by M. R. Hall
‘No,’ Michael said.
‘You didn’t think to ask?’
‘What difference does it make? Look, Jenny, this is precisely why we can’t be under the same roof at the moment. I’m a distraction. And besides, if I’m no longer living with you, from their end it doesn’t have quite the same impact, does it?’
Jenny pressed her hands to her face. ‘We can deal with this, Michael. I can lodge a protest. There are journalists who’ll take this up. We don’t have to take this lying down.’
‘One piece of good news – I went to the doctor and got another ECG. My blood pressure was up but there’s nothing whatever wrong with my heart.’
They looked at each other, sharing a sense of weariness and dread that neither had the power to lift.
‘Yes, it’s best I move out for a while. We’re going to stress each other.’ He pushed up from the bed. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ He stroked her arm, kissed her lightly on the cheek, then grabbed the heavy suitcase and lugged it down the stairs.
Jenny changed out of her suit in what felt like a state of semi-detachment. Her mind was so overloaded, her outrage so intense, that her brain seemed to have short-circuited and rendered her temporarily incapable. Ten days ago, she and Michael had been looking forward to a lazy holiday in the sun; now they were being forced apart by events wholly outside their control. She felt like debris caught up in the workings of some huge impersonal machine, and what made it worse was that there was no single person, no identifiable antagonist at whom she could aim her fury. Her only option was to continue down the tunnel in the hope of detecting a speck of light.
She pulled on jeans and a loose shirt and rummaged in an open drawer for a pair of socks to wear inside her canvas pumps. Sharing a sock drawer with a man had been a mistake that she had never found the time to remedy. She delved into the tangle in search of the pair she was after but couldn’t locate them. She pulled open the drawer next to it that housed Michael’s odds and ends with the thought that they might have gone astray. In amongst the never-worn ties and underwear that had long passed its best she spotted a small blue box. Curious, she took it out and opened it to find a gold ring set with a single diamond. Simple, but elegant. Exactly the sort of ring she would have chosen had the need ever arisen. She studied the box more closely: it was new, the edges crisp and clean.
Michael was standing on the lawn filling two glasses with white wine. Still barefoot, Jenny went out through the kitchen door and joined him.
‘I found this.’ She placed the box on the table alongside the wine bottle.
‘Oh,’ was all he said.
She waited for him to explain. Michael took a sip of wine. His eyes were sad, almost desolate. She noticed he had lost weight. She could see all the bones in his face and the muscles and sinews in his suntanned arms. She had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t appreciated quite how he had been suffering.
‘I bought it a few weeks ago,’ he tilted his head as if to indicate he had acted on no more than a passing whim. ‘I was thinking of giving it to you on holiday.’
She met his gaze, searching for what he was truly feeling. Whatever it was, he was hiding it well.
‘Things haven’t worked out like they should have done, have they?’ Michael said. ‘I can’t even fly a plane. I’ve got the Danish police on my case.’ He picked up the box and put it into his jeans pocket. ‘Can we agree now isn’t the time?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Look, Jenny . . .’ Michael ran out of words. He put down his glass, threw his arms around her and kissed her with a passion that sent her back in time to their first moment as lovers. It was achingly beautiful and she wanted it to go on and on.
It lasted only a matter of seconds. Michael stepped away from her knowing that if they continued a moment longer there would be no going back.
‘Don’t go,’ Jenny said. ‘We can manage. It’ll be OK.’
Michael shook his head. ‘I’ll call you when you’re done with the inquest. Be brave.’
He smiled, and without touching her again, headed into the house.
Jenny stood looking out over the garden as she listened to him leaving through the front door and loading his case into his car. He drove off down the lane – slightly too fast, as always. As the sound of the engine faded and died away, she caught the faintest scent of bonfire smoke on the breeze. Summer was over, and the one thing in her life that had felt too good to last had proved to be just that.
