by M. R. Hall
‘You’re Mrs Norton, aren’t you?’ Jenny said, guessing, but at the same time in no doubt who she was.
Melanie looked back and nodded. ‘I’ll do my best to make sure he cooperates. He’s not himself at the moment.’ She swallowed a lump in her throat and made for the door.
Jenny watched through the window as Melanie hurried away along the pavement outside. She looked as ordinary and unremarkable as every other woman in the street. She could have been a teacher or an office worker married to someone leading an equally worthy but uneventful life. Nothing about her would have suggested that she shared her life with a man who had spent the last ten years in bloody combat and seen more death than most could ever imagine.
Jenny felt her resolve return. This case wasn’t just for the soldiers’ benefit, it was for the ones at home who loved them. The invisible casualties of war.
Leanne was sobbing inconsolably when Anna arrived to collect her. It was the first time she had spent the whole day in nursery and the break from her usual routine, coupled with the fact that so many of the other children had been talking about their newly returned fathers, had made her miserable. Anna did her best to console her, but it was as much as she could do to stop herself from crying when Leanne asked when her daddy would be coming home from hospital.
‘Soon,’ Anna lied. ‘We just have to be patient.’
‘What’s “soon”?’
Anna bundled Leanne into her buggy, trying to ignore the pitying stares of the other mothers who had heard the little girl’s pleas. She hurried out of the hall with Leanne still waiting for her answer.
Anna had shopping to do but couldn’t face a trip on the bus into town. She made do with walking to the local Co-op, doing her best to reassure Leanne without lying to her. But every word of false optimism only made her feel bleaker and more desperate. She had come away from the hospital that morning with a sense of dread that had grown steadily worse. It loomed like a great black wave drawing inexorably closer. Lee was alive, but only clinging on. She could feel his grip loosening, his will to survive slipping away. They had taken his legs, his mind and his spirit.
She came to the edge of the main road they needed to cross to get to the shops. Traffic rumbled past but Anna couldn’t seem to move. Rooted to the spot, she felt warmth on her cheeks and tasted tears. Her body convulsed with sobs that she couldn’t control. Passing drivers stared and gawped at her – not that she noticed. The world had narrowed to a tiny point. The light had faded so much that she just couldn’t see any more.
From the far side of the road, a woman in a fraying mackintosh, hunched over and with her grey hair flapping in the wind, made her way across. She came face-to-face with Anna at the kerb.
‘Oh, love,’ was all she said. Her sad eyes were still smarting from tears of her own.
Kathleen Lyons rested a hand on Leanne’s buggy and pulled it back safely onto the pavement. She led the mother and child over to a bench and sat Anna down. There were no words she could offer that would make it any better. She simply put her arm around the young woman while she wept and stroked her now silent and puzzled daughter’s hand. It hadn’t been a good day. She had gone straight from the court to work to find that Phil Peters had discovered that she had made more mistakes. After her last shift, her till had been out by more than eighty pounds. Kathleen felt she had no choice but to resign. Phil didn’t voice a word of objection.
Still, there were more important things in the world. When Anna had dried her tears, she would take these two home and make sure they got something to eat.
TWENTY-FIVE
Paul Green had been suffering with a raging headache ever since he had been attacked on his own doorstep by two idiots who thought they were protecting the honour of the regiment. The irony was that he had smelt the booze on their breath as they sunk their blows into him. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how two young men who called themselves soldiers had convinced themselves that beating him up was going to help anyone, but he had seen a lot of bad and violent behaviour amongst returning soldiers in recent years. Bar fights were commonplace. Less talked about was what went on behind closed doors. He knew for a fact that Highcliffe was full of young women who had felt the fists of angry, disturbed young men struggling to make the switch from front-line warrior to domesticated male within the space of days. There had been times in the past, he was ashamed to admit, when Rachel had felt the back of his hand.
The one consolation had been the many warm words of condolence he and Rachel had received that morning at the court. He had feared that Kenny’s comrades had been turned against him, but he could see from their faces that his close pals remained as true as they ever had been. Alan Bryant, the platoon’s sergeant, had been particularly fulsome in his praise. ‘A hero. Brave to the last,’ is what he had said as he shook Paul’s hand and looked him straight in the eye. From a man like Bryant, whom Paul remembered as a truly courageous young corporal from his last tour in Iraq, the words meant a lot. He had no doubt they were the truth.
Dealing with Rachel and Sarah had been the most difficult part of the morning. For reasons he simply couldn’t fathom, the two of them had hardly been able to bear the sight of each other since the news of Kenny’s death. In his heart of hearts he knew it was Rachel’s fault. She had never been able to accept the idea of Kenny loving another woman more than her. Even so, the bitterness he felt in Rachel wasn’t rational. It was almost as if she held Sarah responsible for Kenny’s death in some way. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to sit next to Sarah in the court. Why? He couldn’t begin to understand. He heard the weary voice of his long-dead father talking to him after another run-in with his quick-tempered mother, ‘Never try to understand them, son – you’ll end up crazier than they are.’
