by Jack Higgins
Quinn shook a cigarette from a packet of Marlboros and lit it. The young man seemed to wince. Quinn held out the pack. "Can I offer you one?"
"I'm supposed to have stopped, but what the hell." He took a cigarette, fingers shaking, and accepted the light. "I'm knackered. I just flew in from Berlin and there was a delay at Templehof. You know what airports can be like when you're sitting around for four or five hours. I thought I'd miss the hearing."
And Quinn, having gone through Hannah Bernstein's file several times now, knew instinctively who he was.
"Is your name Grant?"
"That's right, Fergus Grant."
"Alan Grant's brother."
Grant looked bewildered. "Who are you?"
"Daniel Quinn. Helen Quinn's father."
Grant looked dismayed. "Oh, my God. Look, I know almost nothing about any of this, except that they're both dead. The police spoke to me by phone and just gave me the bare facts. That he was found drowned, that his girlfriend was dead. I never even knew he had a relationship."
"And I didn't know she did. What about your parents?"
"My old man cleared off when I was twelve and Mum died of cancer five years ago."
"I'm sorry."
Grant shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. "They've told me hardly anything."
"Well, this inquest should cover it all." At that moment, Hannah Bernstein came in, followed by Ferguson and Dillon, and Quinn said to Grant, "Excuse me," and joined them.
"The man I've been talking to is young Grant's brother, Fergus. Just in from Berlin."
"Yes," Hannah said. "I heard this morning that this was to be a joint hearing."
Before she could elaborate, the doors opened and an usher appeared. "Court Three is now in session."
They filed in, followed by Grant and half a dozen members of the public, the kind of people who came for the entertainment value more than anything else. There were several functionaries, a Police Sergeant in uniform, and the Clerk of the Court. Hannah went and spoke to him, then returned to the others and joined them at the benches.
A moment later, George Langley came in and reported to the Clerk of the Court. Dillon said to Ferguson, "The pathologist."
Rupert Dauncey and Henry Percy came in right afterwards, with an usher who escorted them to the Clerk. As they turned away, Dauncey looked directly at Quinn and his friends, smiled slightly, and sat down on the other side of the aisle with Percy.
The Clerk of the Court got things moving. "The Court will rise for Her Majesty's Coroner."
The Coroner, a scholarly-looking man with white hair, came in and sat high above the Court on the bench, the officials below. A door opened to one side and an usher led in the jurors, who squeezed in along their benches. The Clerk of the Court administered the oath and the proceedings got started.
The Coroner had a dry and precise voice. He said, "Before we begin, I wish to make a statement. Circumstances being what they are, and with the permission of the Lord Chancellor's Office, this inquest will consider the facts surrounding the deaths of both Helen Quinn and Alan Grant, each appearing to have a bearing on the other." He nodded to the Clerk. "We'll start with the police evidence."
The uniformed Sergeant was called and quickly went through the basic facts, how Helen Quinn was delivered to the hospital, how Alan Grant was traced to Canal Street, and then the discovery of his body. The Sergeant was dismissed and the Clerk called Henry Percy, who went to the stand nervously and confirmed his identity.
The Coroner picked up a paper from the stack in front of him. "So, Professor, you knew Helen Quinn and Alan Grant well?"
"Oh, yes."
"And can you confirm they had a relationship?"
"It was common knowledge amongst the other students."
"Were you aware of any ill feeling between them?"
"On the contrary. They seemed to live in each other's pockets."
"On the day in question, the coach trip to the rally in Whitehall, you were on the coach, I understand?"
"Yes. We'd heard that the rally might get violent, and we feared that the students would become embroiled, and so we begged them not to go."
"Did they listen?"
"Only half a dozen."
"You said 'we'?"
"Rupert Dauncey was with me, representing the Rashid Educational Trust. They fund Act of Class Warfare, the group I belong to."
"A curious name. What does it signify?"
"A dislike of capitalism. We aim to re-educate people, change their thinking."
"You mean, catch them young," the Coroner said dryly. There was laughter in the Court. "You may go."
The Clerk called Rupert Dauncey, who moved to the stand. He looked imposing in an excellent navy blue flannel suit. The Coroner didn't keep him long.
"I've read the list the corporation sent over of the charities supported by your Trust, Mr. Dauncey. All very laudable, I'm sure."
"The Countess of Loch Dhu and Rashid Investments have spent millions worldwide on these enterprises."
"But you weren't happy about the trip to London?"
"Not at all. When I heard that the United Anarchist Front was behind it, I was horrified. I went to Oxford to back Professor Percy in asking the students not to go."
"And you saw Helen Quinn and Alan Grant there?"
"I sat next to them. I'd been introduced to her on a previous visit by Professor Percy. I urged her in the strongest terms not to go. Grant told me they were spending the weekend in London at his brother's house, so I suppose that was a reason for them to go anyway. However, I deeply regret my failure to persuade Helen to listen."
"You had no personal responsibility, Mr. Dauncey."
"Yes, but it was an organization backed by Rashid that ended up at that rally and she went along for the ride. If she hadn't been in London, things might have turned out differently."
"I doubt that, sir, but your self-questioning does you credit. Stand down."
Rupert returned to his seat, having obviously made an excellent impression, and Professor George Langley was called.