Alison had spent the early evening delivering formal summonses to the homes of every member of the platoon. Each soldier had already been instructed when and where to present himself by text and email, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Her contribution to what she expected to be fraught proceedings was to make sure they ran as close to clockwork as possible. With the last envelope delivered, she headed back to the office to lock up and to double check that there were no urgent emails on the official Courts Service account, which for security reasons, she wasn’t able to access from her phone.
It was later than she thought – nearly eight o’clock. The evening was almost gone. She hurried along the empty corridors of the administration block and made her way to the office, where she tidied her desk and checked her computer. Thankfully, there was nothing urgent. She switched off her computer, swept up her few stray papers into a drawer and locked it. She was glad of having put in the extra hours: tomorrow would be an easier day in which she could concentrate on getting the court ready for Thursday’s hearing.
Turning to go, Alison heard something – a shuffling noise, a footstep – coming from the adjoining office. Her first instinct was to call through to see if it was Jenny, but she realized it couldn’t be. Jenny had called earlier to say she wasn’t intending to stay late.
She stepped as quietly as she could to the connecting door, paused briefly, then yanked it open. Sergeant Price was standing awkwardly by the door to the corridor, having evidently found it locked as he attempted to leave.
‘Hi, Alison,’ he said with an innocent smile. ‘I was just checking that the physical evidence was secure.’
Alison glanced at the items of kit which had been bagged and tagged in clear polythene sacks on the office floor. She couldn’t tell if they were as she had left them or if they had been disturbed.
‘Steve, what were you doing?’
‘I told you. Just checking.’
He was a bad liar.
Alison had bitten her tongue for days. She had known exactly what he had been doing – keeping a close eye on everything, glancing over her shoulder at her emails, listening in on her phone conversations – but she had tolerated it on the grounds that there was nothing he was seeing or hearing that wouldn’t soon be a matter of public record. But sneaking around in Jenny’s office late in the evening was the limit.
Her patience snapped. ‘Don’t take me for an idiot. You’ve been looking for something – what?’
‘I was just curious. I’m as interested in the case as you are. I knew those boys.’
‘I know you did. So why lie to me?’
‘I wasn’t—’
Alison cut him off short. ‘Colonel Hastings ordered you to report everything you see or hear in the office straight along the corridor to him, didn’t he?’
Steve looked back at her with something approaching defiance.
‘Didn’t he?’ Alison barked.
Sergeant Price looked startled. He hadn’t seen this side of Alison. ‘I’m a sergeant. It’s the army – you do what an officer orders.’
‘If you’ve interfered with any of this, it’s not the army you’ll be dealing with, it’s the police.’
‘I’ve touched nothing, I swear.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Alison said, ‘and when Mrs Cooper hears I know she’ll feel the same. You’re out of here. I don’t care what the colonel says. Go. We don’t need you here any more. The job’s over.’
Sergeant Price didn’t bother protesting. He knew there was no way back. Alison stepp
ed aside and waited for him to leave.
When he had gone, she picked up the phone and called Jenny on her home number.
‘You did the right thing,’ Jenny said, when Alison had explained what had just occurred. ‘I’ll contact Hastings and tell him what happened. We’ll move out of there tomorrow and base ourselves at the court. I’ve had my fill of that place.’
‘Me too,’ Alison said. ‘They drive you crazy, these young soldiers – you don’t know whether to shout at them, fancy them or give them a hug. Goodnight, Mrs Cooper.’
TWENTY-SIX
Jenny knew coroners who endeavoured to remain as lofty and distant as a High Court judge. These men (they were nearly all men) kept their contact with the families of the deceased to an absolute minimum, often only meeting them for the first time in the courtroom itself. For some there may have been an element of pride involved in their desire to keep a distance, but for most it was the fear of appearing too reassuring, of slipping into the trap of making unrealistic promises, that held them back from looking bereaved relatives in the eye. Jenny had never been one of those, but began to have second thoughts as Alison led Kathleen Lyons, Sarah Tanner and Paul and Rachel Green into her chambers at the old magistrates’ court on Thursday morning.