He and Rachel hadn’t been back from the court more than half an hour and had barely said a word to one another when there had been a knock at the door. The visitor was an old friend and comrade, Sam Williams. They had served most of their long careers together and Sam now worked for an events security firm based in Bristol. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year. Sam had put on a few pounds and turned a bit greyer, but he still had the same keen eyes that could spot the first sign of trouble at five hundred yards.
It quickly became apparent that he hadn’t come just to offer his condolences. After a few minutes of painful chitchat during which Rachel had wept continually, he confessed that he’d picked up on a few rumours that were circulating in the regiment. He claimed he had heard them from his two nephews, both of whom were currently serving, but Paul sensed that someone had had a word in his ear. Sam was the sort of man the officers would have turned to in a delicate moment like this. The gist of it was that people were saying that the lawyers who had foisted themselves on Sarah Tanner and Kathleen Lyons were after one thing: money. Money for them and for the next-of-kin. And according to the speculation doing the rounds, they were going to do whatever it took to make a court believe the army had ballsed it up and that they, not the Taliban, were responsible for Kenny and Pete’s deaths. The idea of rich, pampered lawyers trying to turn soldiers against each other so that they could get even richer was causing a lot of resentment. Everybody in the regiment knew some poor young widow struggling to bring up kids on a tiny pension, and the thought that Sarah might land a windfall wasn’t helping matters.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Paul asked.
‘Maybe you should have a word with her,’ Sam said, ‘tell her that some things are more important than cash.’
‘She didn’t go out and find these people . . .’
‘Still, it might help to put her in the picture. They’re working for her, after all. She calls the shots.’
Paul couldn’t imagine Sarah giving orders to the man he had seen in court that morning, but he took straight to heart what Sam was saying. The army was a family, and families work on love and loyalty. The bonds which he and his former comrades enjoyed were far more important to him than
any financial reward. There was a reason he was content to live in this down-at-heel house and put up with a badly paid job in a delivery firm. He had chosen to make his life among people who respected him for what he was and his years of service. To the world outside Highcliffe he was just another face in the crowd. Here, he was still Sergeant Paul Green. A somebody.
When Sam had left, Paul called Sarah on her mobile. He could hear from the sounds of clinking crockery and civilized conversation in the background that she was in a restaurant. Somewhere expensive, no doubt – a treat from the lawyers. Sarah didn’t mention where she was – the Angel Hotel, the only four-star establishment in the town – or that Kathleen Lyons had refused the invitation and advised her to do the same because, as she put it, ‘Nothing goes unseen in this town, and you don’t want people thinking the worst of you.’ Sarah didn’t give a damn what people thought of her. She’d lost her fiancée. Her life was in ruins. If the lawyers wanted to buy her lunch, why not?
Paul asked if they could meet later that afternoon. He told her there were a couple of things he would like to discuss before the inquest. When Sarah responded with silence, he reassured her that it would be all right – Rachel was fine. They just wanted everything to be all right between them before they faced what was bound to be a very difficult few days. Sarah had responded to his mollifying tones. Despite her problems with Rachel, Paul was the closest thing to a father that she had. She promised to talk to the policewoman who was following her everywhere and arrange to come over.
By some small miracle, Rachel’s mood seemed to lift during the afternoon. It was as if the dark cloud that had hung over the house for the previous week had suddenly dispersed. Paul prayed that it meant that his wife was beginning to move on from the first agonized throes of grief and would be able to keep her emotions in check. The early signs were good. Sarah arrived shortly after four and the three of them sat down to tea in the living room. Rachel asked with concern how it was, staying in a small flat guarded by a policewoman. Sarah confessed that it was lonely and that she really couldn’t see the point: why put her in a separate flat? Paul confessed that the police had wanted to move them all out, but that he had insisted on staying at home and Rachel had decided to stick with him.
With the small talk over, they lapsed briefly into silence. Feeling the tension rise, Paul reached over from the sofa to the armchair on which Sarah was sitting and rested his hand on hers.
‘Sarah, love, you know we all want to hear the truth about what happened to Kenny and Pete . . .’
Sarah waited for the ‘but’ that she sensed was coming next.
‘But people are worried about these lawyers you’ve got. They think . . .’ He paused to choose his words as carefully as he could. ‘People are worried they’re going to start slinging mud where it doesn’t deserve to be slung. They’re all good boys in the platoon. You know that – they’re friends of yours. And look what Norton did, for goodness’ sake – he may have gone too far, but he was only trying to protect Kenny. There’s no way they’re going to let him or Pete down.’
Sarah looked from Paul to Rachel with a puzzled expression. ‘Claydon wants the same as us – the truth. That’s all. The army’s said nothing about how Pete went missing – it doesn’t make any sense. If they’re hiding something, we’ve got a right to know. We’ve got a right to know what Kenny died for.’ She appealed directly to Rachel, ‘You said it yourself last week – a man can’t get snatched from a post without someone knowing how.’
