by M. R. Hall
‘So he hadn’t gone what – more than a few hours between meals? – and he was killed shortly after eating something that could have been fed to him by his captors?’
‘That’s not an unreasonable conclusion.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Decapitated. Struck at the back of the neck with a sword or more likely a machete. Several blows – three or four. At least it wasn’t done with a knife.’
The feeling of weakness swept back through Jenny’s body.
‘As I understand it, these folks are sometimes kind enough to drug their victims before they kill them, so I’ll check the bloods for opiates. It may be some consolation.’
Not much, Jenny thought.
‘What else?’
‘He was very light. The body weighed just over forty-five kilos. That’s a hundred pounds, or little more than seven stone. Add fifteen to twenty pounds to make up for lost fluid and he’s still a featherweight. Borderline emaciated.’
‘All the men come back skin and bone.’
‘There are also signs of a recently healed fracture on his fifth left rib. Looks like it might have been quite painful for a while.’
‘How painful, do you think?’
‘He was obviously able to function, but he would certainly have complained about it. It’s the sort of injury that makes it difficult to sleep at night, especially on hard ground.’
‘Any idea what could have caused it?’
‘There’s no way of telling. One for his colleagues, I would have thought.’
Jenny considered what she now knew: however he had gone missing, Private Lyons was wearing at least the clothes he was found in – boots, trousers and a T-shirt. He had been fed something by his captors shortly before his death, and not many hours before that he had consumed a meal of army rations. The evidence, such as it was, tallied with him having been killed the same day that Major Norton led his rescue party into Shalan-Gar. What made less and less sense was how Private Lyons had come to be captured. The fractured rib troubled her. In none of the statements Alison and Sergeant Price had taken from other members of the platoon had there been any mention of it.
Usual protocol was for the pathologist to include all findings in the coroner’s post-mortem report, and for the report to be distributed to all interested parties at the earliest opportunity before the inquest. Jenny was always scrupulous about this procedure, but her gut told her that this was an occasion on which she might have to make an exception.
‘Can you do me a big favour, Andy?’
‘Sure. What?’
‘Bury the information about the rib somehow. Maybe hide it away in a list of general observations – make it ambiguous. But meanwhile take a close look at it. I want to know when it happened, how it might have happened, and exactly how it would have affected him.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He gave a concerned smile. ‘You seem like you could do with a holiday, Jenny – you’re all wound up and twitchy.’
‘I’m OK.’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen you like this in a long time. You need to look after yourself.’ He leant over and patted the back of her hand. ‘Remember – it’s just a job.’
Andy’s parting words stayed with her as she drove back through the night, along with a mental image of Private Pete Lyons’s decomposing remains. They were kindly meant, but couldn’t have been more wrong. It was not just a job.
Melanie had washed up, wiped every surface until it shone, polished the stove top and bleached every last stain from the sink. Her kitchen was immaculate, as was the rest of the house. She had been cleaning for nearly eight hours, pausing only to feed the girls dinner and later to shoo them to bed. At regular intervals she had paused to pour herself a glass of wine, and through the course of the day had worked her way through two bottles. The rinsed-out empties were now safely hidden outside, deep in the recycling bin. The alcohol had sustained her in a relatively painless haze from which she had managed to smile and chat to the girls and go about her chores. They hadn’t noticed that their mother was pleasantly drunk. She hadn’t even let them see her drinking.
The kitchen clock, which she kept permanently set five minutes fast, tipped past eleven. She had had no word from Chris since he left home early that morning. All she knew from the few stilted words they had exchanged at breakfast, was that he was going to Brize Norton to meet the body of Private Lyons. They had barely spoken since he emerged from the bathroom the previous afternoon without a hair on his body. He had crossed the landing naked, a skeletal apparition. He had given her such a fright that she spilled the contents of her laundry basket she was carrying down the stairs. Thankfully, the girls had been in the garden and hadn’t seen him. When Melanie had asked him what he was doing, he’d said, ‘Protecting my men.’ No apology. No further explanation. He had simply dressed and left the house.
It was only later in the afternoon that Melanie learned what had happened. The wives of two privates in the platoon had approached her in the street to ask if there was any danger their husbands would be in trouble for what Chris had ordered them to do. She hadn’t known what to say, so had fobbed them off with an assurance that no one got in trouble for obeying orders. She had felt herself cringing with embarrassment even as she spoke. She had always been the one they could rely on, the one who put the false rumours to bed. But in that moment she knew that she had lost the right to their trust. And then there was Anna. She could hardly bear to think of her. But how could she not? She had said what Melanie had barely dared think.
The painful memory of Anna’s accusing eyes propelled Melanie to the corner cupboard, where, behind the neatly stacked bottles and jars, she kept a bottle of cheap cooking brandy. She grabbed a tumbler and filled it two inches deep. A knockout dose to send her to sleep. She heard the key turn in the front door as she rinsed the empty glass under the tap. Chris appeared in the kitchen doorway and removed his cap.
‘Late again. You’ll be sick of me saying sorry,’ he said woodenly. ‘A lot of red tape to tie up after the repatriation.’