All four appeared visibly traumatized and overwhelmed by the occasion. The media circus outside the building and the blanket coverage of what all news outlets had now lapsed into calling the ‘Helmand 2 inquiry’ would have done nothing to lessen their distress. It took only a few moments watching them settle into the four chairs on the opposite side of the desk to realize that there were even more tensions in play: Paul Green, still sporting black eyes, carefully placed himself between his wife and Sarah, but even so, Sarah dragged her chair two feet to the right before she sat. Rachel Green made eye contact with no one, least of all her husband. The tension between the three of them was palpable. Jenny felt for Kathleen Lyons, being forced into their company. She resolved to keep the meeting brief.
She thanked them for coming and explained that the purpose of the hearing was to gather as much evidence as possible into the circumstances of their loved ones’ deaths. She couldn’t promise that clear answers would emerge, only that she would do her best to get as close to the truth as possible. An inquest wasn’t a trial – there were no parties competing against each other, no individuals in the dock – it was simply an inquiry at the end of which the jury would be asked to return a verdict. As coroner, Jenny would lead the questioning of witnesses, then allow the lawyers for the families and the MOD to ask questions of their own. In anticipation of what she expected would be a theatrical performance from Claydon White (although she was careful not to say anything that might suggest this), she explained that lawyers’ questions had to be helpful and relevant – the lawyers’ role was to assist the inquiry. If they strayed into point-scoring or argument with a witness she would be forced to step in. When she had finished her brief explanation, she asked them if they understood. All four nodded and murmured that they did.
‘Does anyone have any questions or requests?’
Sarah glanced across at Rachel. ‘Can I sit by myself?’
‘Certainly,’ Jenny answered, aware of the older woman seething. ‘You can all have as much space as you need to make yourselves comfortable.’
Alison assured them that she already had it in hand. They would have a row of seats to themselves and two rooms had been set aside for them to visit in private any time they wished. If Sarah liked, she could see about sorting out a third.
‘It’s all right,’ Kathleen Lyons said, ‘I don’t mind sharing.’
Rachel turned her glare on the grandmother. If Kathleen noticed, she didn’t let it show. ‘It’s a difficult time for all of us,’ she said, perhaps aiming to apply some balm. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best, Mrs Cooper. Thank you.’
Paul Green and Sarah thanked her also. Rachel couldn’t bring herself to speak.
Jenny aimed her final remark at her: ‘The pathologist’s evidence will be the most distressing. If at any time you wish to step outside the court, please, just get up and go. I don’t want this to be any more distressing for you than it has to be.’
There was still no flicker of response from Rachel. The poor woman was trapped in her own private hell. There was nothing Jenny could do to help her except get on with the job.
After Alison had showed them out, Jenny made a final phone call to the Selly Oak hospital and asked to be put through to Dr Thurlow, the consultant surgeon overseeing both Lee Roberts and Dale Carter. A secretary connected her to his mobile. She caught him just before he was due in theatre. She asked for confirmation that Private Dale Carter was still unconscious and incapable any time soon of giving evidence.
Thurlow’s answer was admirably honest: ‘I’m afraid Carter won’t ever be capable of giving evidence. He’s alive in only a relative sense. If he does regain consciousness, the shrapnel damage to his brain is so extensive that I’m afraid his life will be one of being spoon-fed in a care home.’
From Thurlow’s tone, Jenny guessed that he rather thought Dale Carter would have been better off dead than facing whatever awaited him.
‘What about Lee Roberts?’
‘Still under heavy sedation. My psych colleagues will begin weaning him off shortly, but the short-term prognosis isn’t good. Maybe in a few months he might be able to offer something that could be considered reliable, but not now, I’m afraid. As far as I recall, when he was lucid he didn’t seem to have much memory.’