Paul sensed Rachel wrestling with all the contradictions that had tormented her for days. Her pride at her brave son in uniform was pitted against a mother’s need to know why his life was taken. Her loyalty to the army, and all the community that surrounded it, vied with her suspicion that the life of an individual private soldier counted for little or nothing compared with the careers and reputations of the officers who led them. Part of her was the proud and selfless mother of a fallen warrior; another part was raging at the injustice of losing her only child.
Finally, Rachel spoke, ‘I want to hear the truth as much as you do. But I think what you’ve got to ask yourself, Sarah, is whether that’s what your lawyers want. Kenny would have laid down his life for any of the lads in the platoon. That’s what he did. Would he have wanted lawyers tearing into them? Calling them liars? Turning them against each other?’
‘I know he would have wanted his child provided for.’
Paul stepped in. ‘Love, all we’re asking is that you let those lawyers know what you think of those boys. They’re not the enemy – they’re Kenny’s mates. They’ve got families, too.’
‘What are you saying – you care about not upsetting anyone more than finding out what happened?’
‘No, love. It’s just . . . You’re going to need all the friends you can get in the next few years.’
Sarah looked at them both, aghast. ‘You think this is about me chasing money, don’t you? I’ve been trying to work out what exactly the problem is you’ve got with me, Rachel – now I know. There’s only one thing worse than Kenny dying as far as you’re concerned, and that’s me and the baby getting compensation for it.’
‘It’s nothing to do with money,’ Paul said calmly, desperate to cool the temperature.
He was already too late.
‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ Rachel hissed. ‘Get out of this house, and don’t ever come back.’
‘I’m going.’
‘Love . . .’ Paul protested. He got up and tried to grab her wrist to hold her back, but Sarah shook free and ran to the front door.
Paul stood helpless for a moment, wondering what he had done wrong. He turned to Rachel. ‘What did you say that for?’
‘I’ve never trusted that girl,’ Rachel said bitterly.
Paul looked at his wife and wondered how the joyful, fresh-faced young woman he married had become so jealous and embittered. If she couldn’t have Kenny, she seemed prepared to destroy everything, to spread her misery as far as she was able. He realized in an instant that a life with her was going to prove unbearable.
‘I’m going out for a while,’ he said, and headed for the front door.
‘Where?’
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know where. All he knew is that he wanted to drink away his pain in a place where she couldn’t find him. Somewhere he could be alone.
Jenny made it home by seven. After a tumultuous morning her afternoon had been thankfully uneventful. It had been spent making preparations for Thursday’s inquest and issuing a bland sequence of press releases she hoped would quieten down the excitement.
She had also taken the unusual step of writing to both sets of lawyers telling them that she expected them to conform to the highest standards of courtroom decorum and copied it to the office of the Chief Coroner. Neither Robert Heaton nor Claydon White responded but she imagined that they had got the message. Whatever else might happen, she was determined to run a tight ship.
Closing the front door behind her, she set down her briefcase and kicked off her shoes. She heard sounds of movement coming from upstairs.
‘Michael?’
He stepped out of the bedroom onto the landing. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a grey T-shirt that hung off his shoulders. ‘Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come in.’
There was something evasive in his manner that made Jenny uneasy. Hardly surprising, given the nature of his day.
‘Are you OK?’
He shrugged. ‘Not bad.’
She noticed the rings beneath his eyes. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Sure. I’ll be right down.’
He turned back into the bedroom. Jenny heard more sounds of hurried movement. Something wasn’t right and she had a pretty good idea of what she had just heard. She kicked off her shoes and hurried noiselessly up the stairs.
She pushed open the bedroom door to see exactly what she had expected: Michael lifting a fully laden suitcase onto the floor. Drawers were open, as were the wardrobe d
oors. It had been a hasty packing job. He looked up at her guiltily, but also with a sorrowful air of resignation. He sat heavily on the corner of the bed looking emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Jenny asked, trying to stay as calm as she could in the circumstances.
Michael let out a sigh. ‘I thought it was probably better that I move out while you’re doing the case. One of the guys at work has got a spare room – he lives in Bristol.’
‘Why would it be better?’
‘You’ve got a job to do. The last thing you need is to be worrying about me.’
‘What happened today? I mean, not this morning – I know about that. What happened with Bramble, or whatever his name is?’
‘Wing Commander Brammell. He was perfectly nice. I remembered him. The story is that the daughter of the Danish guy in the vehicle started researching what happened when she got to university. She got involved with some anti-war group or other and persuaded her MP to take up the cause. He went to the police in his home town, Odense, and they have requested the cockpit video and full statements explaining what happened.’
‘Wasn’t this done years ago?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘What does Brammell expect to happen?’
‘He said the MOD could have chosen to reject the request, but apparently there’s a policy of cooperation with fellow EU countries. He doesn’t think it’ll amount to much, but even so, everybody’s going to spend the next few months going through the motions.’
‘Surely there’s no case to answer?’
‘That’s not the point, is it? It’s window dressing. If people see a retired pilot being called to account for something that happened over ten years ago, it gives the impression that we’re all operating to the highest ethical standards.’
‘The point is they would have stonewalled it if it hadn’t been for me. I’m the reason this is happening to you now. Did he say when the Danish police made their request?’