.’ He smiled warmly and led her to a highly polished walnut table on which several large silver teapots were set out on a tray. ‘We’ve never believed in keeping things for best in this regiment,’ he said as he filled a delicate china cup. ‘Milk?’
‘Just a little. Thank you. Does this happen every day?’
‘On the stroke of four,’ Hastings said, handing her the cup and saucer. ‘You mustn’t be shy – I can assure you, we’re far friendlier than we look. You’ll want to meet Major Norton.’
‘Well . . .’ She was about to object that meeting with witnesses was seldom a good idea, but he gave her no choice in the matter.
Hastings steered her towards a tall, angular, dark-haired man with sunburned skin who was talking to one of the few female officers present.
‘Chris, I’d like you to meet Mrs Cooper, the coroner.’
Major Norton’s companion quickly excused herself and moved off, leaving the three of them together.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Norton said, stiffly.
‘And you.’ Jenny felt the dry calluses on his palm as they shook hands. His face was gaunt after six months in Helmand and his dark eyes, set in bony hollows, appeared oddly lifeless. With more flesh on his bones Jenny imagined that he would be a strikingly good-looking man, but fresh from theatre he looked badly depleted.
‘I appreciate we mustn’t discuss the case,’ Hastings said, ‘but you ought to know that Chris has more battlefield experience that any officer in the regiment. Nine tours now, isn’t it?’
‘Is that all?’ Norton said, with a faint smile. ‘It feels like twice that.’
‘You’ll have heard a lot about Helmand, but frankly Iraq was livelier. At least the Taliban was a single entity, but in Iraq the problem was knowing who the enemy was. It felt like we were fighting the many-headed Hydra.’
‘Would you count your operations a success?’ Jenny asked.
The two men exchanged a glance. ‘I would,’ Hastings said. ‘We’ve left both countries with a sporting chance of getting their houses in order. Whether they choose to see it through or go back to their old bloodletting ways, is up to them.’
‘We did the job that was asked of us,’ Norton said. ‘Ultimately we’re just soldiers. If I were interested in politics, I’d stand for Parliament.’
His comment raised a wry smile from Hastings.
‘I’m curious to know what the reward is,’ Jenny said. ‘Surely, if you’re risking your life, you have to feel that you’re making a difference?’
‘That’s certainly true up to a point,’ Norton said. He glanced at his wrist watch. ‘I’m sorry. Would you excuse me? I’ve a meeting to get to. Very nice meeting you, Mrs Cooper. Doubtless we’ll see each other soon.’
‘We will.’
Norton left them and made his way to the door.
‘Top man,’ Hastings said. ‘One of the most effective soldiers I’ve ever known.’
‘And what’s his secret?’ Jenny asked.
‘It’s a gift,’ Hastings said. ‘He’s a born warrior. He’s just agreed to go off to Kenya next month to help train them for their operations against Al Shabaab.’
Hastings’s eyes flitted to a distinguished, grey-haired officer who had crossed with Norton in the doorway and was now looking expectantly in his direction.
‘Ah, that’s General Browne. I’d better see what he wants. Would you excuse me a moment?’
‘Certainly,’ Jenny said, although she didn’t relish the prospect of being marooned amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces.
She stood self-consciously alone for a short while pretending interest in an extravagant Victorian portrait of Captain Belfont and Thunder: a gallant young officer astride his white charger. Two more minutes and she co
uld slip away unnoticed. She turned her gaze to the picture hanging next to it: The Battle of Abu Klea, 17 January 1885. It depicted a bloody scene of red-coated British soldiers plunging their bayonets into the wild-eyed fanatics of the Mahdi’s army.
‘Not a lot’s changed in a hundred and thirty years, has it?’
Jenny glanced left to see a young officer refilling his cup. He looked no more than twenty-five at the most, but his wise brown eyes could have belonged to a much older man. Like Major Norton, he was thin to the point of gauntness and darkly tanned.
‘James Gallagher. You must be the coroner I’ve heard about?’
‘Yes.’ Jenny accepted his handshake and noted the two pips on his shoulder. He was a lieutenant. ‘Jenny Cooper.’
