by M. R. Hall
Jenny started back the way she had come, with her hopes of a relaxing evening dashed.
She tried playing some music – an old Pretenders CD that was usually guaranteed to bathe her in nostalgia – but her emotions refused to stir. She was stubbornly stuck in work mode. She decided that she would make it clear from the outset that this was to be a strictly on-the-record conversation. Norton would be given a choice: she could record their exchange on her phone or write verbatim notes. Either way, she would transcribe the content and turn the parts relevant to the inquest into the form of a witness statement. She would still be skating dangerously close to the margins of what she could get away with, but on balance she decided that she was better off hearing what he had to say. Jenny had never been inclined to follow protocol for its own sake. The interests of truth, she had always thought, trump those of procedure.
Approaching the outskirts of Highcliffe, she spotted Alison driving from the opposite direction on her way home to Bristol. Alison must have seen her too – she flashed her headlights. Anticipating her inevitable call to see why she was going back, Jenny called her first.
‘Alison, hi.’
‘I thought that was you. Forgotten something?’
‘No. Major Norton called me. He wants to meet – somewhere called Whitehorse Bay, not far out of town. I assume he doesn’t want anyone seeing us together.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve made it clear that this is on a formal basis. If he wants to talk in a car park instead of across a desk, that’s fine, but the rules are the same.’
‘Do you think it’s about the phone business? I heard some of the soldiers talking – they had no idea. It’s against standing orders – he’d have been in serious trouble.’
‘He was young and in love. It makes people reckless.’
‘It’s not much better when you’re old and in love,’ Alison said. ‘It’s the poor girl I feel sorry for. She won’t be able to show her face.’
‘Sergeant Price won’t find himself very popular either.’
‘He should have known better,’ Alison said. ‘He’ll just have to take what’s coming.’
‘I’ll call you later,’ Jenny said. ‘Thank God this will soon be over.’
The route took Jenny back through the centre of town, then south along the narrow coast road. A mile and a half out of town she turned right at the sign to Whitehorse Bay. A keen and unpredictable Atlantic breeze had picked up. The low trees either side of the lane were being buffeted this way and that by erratic gusts. The low, darkening clouds promised rainstorms soon. It wasn’t an evening that would be tempting many down to the beach. After a further mile without encountering a single vehicle, the lane terminated at a gate to a rough farm track. To the right was an entrance to a car park, which amounted to little more than a levelled-off area of hard-packed sand. She turned in and found it empty – a glance at the clock told her she was five minutes early. She parked facing out to the windswept dunes and the foam-flecked sea beyond.
The last place Gallagher wanted to be on a Friday night was the officers’ mess. He was one of a number of young officers who had been asked by Major Norton to join him in entertaining a visiting party from the 1st Kenya Rifles who had spent the week training with B Company on Salisbury Plain. In several weeks’ time he was meant to be part of a group led by Norton who would travel back with them to their base at Nanyuki in the shadow of Mount Kenya. There they were to train new recruits in counter-insurgency techniques honed in Helmand. There were far worse jobs in the British Army and he liked what he had seen of the Kenyans, but he knew they liked to drink, and as a junior officer he would be expected to keep them company. He had never been much of a drinker – a beer or two was fine; half a bottle of red was enough to give him a bad head the following morning – so tonight was guaranteed to leave him with a stinking hangover. From the champagne through to the port and brandy, it was his and his fellow lieutenants’ duty to get their esteemed guests as drunk as possible and match them glass for glass.
Fully expecting to be close to incapable by the time the last cigars were extinguished, Gallagher had booked a guest room in a neighbouring accommodation block. He lugged his overnight bag upstairs and smartened himself up ready for the evening’s onslaught.
