by M. R. Hall
‘In a way I am, Jenny. They’ll want to trip you up, discredit you. All the Chief and I want is for you to do your best and protect the reputation of the Coroner’s Service. We have every faith in you.’
Jenny eyed him suspiciously. ‘I still don’t see why you brought me here.’
Simon stared thoughtfully into his glass, then glanced up with what Jenny supposed was meant to be an enigmatic smile, but which several cocktails had made a little crooked. ‘Think about it – you are being trusted with a big responsibility. Good jobs don’t go unnoticed – or unrewarded.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Simon gave a sigh of mild exasperation. ‘Do you really want to be Severn Vale District Coroner for twenty more years? Peter won’t be doing his job forever. And you know you’ll always have a champion in me.’
‘Oh,’ was all Jenny could find to say. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or unnerved. It was at moments like this, she suspected, that people like her were invited to step over that invisible line into the realm marked ‘Establishment’. It was a place where understandings were tacit and trust implicit, where outcomes were arranged by silent nods and only if required, by the most cryptic and oblique exchanges. It made her uncomfortable.
‘Robert Heaton tried to tell me I’d been given the Green case because the government wants to embarrass the army. He thinks this case is being fought as a proxy war in the scrap over military cuts.’
‘Nonsense. Honestly, Jenny – he’s just playing mind games. I asked you because I trust you like no one else.’ He clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Have I ever lied to you?’
She thought about it. Then gave the honest answer: ‘No.’
‘Thank you. You see, you and I, we have an understanding, don’t we? We’ve been through the mill together. We trust each other. And this case, it’s so, so sensitive. I need a coroner who can handle it with kid gloves but who doesn’t look like a placeman.’ He slowly sidled up to the point: ‘And with the political atmosphere being so febrile . . . I need a coroner I can talk to, who’ll keep the lines of communication open.’
The penny dropped. Jenny finally realized what this evening was all about.
‘Simon, are you by any chance being held personally responsible for what happens at these inquests?’
He looked at her over his glass, but didn’t venture an answer.
‘The Chief’s got you carrying the can, hasn’t he? I thought he liked you. What have you done to deserve that?’ She sensed she had hit the nail on the head. Simon was suddenly pensive. ‘There must be something?’
‘I’m afraid loyalty isn’t the valued commodity it once was,’ he said regretfully.
In all the seven years she had known him, Jenny had never known Simon as anything less than effortlessly confident. Now she saw it for what it was: a confidence that stemmed from having a safe and guaranteed sinecure in the civil service. With his security threatened, she was glimpsing the frightened creature beneath.
Jenny offered a sympathetic smile and tried to resist revelling in a sense of schadenfreude. ‘Do you want to tell me?’
Simon stared disconsolately into space. ‘It’s a long story. Not one for this evening.’
‘Fair enough. I can’t say I’m that interested in your machinations, anyway.’ She drank the last of her cocktail. ‘I’ll deal with Private Lyons’s case – it makes sense to hear them together – but I’m no one’s puppet. I’ll play it how I see it. Are we clear on that?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Well, if that’s it, I’ll say goodnight. The cocktails were delicious.’
Simon looked at her pleadingly. ‘Won’t you stay a while, Jenny? We’re off the leash, for goodness’ sake. Let’s have a cognac.’
She considered the offer. It wasn’t yet late, but Simon had the vaguely desperate air of a man daring himself to do something he might regret. ‘Promise to behave yourself?’
‘I can only try my best.’ He got unsteadily to his feet and headed to the bar. ‘We’d better make it large ones.’
Anna Roberts sat alone in the corner of the WAGs Club with a splitting headache that several aspirin had failed to shift. The excited screams of the kids on the other side of the hall cut through her like knives. It had been nearly three a.m. by the time she’d crawled home from her round-trip to Selly Oak and she had lain restlessly awake until dawn. An hour later she’d been up and making breakfast for Leanne and the teenage babysitter who had spent the night on the sofa. An image of Lee’s forcibly shaven head had stuck stubbornly in her mind and refused to leave. It added insult to injury. He had seemed humiliated. Defeated.