‘Hastings left you in the lurch, did he? That doesn’t surprise me.’ He smiled as if at a private joke. ‘What have you done to deserve this gig?’
‘Luck of the draw, I guess,’ Jenny lied.
‘Ever had much to do with the army?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Lucky you,’ Gallagher said, and took an unhurried sip of tea. There was no trace of tension or urgency about him. He exuded an aura of faintly amused resignation.
‘You look like you might just have come back from tour?’ Jenny said.
He nodded. ‘Next post along from Major Norton’s. Quite an experience.’
‘Had you been to Afghanistan before?’
‘First time and last time.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I certainly got what I wished for.’
Jenny was unsure if his answer was an invitation to pry further or not. She decided that he had a friendly face and wasn’t posturing in quite the same way as his colleagues in the room. ‘Do you mind if I ask what made you join the army?’
‘Good question.’
He met her gaze and seemed to be deciding whether she was someone he could trust.
‘Sorry. I’m being nosy,’ Jenny said.
‘Not at all. The short version is I was studying for a theology degree when the light went out. Lost one vocation and thought I’d found another.’
‘Had you?’
Gallagher was silent for a moment. ‘Your cup’s empty. Would you like some more?’
‘Thank you.’
He took it from her and pointed out a nearby sofa that had come free. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll bring it to you.’
Deciding that she could do with taking the weight off feet that were beginning to feel the strain of being wedged into tight heels, she took him up on the offer and crossed to the large and well-worn Chesterfield.
From her new vantage point, she looked out across the room. Hastings was deep in discussion with the general over some urgent matter. The other officers, too, all gave the appearance of being engaged in conversations of deep significance. She realized that far from being merely a social event, the tea room was an arena for impressing and posturing. Gallagher, though, moved among the others with an air of detached indifference. Whatever game was being played, he didn’t appear to be taking part.
He returned with their tea and took a seat next to her. The bones of his crossed legs showed through the fabric of his trousers. Beneath his uniform he was painfully thin.
Gallagher registered her glance. ‘We all look like POWs, don’t we?’ he joked.
‘Don’t they feed you?’
‘After a fashion. I wouldn’t say the food was a highlight.’
‘What was it like – the forward command post? I’ve tried looking online – there’s not much out there.’
‘There’s nothing much to it. Just an open compound made from dirt-filled Hesco bags, a few sheets of tarp and, if you’re lucky, your very own plastic bag to crap in.’
‘Why so basic?’
‘Keeps you on your mettle, I suppose. I always thought it’s a bit like being a monk: the fewer the distractions, the more concentrated the mind. Life stripped down to its essentials. Gets to be weirdly relaxing after a while. Almost Zen-like.’
It felt like a description that had been waiting, ready formed in his mind, until he found an appropriate audience. Despite his reserved manner, he seemed happy to share his experience.
‘So, tell me, what’s the daily routine?’
‘Up before dawn. Most days I’d lead a patrol. Sometimes close in, sometimes out across the valley. Nearly everything we did was on foot.’ He paused. ‘It was left almost entirely up to me, to be honest. All the platoon commanders in C Company had the same two orders: kill or capture Taliban to the south, befriend villagers to the north. The first problem was how to tell them apart.’ He gave a smile of vague amusement. ‘We took a few casualties – only one dead, thank goodness – but I had a sergeant who taught me to shave the odds. His view was, if no one’s making you step outside the gate, why do it? Poor guy lost his leg to an IED, but that was just bad luck. Could have been any of us.’
Jenny saw Hastings glancing her way while the general continued to bend his ear. Something told her he didn’t entirely approve of Lieutenant Gallagher.
‘I confess I’m having a little trouble understanding what happened to Private Lyons,’ Jenny said. ‘I read that he was abducted from the post, but how likely is that?’
‘Not very. But no one’s going to say he went off his rocker and disappeared on a one-man suicide mission.’
‘Do you think that’s what he did?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Gallagher said.
‘You must have a theory?’
‘Well, put it this way – the nearest I came to getting my head blown off was when I went to fetch a football we’d kicked over the wall.’
‘If it was something like that, why not just admit it?’