He was dressed in his freshly pressed uniform and dabbing at a stubborn shaving cut when he heard the siren. It was an unusual enough sound at this early hour of the evening to make him part the blinds. Gallagher looked out to see a car bearing the insignia of the Royal Military Police, blue lights flashing, race past the block, turn left and head off in the direction of the regimental stores. Thinking nothing more of it, he finally succeeded in staunching the cut and buttoned his jacket. Turning to the door, he heard a second siren, slightly different in tone from the first. He went again to the window and saw a civilian ambulance heading in the same direction as the police car. It crossed his mind that Sergeant Price might have found himself on the end of a few fists after being exposed in court. If so, he only had himself to blame for not steering clear of the camp. Stupid bastard. It was almost a rule of army life that you didn’t sleep with another man’s girl. Gallagher checked himself over in the mirror one last time. Everything was sharp-creased, starched and shining. He looked the part, even if he didn’t feel it.
The alcohol was already flowing by the time he entered the mess. Several of the younger officers had evidently arrived early and were already conspicuously well-oiled. A waiter approached bearing a silver tray laden with flutes of champagne. Gallagher politely declined. Drinking could wait until it was strictly necessary.
‘Corporal Harris – flat-out, cold.’
Gallagher caught a snatch of conversation from the group to his left. He recognized Corporal Harris’s name instantly – he was a quartermaster. Throughout a tedious week of post-tour stock taking, he had had far too much to do with Harris and his colleagues in the stores.
Gallagher stepped into their discussion and quizzed the speaker, a fellow lieutenant, Daniel Francombe. ‘What’s happened to Harris?’
‘He’s been found unconscious with a head wound,’ Francombe said. ‘The MPs are over there trying to work out if someone’s broken into the armoury.’
Gallagher couldn’t easily picture Corporal Harris being bested by anyone. The man was a wall of muscle and an experienced heavyweight boxer.
‘Are they looking for someone?’ Gallagher said.
Francombe didn’t know. What little information was known had come from a sergeant who’d arrived at the stores at the same time as the MPs.
‘If I were you I’d get the drinks in before they lock us all down,’ Francombe said, and necked the rest of his glass.
Gallagher smiled and excused himself. He scanned the room looking for Norton. There was no sign of him. He couldn’t help feeling that whatever had occurred at the stores might have been connected with the events of that afternoon. He had sensed the darkly restive feeling among the men leaving the court building. He didn’t have a solid theory, only an instinct – he felt strongly that someone was in a mood for revenge. He guessed that, if that were the case, Norton would have become involved. He was probably talking to the police already. He checked his watch. The Kenyans were due to arrive in ten minutes. Someone sober would have to be on hand to meet and greet them in the major’s absence. He glanced around the room and didn’t see any obvious candidates. It would probably have to be him. But what to tell the Kenyans – ‘Major Norton sends his apologies. It appears one of our men has run amok’?
Gallagher stepped outside the room and pulled out his phone. At least if he stepped into Norton’s shoes he wouldn’t be obliged to get quite so drunk. He dialled the major’s mobile. It connected straight to a message informing him that the phone he was calling was switched off. He searched his contacts file and found a home number. It was worth a try.
The phone rang only once before Melanie Norton answered with a concerned, ‘Hell
o?’
‘It’s Lieutenant Gallagher, Mrs Norton. I was wondering if you knew where Chris is at the moment? He’s supposed to be hosting a dinner this evening.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the mess.’
‘And Chris isn’t there?’
‘No, not yet. Do you know if he’s coming?’
There was a brief silence. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t been home.’
‘Right . . . If you don’t mind my saying, you sound concerned, Mrs Norton.’
She didn’t reply.
‘When did you see him last?’
‘At court, this afternoon.’
There was more she needed to say. He could hear it in her voice. She was frightened.
‘Did something happen?’
Another silence. Gallagher considered mentioning the incident at the stores but didn’t want to alarm her any further. He was fond of Melanie. He had been to dinner twice at the Nortons’ home and both times she had been more than generous. She was a woman from whom maternal warmth seemed to flow effortlessly.