The atmosphere amongst the other women in the hall was subdued, too. There were fewer here than usual, and those who were scattered among the tables were mostly keeping to themselves or talking in pairs. Talking – from what Anna could overhear – about anything other than what had happened in the gym the previous afternoon or the news about Pete Lyons. It was the survival instinct at work: she could see it in their guarded looks and occasional twitchy glances in her direction. If their menfolk were under threat, so were they and their children. Anna was a living reminder of how quickly their lives could be turned upside-down, and they were giving her a wide berth.
She went to fetch more coffee from the urn that stood on the counter of the serving hatch. Inside the kitchen behind it, Melanie Norton was washing up at the sink. She looked fraught and preoccupied. Her shoulders were hunched and she was crashing the crockery as she stacked it. Like the others, Melanie had been avoiding her. Anna took her coffee through the open door to the kitchen and closed it behind her.
‘Would you like a hand with that?’
‘I can manage,’ Melanie said, with none of her usual warmth.
Anna knew this was her cue to leave her alone, but instead she reached for a tea towel and started to dry the wet cups and saucers. Melanie barely tolerated her presence. They worked silently for a while before Anna plucked up the courage to speak.
‘I saw Lee in hospital last night. They shaved him, too. And Dale Carter.’
Melanie didn’t reply.
‘You must have heard about Pete Lyons?’
‘Yes,’ Melanie said, in scarcely more than a whisper. ‘Awful. Kathleen didn’t answer her door when I called this morning.’
‘Knowing her, she’ll have gone to work this morning. That’s how she copes.’
‘I’ll try to find her as soon as we’ve finished here.’ She reached for the last saucer. ‘Leanne seems bright this morning.’
Anna resisted her attempt to change the subject. She struggled to find her voice and thought she might burst into tears. She forced out the words. ‘What’s going on, Melanie? Why did Chris make them do that? Were they drunk – is that why it all went wrong?’
‘No!’ The force of Melanie’s reply made Anna start. She dropped the cup she was drying and it smashed on the linoleum-covered floor.
For a long moment, neither said a word.
‘This all stinks, Melanie,’ Anna said. ‘You’ve still got your husband. Mine’s had his legs blown off and wishes he was dead.’
Melanie swallowed and glanced away. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘He won’t talk to me . . .’ Her voice was shaky. ‘He’s not the same . . . He’s changed.’
‘You’ve got to try. For all of us. Please.’
Melanie turned to look at her with a tragic expression that rendered her usually cheerful face unrecognizable.
‘Chris is a good man,’ Anna said. ‘He’ll do what’s right.’
Stifling tears, Melanie tugged off her apron, threw it onto the counter and hurried out of the door.
TWENTY
Jenny had arranged that Private Lyons’s body would be taken straight from RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire to the mortuary at the Severn Vale Hospital. She had been assured by a medical officer in Camp Bastion that there had been no autopsy or medical
inspection in Afghanistan and that the body would be arriving exactly as it had been found. To make absolutely certain that it was conveyed without a hitch, she drove the seventy miles across country to the airfield late the following afternoon to observe the repatriation.
Jenny was directed by a young airman to park next to a hangar, a short distance away from where the formal proceedings would take place. Already lined up at the edge of the empty runway were more than a dozen officers and men from the regiment dressed in immaculate parade uniform. Both Major Norton and Colonel Hastings were among them. At the end of the row, next to Sergeant Price, stood a diminutive but composed female figure dressed in black, whom Jenny assumed to be Private Lyons’s next-of-kin: his grandmother, Kathleen. Several paces in front of them a bearer party of six privates and a sergeant stood at ease. To their right was a bugler and an army chaplain dressed in a crisp white vestment and purple surplice which flapped gently in the light wind. All were silent. A single vehicle was parked off to the left: a black, windowless van bearing the incongruous words, ‘Private Ambulance’. Jenny stepped out of the car and stood on the tarmac alongside it.