‘That’s right,’ Jenny said. She had in front of her the two-paragraph statement Alison had been able to take from him. It said simply that he had no idea how Private Lyons came to be missing and that he volunteered to be one of the party that went into Shalan-Gar village. He remembered a burst of gunfire and a grenade exploding, but nothing more.
Jenny thanked Dr Thurlow for his help and left him to his work. She checked her list of witnesses one last time. There were plenty who might have something to say about Private Lyons, but very few who were present at Private Green’s death. Of the five involved in the firefight inside the village compound, one was in a coma and another was in a psychotic torpor. The remaining three were Major Norton, Sergeant Bryant and Lance Corporal Jim Warman, a twenty-year-old soldier who had been on his second tour and whom she had once heard Sergeant Price describe as the quietest and gentlest man in the platoon.
Jenny was still pondering the seemingly contradictory notion of a quiet and gentle soldier when Alison returned, having seated the four relatives, to say she was ready when Jenny was.
‘Oh, and one of the young officers gave me this for you.’
She handed Jenny a note. Jenny unfolded it. It was from Lieutenant Gallagher wishing her luck. She didn’t know whether to feel touched or uneasy at receiving his continued attentions. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes, but not often, people genuinely surprised you.
The courtroom was even more crowded than it had been for the preliminary hearing. A narrow gallery which Jenny had barely registered during her previous hearings had been given over to the press. There were thirty or more of them packed in, looking hungrily down at her from a height. The main body of the room was filled with soldiers in uniform and their families. Jenny spotted several senior officers including Colonel Hastings and General Browne. Simon Moreton was lurking somewhere near the back several seats away from Lieutenant Gallagher, who threw her an encouraging smile as she took her seat. Major Norton sat with Sergeant Bryant at the front of two rows containing the shaven-headed members of his platoon. In amongst them, incongruous as the only man with hair, was Sergeant Price, now formally relieved of his responsibilities as liaison officer. Melanie Norton, whom Jenny thought of as the woman from the cafe, was seated alone at the end of a row amongst some other women similarly separated from their menfolk. The four relatives had a row to themselves behind the lawyers. Sitting between Sarah Tanner and the female constable keeping wa
tch over her, was another young woman. Jenny at first assumed she was a friend; only later in the morning would she learn from Alison that she was, in fact, Anna Roberts, the wife of the injured Lee Roberts.
For a brief moment after she had settled into her seat, Jenny felt an almost crippling weight of expectation bear down on her. More than a hundred sets of eyes were trained in her direction. The atmosphere of anticipation was electric. She dealt with her fear the only way she knew how – with the sound of her own voice.
She began her formal introduction: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is an inquest into the deaths of Privates Peter Lyons, aged eighteen years, and Kenneth Green, aged twenty-one. Both men died whilst on active duty in Helmand Province. We will be hearing from a number of witnesses, most of them soldiers who were serving alongside the deceased, but our first task this morning is to empanel a jury.’ She turned to Alison. ‘Usher, would you please bring in the members of the jury pool.’
The process consumed the next half hour. Twelve members of the public who had received a summons for jury service were called in from where they had been waiting in the corridor. Immediately a harried-looking woman in her thirties asked to be excused on the grounds that she had an ill child at home. Several others followed suit offering arguments of varying persuasiveness. Jenny released a man who produced a doctor’s note testifying to his chronic back pain and a young woman who had just begun a new job as a primary school classroom assistant. Those that remained looked on enviously as their former colleagues made their escape.
The nine remaining jurors were a collection of people unlikely to have been gathered together in any other circumstance. Two of the women were in their late sixties. One was bespectacled and smartly dressed – a retired doctor or academic, perhaps? The other was plump, softly smiling and grandmotherly. The other three women were all in their early twenties. One was a confident young professional wearing a business suit; the remaining two might have been scooped from one of the many bed-and-breakfast hostels in the town that housed the young unemployed.