‘I don’t know what happened in Helmand,’ Melanie said, her voice unsteady now. ‘But I know he isn’t the same man he was before he went. I told him to tell the truth . . . to tell the truth or . . . I told him I couldn’t be with a man who—’
‘It’s all right. I get the picture,’ Gallagher said. ‘Look, I’ll track him down for you. I’ll give you a call. Oh, and if he calls you, call me. All right?’
‘Thanks, James. I will. Thank you.’
Gallagher didn’t stop to discuss arrangements with his fellow officers. They had commanded platoons in Helmand, they could organize a drunken dinner. He hurried out of the mess and jumped into his car.
There was cordon tape across the approach road to the stores and a redcap standing guard. Gallagher jumped out of his car and approached him. Outside the stores he could see two military police cars and a flurry of activity.
‘I’m looking for Major Norton. Do you know if he’s here?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
‘Could you ask someone? It’s urgent.’
The redcap called through on his radio and relayed the query. The answer came back negative. Major Norton wasn’t with them.
Gallagher asked him if it was true that Harris had been assaulted and that there had been a break-in at the armoury.
‘That’s what we’re investigating.’
‘Well, tell whoever’s running things that they should probably start with Major Norton.’
‘Sir?’
‘Major Christopher Norton. My commanding officer. He’s missing.’
Gallagher turned back to his car, not sure what to do or where to look. He thought back to the last moments in court that afternoon and tried to reason through what it would have meant to Norton. He was a man renowned for running a tight ship. He and Bryant were the most disciplined team in the regiment. It was what they were known for. They were legends. To have all that shattered, to be publicly portrayed as sloppy – to have a man go missing and another one using a smuggled-in phone for six months. It was humiliating, but enough to flip and steal a weapon from the armoury? And who would he shoot – one of his men? No. Gallagher dismissed the thought. They’d all been steadfastly loyal, even the few who’d been tricked by the lawyers.
What had Melanie said? She had told him to tell the truth. Then he remembered Jenny’s closing words – her plea to the members of the platoon and their loved ones, and her invitation to contact her office with any further evidence. Norton had held fast until now, but had something changed?
Gallagher dialled Jenny’s number. If Norton had tried to make contact with her, at least it would provide a clue. After several rings he reached an automated message: ‘The number you are calling is not available.’ He brought up his internet browser and searched for ‘Severn Vale Coroner’. It led him to an official website and an emergency contact number. A dab of the finger and he was calling it. It rang several times. There followed a click and a different ringing tone as his call was diverted.
It was Alison who answered from her moving car. She had turned off the motorway and was threading through the suburban streets of Stoke Bishop, nearing her home.
‘This is Lieutenant James Gallagher. I’m trying to reach Jenny Cooper.’
‘You’ve reached her officer, Alison Trent.’
‘I work with Major Norton. I need to know if he’s been in contact with you or Mrs Cooper?’
‘Right. For any particular reason?’
There was no time to sugar the pill. ‘He’s missing. He may be armed. I’m concerned for his state of mind.’
‘Oh,’ Alison said. ‘Oh, dear.’
Jenny spotted the army Land Rover, painted desert khaki, in her wing mirror as it turned into the car park. Norton was at the wheel, alone, in the dress uniform and cap he had worn to court. He drove in front of her, then reversed to park alongside her to her left. Jenny reached for the blue legal notebook and pen she had ready on the passenger seat: she wanted it to feel like a formal encounter from the outset.
Norton climbed out of the Land Rover and came to her passenger door. The briskness of his movements was exaggerated by the thinness of his limbs. Stripped of excess flesh, his body had taken on a mechanical, machine-like quality. Jenny gestured to him to climb in. His eyes quickly scanned the surrounding area as if looking for hidden spies, then he joined her.
‘Mrs Cooper. Thank you for taking this time.’
‘Not a problem. You don’t mind if I take notes?’
‘Whatever you deem appropriate.’
He sat erect in his seat, staring out through the windscreen at the sea. He made no attempt to connect. All he presented was an outward form. A shell. Jenny searched for signs of the human being beneath but detected none. The emotional man, the father, the lover, all the things he must once have been, were locked away in an unreachable vault.