‘You didn’t think to call?’
‘I wasn’t sure when I’d be finished.’
Melanie looked at him standing there stiffly, a stranger in his own home. His bald head jutted from a collar too large for his neck.
‘Why are you avoiding me, Chris?’
‘Avoiding you?’
‘What is it you’re afraid I’ll find out?’
‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Do you think I don’t know what happened yesterday? Do you think people aren’t talking about it all over the camp?’
His shoulders grew even more rigid. ‘There are some people who would like to discredit my men. I won’t allow that to happen.’
‘Anna Roberts came to me today. She knows something went wrong in Helmand. After yesterday, we all do. What is it, Chris? What happened?’
After a short pause, he said, ‘I think you may have been drinking. I’ll go to bed.’
He turned to the door.
‘No.’
Melanie stepped in front of him and barred his way, her back pressed to the door. ‘Look at you, for goodness’ sake! What do you expect me to do – pretend everything’s normal? It isn’t. You’ve never come back from a tour like this. You don’t speak, you don’t smile, you don’t show any feeling. It’s not fair, Chris. You’re part of a family – you’re not entitled to hide away inside your own head. Your first duty is to us, not to the men.’
‘Could you step away from the door, please, Melanie. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.’
‘Now.’
‘Please, step away from the door.’
‘Or what?’
He looked at her with unmoving eyes.
‘You know what you’re being, Chris? You know what refusing to talk to me makes you? A coward.’
There. She had finally hit a nerve. The muscles in his jaw twitched. His hairless brow creased into a frown.
‘A brave man does not shut out his family and retreat into silence.’
He stared back at her. Speechless. Paralysed. Infuriating.
Melanie was hardly aware of what she was doing as she raised her hand and hit him hard across the cheek. He barely flinched. He seemed to feel nothing. She hit him again and again. He absorbed each blow without a sound; without a flicker. It was like beating a brick wall.
Her eyes flooded with tears. She felt her body convulse as she sobbed. She tried to speak, to say sorry, but the words choked in her throat.
Chris stood impassively, watching her, then, as if his absent soul had returned to his body, he opened his arms and folded them around her. He held her close, cradling her head against his shoulder and stroking her hair.
‘I love you, Melanie,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know why I chose this life. I don’t know why it had to be this way. It just did . . .’
He kissed her forehead and tilted her face so he could look at her. He wiped away her tears. She saw the pain and melancholy in his eyes and felt eaten up with guilt and shame for having hurt him, for having been so weak.
‘I deserved it,’ Chris said, seeming to read her thoughts. ‘I’ve not been any sort of husband or father since I’ve been back. Please, try to forgive me.’
Melanie felt more tears spill down her cheeks as he kissed her. She didn’t deserve to be kissed, but the feel of his body pressed against hers and the urgency of his need forced her guilty thoughts aside. She felt a dam burst inside her and months of bottled up emotion erupt and crash up against the flow cascading out of Chris. They clung to one another, their pasts, their futures and their presents combining into a sensation that seemed in that moment, to encapsulate all the pain they had endured, and all the love that they had ever shared. She knew then that there was no life without him; that they were indivisible.
TWENTY-ONE
Jenny came downstairs, her hair still damp from the shower, to find Michael at the kitchen table dressed in his T-shirt and underwear, reading a letter. The post arrived early at Melin Bach – seldom later than seven a.m. The postman liked to start his round at the farthest point from town and Jenny’s house was it. Michael didn’t have to say a word for her to know that what he was reading wasn’t good news. She glanced at the open envelope as she reached for the coffee pot and saw the Civil Aviation Authority stamp.
‘Is it about your medical?’
‘They want to investigate the possibility of intermittent arrhythmia, whatever that is.’
‘Have you had palpitations?’
‘No.’
‘Then you probably haven’t got it. Why not go to the GP and get a second opinion? I could probably organize something at the Vale if you like – a full-body MRI, if needs be.’
Michael set the letter down on the table. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my heart. The point is they want me tested once a week for six weeks. Six weeks without a licence. What message does that send to my boss? No smoke without fire, that’s what.’
It was too early in the morning to be dealing with Michael’s drama. Jenny felt barely awake and was still raw from her visit to the mortuary the previous evening. ‘Why don’t we have some breakfast and talk about this calmly. There’s a way through. There must be.’
Michael pushed his hands back through hair that was beginning to need a cut and seemed to be showing more greys all of a sudden. ‘It’s not only this. I had a call yesterday – from the RAF.’
‘The RAF? How many years has it been?’
‘Six. They want to know if I’m free for a “chat” in the next few days.’
‘About what?’
‘They didn’t say.’
Jenny took a slug of coffee and finally felt her blood start to pump. It had been late when she got home. She had sensed Michael was preoccupied but had avoided asking him why. She had had a feeling it would be a difficult discussion.
‘But you’ve an idea. I can tell you have.’
‘I expect it’s about some incident from the past someone wants to rake over.’
‘A combat operation?’
‘Can’t think what else it would be.’