The low, deep drone of the Hercules’s four turbo-prop engines could be heard for close to a minute before its dark grey bulk appeared like a vast, dark angel through the clouds. It slowly descended and touched down with puffs of smoke from its tyres at the far end of the runway. It came smoothly to a halt and taxied towards them. The sergeant called the bearer party to attention. As the aircraft drew closer, Jenny felt a lump form at the base of her throat. Kathleen Lyons retained her upright posture and dignified expression.
The Hercules turned through ninety degrees and came to a halt. The engines fell silent and the propellers were still. The loading ramp descended and came to rest on the ground. The sergeant gave the order and the bearer party marched forward in two columns of three. Marching with short strides, they ascended the ramp and disappeared into the belly of the plane. There followed an agonizing wait, then, on some invisible cue, the lone bugler lifted his instrument to his lips and sounded the first two long notes of the ‘The Last Post’. As he continued to play, the bearer party made their way down the ramp in perfect step. First their feet, then their legs, then their bodies appeared, until finally their burden came into view: a coffin draped with the Union flag. Jenny saw the watching soldiers stiffen at the sight of it. Kathleen held her poise, though finally dabbed the corner of her eye as the coffin passed in front of her before being solemnly loaded into the van. The doors closed. The bearer party formed up and, on the sergeant’s order, saluted. The van moved off and started on its journey homewards.
Jenny waited while the assembled company dispersed. As Major Norton and Colonel Hastings steered Kathleen Lyons towards a waiting car, she stepped forward and intercepted Sergeant Price.
‘How is Mrs Lyons coping?’ Jenny asked.
‘Extremely well, all things considered,’ Price answered. ‘She’s a resilient woman. She was at work on the supermarket till this morning.’
‘Do you ever get used to these occasions?’
‘Never,’ Price held his handsome features in a frown. Jenny could see that behind the mask his emotions were churning. It was the first time she had seen this human side of him.
‘I was wondering about Private Lyons’s kit.’
‘What about it?’
‘His personal effects – all that. Presumably it was bagged up and shipped home at some point?’
‘It’ll have come home with the company. I’ll make inquiries.’ He glanced over at the car. The driver was gesturing to him. ‘You’ll have to excuse me – I’m travelling back with them to Highcliffe.’
‘Would you tell Mrs Lyons that I’ll come and see her tomorrow. Perhaps you could arrange a convenient time?’
‘Certainly.’
He gave a stiff nod and marched off to the car.
Jenny watched it drive away. Colonel Hastings had a comforting hand placed on Kathleen Lyons’s shoulder. She was accepting the gesture, but from what Jenny had seen of her that morning, she was sure that she was as tough as any soldier, if not tougher.
Andy Kerr had agreed to reschedule his day in order to conduct the post-mortem on Private Lyons’s body during the late evening. It was a little after nine p.m. when Jenny pulled up outside the mortuary. As they had arranged, she oversaw the unloading of the coffin onto a gurney and its transfer through the rear entrance. They were met inside by Joe, the technician, who had stayed late specially, and the coffin was opened to reveal a zipped-up army-issue body bag. There was little enough room in the overcrowded mortuary as it was, so the body bag was transferred to one of the mortuary trolleys and the undertakers took the empty coffin away.
Determined to ensure the complete integrity of the evidence, Jenny remained alone with the body in the mortuary’s refrigeration unit while Joe went to assist Dr Kerr in tidying up their previous autopsy. She tried to distract herself by checking the messages on her phone, but her eyes were inexorably drawn to the bag on the trolley. The dark green plastic revealed contours beneath. Private Lyons had been short and very slim – the undertakers had lifted the bag with virtually no effort – but she scarcely noticed these details. All Jenny could focus on was the fact that the spherical bulge of the skull was a third of the way from the top of the bag and pressed against its outer edge.