‘You said you might have something to say?’ Jenny said.
‘Yes . . .’
She waited. His face flickered, not with feeling but with conflict. She sensed a struggle taking place beneath the surface.
‘Yes,’ he repeated, seeming to reach a conclusion. ‘I wished to tell you something about my career . . . To provide you with some context.’
‘Feel free,’ Jenny said, in as relaxed a manner as she could manage.
Norton clenched his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose.
‘As you may be aware, I have seen many tours of duty over the last dozen or so years. I have served in Afghanistan and Iraq, always under Colonel Hastings’s command, and mostly with Sergeant Bryant at my side. In Iraq we worked alongside Special Forces. Our job was to kill or capture insurgents. Post-invasion, the country splintered into fragments. There were more terrorist factions than we could count. Every local gangster and religious maniac had his own armed band looking to carve out a piece of turf. We sniffed them out, recruited informers, kicked down their doors, arrested them, shot them if we had to. On and on it went. Week after week. Month after month. I couldn’t tell you how many times a bullet has whistled past my ear or a bomb exploded just around the corner from where I was standing. I shouldn’t just be dead, Mrs Cooper, I should be dead twenty times over . . . But it was never me. I had the luck of the devil. It was the men around me who fell.’ He paused and glanced across at her. ‘You’re not taking notes.’
‘I only have to record evidence.’ She smiled, suddenly feeling more like a therapist than a coroner.
‘I hold two records, Mrs Cooper, only one of which I am proud of. Outside of the SAS, over the last decade I have been personally responsible for the apprehension and elimination of more enemy insurgents than any other British officer. But I have also lost the most men under my command. In Iraq we kept score of our successes, it was like a game – who had the highest head count. Richard Hastings was a major at the time – he wanted to win. We were attritional, relentless. He didn’t seem to regret the loss
of life in quite the same way as I did. Some men seem to have an extra skin; well, that’s him. It certainly got results. Promotions. Kudos. Decorations.
‘It’s a philosophy Hastings carried through to Helmand, only he was behind a desk by then. Like stamping on ants, he said. Kill enough and the colony dies from within. How many this week? What’s the score? Are they still crawling out of their holes? They never stopped coming. They never would . . . And I kept on scooping up young men and sending them home in pieces. Arms. Legs. Guts by the bloody armful. And for what? . . . I’ll tell you something about those goat-fuckers we were meant to be protecting – they hate us. They haven’t stopped hating us since 1839. British, American, Russian, it’s all the same to them. Foreigners. Devils. They’ve never heard of the UN or President Bush. They’ve never seen a map, they don’t read or write – the beginning and end of their world is that valley. Ignorance you won’t even begin to comprehend . . . And we expect them to learn a lesson and be grateful.’
Norton closed his eyes as if overcome by a sudden weariness; as if the effort of maintaining the buttoned-up front had become too great and crushed his spirit.
‘Tell me about Private Lyons,’ Jenny prompted. ‘Is there anything more I should know?’
‘He did his best, but shouldn’t have been there. He was just a boy.’
‘What about his injury?’
‘Sergeant Bryant struggled to keep him in line. Sometimes a young soldier needs a kick. Lyons needed several. You don’t have discipline without fear, Mrs Cooper. Fear is necessary.’
Jenny wrote down his reply. ‘Did he leave the post to look for his goggles?’
‘It’s hard to fathom an immature mind . . . But I can’t think of any other explanation.’
‘It must have taken more than fear to make him do that. He must have been terrified.’
‘He probably was. But if you send a boy to war, what can you expect?’ Norton let out a sound – a grunt of resignation. He shook his head. ‘Skippy, we called him. Skipped like a lamb. Truthfully, I never expected to bring him home.’
Jenny let him have his moment of grief. He turned his face away from her. His jaw clenched tight. She felt an urge to put an arm around him, to let him cry and have it all spill out.