‘Any idea which one?’
He shrugged. ‘They’ve got several hundred to choose from. Them, or whoever it is.’
Jenny grabbed some bread and slotted it into the toaster. ‘Can I make you some?’
Michael shook his head. ‘I’ll eat later.’ He screwed up the letter and tossed it into the bin beneath the sink. ‘I’m going to shower.’ He tried to smile. ‘You look nice, by the way.’ He kissed her cheek.
‘It might just be coincidence,’ Jenny said, as he turned to the door.
He nodded. ‘Just so we’re clear about this, Jenny – I love you and I respect you, and whatever this is, I promise not to hold it against you.’
She was touched. And not a little surprised. ‘You’ve every right to be cross. We could be in Italy right now.’
‘Well, put it this way – if someone’s prepared to go to this much trouble, you must be on to something.’ He ran a finger down her arm and traced it across the back of her hand. ‘You’re a fighter. A better one than me. Stick it to the bastards.’
Alison woke early and slipped quietly from under the duvet leaving her partner, Paul, snoring gently. Like her, he was a former detective, but unlike her, didn’t have a full-time job to haul him from bed every morning. With the single exception of having married his ex-wife, he had always had the luck of the devil. Through a network of old police contacts, he had managed to secure lucrative part-time work as an insurance investigator which earned him almost as much as Alison’s salary. He also managed to schedule his visits so that eight a.m. was the earliest he ever saw daylight. So, as usual, she breakfasted alone in the kitchen of their neat suburban flat in leafy Stoke Bishop.
Over coffee and muesli she toyed with her iPad. She flicked from emails to news sites to Facebook. Scrolling down through her feed she felt the familiar contradictory mixture of boredom and curiosity that accompanied the endless photographs of friends’ grandchildren and middle-aged holidaymakers. An old schoolfriend was about to be admitted for cancer surgery – that was bad news. But on the bright side, one of her former colleagues was all set to run a marathon aged fifty-eight and had never felt fitter. There was a moral in there somewhere. She was about to switch off and head into the shower when an electronic chime that she had never managed to cancel signalled the arrival of a message. Curiosity got the better of her. It took her a moment to work out that what she had received was a direct message in Facebook. The sender was Danny Marsh, the young soldier she had tracked down to the pub.
Hi. Need to know what’s all this about Kenny being drunk and stoned on watch? I thought it was just ‘traces’. There’s ugly rumours going round that Kenny’s name is being protected because of his dad. Someone needs to say something before it gets out of hand. People are really angry about Skip. Just a heads-up. Danny.
Alison typed back.
Hi, Danny – you’re right, it was tiny traces. No suggestion he was drunk or anything else. Will talk to Mrs Cooper and see if we can put out a statement. Please feel free to pass this on.
As soon as the message went, Alison picked up the phone and dialled Jenny. She answered from her car with the impatient tone she struck when there was something weighing on her mind.
‘Hi Alison, everything OK?’
‘More or less. How was the post-mortem?’
‘I’ll fill you in as soon as I get back to the office. I’m seeing Kathleen Lyons first. If any reporters call, just promise them a press release later this morning. Otherwise, no comment.’ She sounded anxious to bring the call to an end.
‘I had a DM from Danny Marsh.’
‘A what?’
‘A direct message. Never mind. He’s telling me there are rumours flying around the camp that Kenny Green was drunk on watch and that’s what caused Lyons’s abduction. He thinks we should put an end to it before it gets nast
y.’
Jenny sighed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure. It doesn’t sound good, though.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to talk to Hastings when I get back. If anything was sure to start rumours it was that performance yesterday afternoon. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s on him.’
‘Maybe I should draft something – see if we can get it emailed around the regiment. That’s the sort of thing Sergeant Price could be doing to make himself useful.’
‘He’s coming with me to see Mrs Lyons. We’ll deal with it when we get back.’ She paused, then sighed again. ‘Seeing as this Marsh lad trusts you, there’s something you could usefully do – ask him to make a statement about Lyons. See if he remembers him suffering any injuries in the weeks before his death.’
‘What kind?’
‘It’s probably best you don’t know. See what he comes up with. I’ll catch you later.’
Alison put down the phone with an uneasy feeling. She was turning back to the iPad with the intention of sending another message to Danny Marsh when Paul appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in a pair of white Calvin Klein’s that showed off the trim waistline he’d been working so hard for in the gym. Not quite George Clooney, but slowly getting there. He smiled and struck a jokey pose.
‘What do you think?’
‘You don’t look a day over forty-five.’
‘You wait – another three months of working out, I’ll be turning heads.’ He smiled, with the same glint in his blue-grey eyes that she had first fallen in love with.
Alison smiled back. She knew how lucky she was to have found a man who was both kind and looked after himself. Her ex, Terry, had let his stomach flop over his waist almost the moment they left the church. No amount of prompting had ever made him take himself in hand. There was never a thought as to how being married to a man who cared so little for himself made her feel.
Paul glanced at the clock. ‘You don’t have to dash out just yet, do you?’