‘You look pale, Mrs Cooper,’ Andy Kerr said, when he eventually pushed through the door. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ve felt better.’
Andy followed her gaze and evidently saw what the problem was. He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Why don’t you go and make yourself a coffee in my office while I take a look?’
‘I’d rather be there. But thanks for the offer.’
Andy nodded, knowing better than to argue with her once she had made up her mind. He grabbed the rail of the trolley and backed out through the swing doors.
Jenny followed behind along the corridor and into the autopsy room, where she immediately reached for a paper mask from the dispenser just inside the entrance. She hastily fastened it over her face as Andy and Joe unzipped the bag. Inside, there was a second bag. The reason for this soon became clear. Almost the moment the second zip was drawn, an overpowering stench of decomposing flesh overwhelmed the room. Andy and Joe both recoiled. Joe hurriedly drew the zip back up.
‘Respirators, I think,’ Andy said, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to be in here, Jenny?’
She nodded and prepared herself for what was to come as Joe crossed to the store cupboard and brought out three respirators.
Jenny pressed the rubber mask tight to her face to form a seal and tried to get used to the feeling of having to make an effort to suck in every breath. Meanwhile, Joe unzipped the inner bag a second time. He exchanged a glance with Andy, who nodded. The respirators were doing their job. Jenny glanced away as they lifted the body onto the stainless-steel table.
‘It’s not too awful – badly decomposed, of course,’ Andy said, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘He’s been dead for a while.’
Jenny forced herself to look. He was right: the sight that met her eyes was of human remains rather than a recognizable body. She stepped closer, trusting the respirator now, gradually acclimatizing herself to the spectacle on the table. The head had been separated from the body but thankfully Andy had placed it more or less in its correct position. The flesh was gangrenous and bore no relation to living tissue. Her gaze travelled from the feet upwards: heavy army boots rising to the lower calf into which were tucked camouflage trousers. The only clothing on the upper body was a khaki T-shirt. She noticed that the shirt was riddled with what appeared to be bullet holes but there was little in the way of blood stains. Lastly, she noticed the wrists. Dangling from each was the remains of rough hemp twine. It appeared that his hands had been bound together but cut loose at some point.
Andy drew down the magnifier suspended over the table and peered through it at the torso.
‘What do you think?’ Jenny asked.
Andy was counting the bullet wounds. He finished the task before answering her.
‘Twenty-three shots. All fired from the back – these are exit wounds. He’d clearly bled out before they were fired, so I think we can assume that the most likely cause of death was decapitation.’
Jenny shuddered, not in response to any thought, but purely as a visceral reaction. Her overwhelming sensation was of disgust, closely followed by a sense of despair that one human being could do this to another. To a boy.
‘He’s been dead some time. A week to ten days. It’ll be hard to pinpoint exactly.’
‘Can we make sure to have plenty of photographs, please,’ Jenny said. ‘Every stage. And if we can bag and tag every item of clothing?’
‘Sure,’ Andy said. He looked at her with concern. ‘You really don’t look well. Sit this one out. Trust me. Do yourself a favour.’
Jenny nodded. Despite her determination to tough it out she was beginning to feel faint. She left Andy to it and retreated to his office to await the results.
The examination took a little over an hour, by which time Jenny had steadied herself with several cups of coffee and managed to catch up with her emails on her phone. Andy entered smelling strongly of antiseptic soap along with the lingering odour of the autopsy room.
‘I was as quick as I could be – left Joe bagging up.’ He dropped into the chair behind his desk and slid down in the seat. It had been a long day.
‘Did you learn anything else?’ Jenny asked.
‘I had a look at the stomach contents – there was some undigested rice and vegetables in there along with what I’d guess were dates. Doesn’t strike me as typical army rations.’
‘So he ate after he went missing?’
‘I think that’s a fair assumption. But whatever’s in the small intestine is different – not much in the way of fibre. Tinned meat, maybe. He hadn’t gone hungry for long, is what it amounts to.’