Gallagher laughed. ‘Can you imagine? Good morning, Mrs Cooper. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your son has been killed in action. Well, not in action exactly—’ He nodded to the portrait of Captain Belfont. ‘Image is everything in this business. Courage. Efficiency. Valour. And of course, all buffed up with just the right dose of grace and good manners. Not that I’m saying there’s a better way . . .’ He shrugged. ‘That’s life, I suppose.’
‘James giving you the benefit of his wisdom, is he?’ Hastings made a sudden reappearance, his business with the general concluded. ‘I keep telling him that he’d have been right at home in the pulpit.’
Gallagher gave a tolerant smile. ‘I ought to be getting on.’ He rose to his feet, transformed in an instant into a brisk, energetic young officer. ‘Nice to have met you, Mrs Cooper. Sir.’ He moved off quickly to the door.
‘One of my prodigies,’ Hastings said. ‘Still only twenty-three, if you can believe it.’
‘In sole command of a platoon?’
‘Certainly. I’ve had them at twenty-one,’ Hastings said. ‘We grow up quickly in the army. Now, who else should you meet?’
Alison’s first task was to arrange interviews with all possible witnesses. Two of them were lying seriously injured in hospital at Selly Oak. She spoke with a nursing sister on the phone and established that Private Carter had survived surgery but was in a coma from which he showed no sign of emerging. An MRI had been conducted which revealed serious and permanent brain damage. He would be lucky to live, let alone make a statement. Private Lee Roberts was stable, but on large doses of morphine. He was lucid, but the sister wouldn’t commit to saying that he was ready to give a statement. She promised to get his consultant to call later.
If twenty-five years in the police and nearly a dozen more as a coroner’s officer had taught Alison one thing, it was that memory faded and warped with alarming speed. In particular, the imagination tended to fill gaps in recollection. The human mind craved a complete narrative, preferring a false but coherent story to disjointed truth. For this reason, she liked to catch a witness while events were still raw; while she could record the gaps as well as the remembered parts. Unable to speak to Roberts himself, she tried calling his next-of-kin in the hope that she might have had a conversation with him a
bout the events of the previous week. Anna Roberts’s phone rang, but she failed to answer.
Frustrated in her attempts and already growing impatient with the lurking presence of Sergeant Price at the other desk, Alison gave up and went in search of a snack from the NAAFI shop she had spotted on her drive across the camp.
It was less than a five-minute walk to the small convenience store sited close to a group of accommodation blocks. Alison entered to find the aisles almost deserted. Her search for something healthy folded when she spotted a tray of freshly baked doughnuts. She grabbed one, and then, lured by a two-for-one deal, added a pair of chocolate bars to her basket.
‘So much for my good intentions,’ she said to the homely looking woman behind the till.
‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ the woman said warmly. ‘You’ve still got your figure.’
‘Thank you,’ Alison said, more than happy to accept the compliment.
‘I’ve not seen you before, have I?’ the cashier said. ‘It’s a small world up here – I always notice a new face.’
‘I’m the coroner’s officer,’ Alison said. ‘You probably know all about Private Green?’
‘Lovely lad. I’ve known his mum and dad for years, too. Terrible.’ She handed Alison her change.
‘You must have worked here a long time?’
‘More than twenty years. Some of these boys get to feel like family.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘I feel almost as bad for the girls left behind,’ the woman said. ‘Poor things. Half the time when the lads are away, they don’t know where to put themselves. I’m Jacqui by the way – with a q.’
‘Alison. Pleased to meet you.’
They exchanged a friendly smile.
With the ice broken, they lapsed easily into several minutes of chitchat about life at the camp. Alison learned about the rumours of redundancies sweeping through the Regiment and how hard some of the soldiers’ families were finding it to get by. Jacqui was a fount of information, full of gossip and not short on opinions about the government’s willingness to send young men off to fight in other people’s wars.
Along the way, Alison picked up the fact that many of the wives and partners of the soldiers looked out for each other through the WAGs Club, which operated from the regimental church hall. For the last week they had been concentrating their efforts on looking after the families of the two critically injured soldiers, Lee Roberts and Dale Carter.