The Coroner said, "I have before me autopsy reports on both the deceased. You performed them yourself?"
"Yes."
The Clerk of the Court was passing copies to the jury. The Coroner said, "I suggest a quick look, ladies and gentlemen, to familiarize yourselves. I'll give you five minutes."
"That's good of him," Dillon murmured.
"Behave yourself," Hannah told him.
"Don't I always?" He turned to Quinn. "Are you all right?"
"So far."
They waited while the Coroner examined more papers and looked up. "We'll proceed. Professor Langley, what are the essential facts here?"
"That Helen Quinn drank a sizable amount of vodka and took an Ecstasy tablet at a later stage."
"Not first?"
"Oh, no, the chemical breakdown would have been different if she'd taken it before the vodka."
"You don't say alcohol, you specify vodka."
"Yes. We can differentiate. We can even ascertain the brand, the type."
"And is that important in this case?"
"Absolutely. It links Helen Quinn to Alan Grant."
"So, let us come to him. Once again, what are the essential facts?"
"That Alan Grant had drunk a very great deal of the same vodka consumed by Helen Quinn. I identified the brand, and, at my urging, the police searched the house at Ten Canal Street and found an almost empty bottle."
"And the Ecstasy?"
"A small paper bag was discovered in Grant's left-hand jacket pocket containing two chocolates, each containing an Ecstasy tablet. I had a lab analysis done."
"And?"
"They were the same batch as the one taken by Helen Quinn. No question."
"Now let us come to the manner of his death."
"By drowning. There was no suggestion of foul play, no bruising. I visited the scene and examined the wharf."
"And what was your conclusion?"
"Or what, Professor?"
"Or he could have stepped off deliberately, drunk, and perhaps guilt-ridden by the death of the girl."
"But that, of course, is conjecture on your part, Professor, and this Court must only concern itself with facts. You may stand down."
"As you say, sir."
Langley did as he was told and the Coroner turned to address the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a tragic matter indeed, two young people on the threshold of life, members of an ancient and honorable university, their lives snuffed out. However, we must, as I've just reminded Professor Langley, stick to known facts, not supposition. So, let me remind you of what seem to be the salient facts."
He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and there was silence as everyone waited.
"That both drank large amounts of the same vodka is beyond dispute. That Alan Grant, to be frank, dumped the dying girl at St. Mark's Hospital is beyond dispute. As to the Ecstasy, there are questions you must ask yourselves. Why didn't he take one? Why only the girl? You may conjecture that hiding an Ecstasy tablet in a chocolate was a device to dupe the girl, but I must warn you there is no proof of this. Perhaps the girl obtained the tablets and concealed them in the chocolates for safety reasons. It is perfectly reasonable to argue that his action in running away was panic, even if the girl had taken the tablet of her own free will."
He looked at the ceiling, fingertips pressed together. "As to the matter of Grant's death, it was death by drowning, we know that, but whether caused by himself because of fear or guilt, we shall never know, and this makes a verdict of death by misadventure inadmissible.
"A final point in this whole sorry matter. Mr. Dauncey, on behalf of the Rashid organization, seemed to feel some guilt in the matter, because the students were actually in London for the rally in Whitehall. My own opinion is rather different. Vodka can as easily be consumed in Oxford, and certainly this also applies to Ecstasy. I fail to see that the coach trip had any bearing on events. However, Mr. Dauncey's concern does him credit."
He shuffled his papers into an orderly pile and swiveled in his chair to face the jury fully.
"So, how may I advise you in such a case and with no witnesses? Did Alan Grant slip the girl the Ecstasy tablet by subterfuge or did she take it herself? We don't know and never shall. Did he fall off the wharf in a drunken state or, in despair, take his own life? Again, we don't know and never shall. In the circumstances, I can suggest an open verdict, which is both legal and proper. You may, of course, retire to consider your verdict."
But they didn't bother. Everyone leaned together, there was a ripple of conversation, and they sat up. The foreman stood. "The open verdict seems sensible to us."
"Thank you," said the Coroner. "Let it be so entered." He turned to the Court. "I now come to the question of the next of kin. If Fergus Grant is in Court, please stand." Grant did so, looking bemused. "I will now issue you with a burial order, as Alan Grant's brother. You may retrieve your brother's body at your convenience. You have my sympathy."
"Thank you, sir." Grant sat down.
"Senator Daniel Quinn." Quinn stood. "I will issue you with a burial order. You also have my sympathy."
"Thank you," Quinn said.
The Clerk cried, "The Court will rise for Her Majesty's Coroner."
And it was over, the jury moving and the Court clearing. As Rupert Dauncey passed, he nodded and said to Quinn, "You have my sympathy, too, Senator."
Hannah had gone to the Clerk of the Court's desk, where Grant was standing. The Clerk gave them each a burial order. Grant walked down the aisle with her and Quinn stopped them.
"Listen, I'm truly sorry. What the Coroner said was true. We'll never know the truth. We can't go back, so let's go forward."
Grant was close to tears and half embraced him. "God help me."
"Maybe he will."
They watched Grant go and moved out through the foyer to the pavement. Ferguson said to Quinn, "Now what?"
"Well, if you could give me the address of a crematorium, that would be good. I'd like to take her ashes home. If you've any influence in that area, General, I'd appreciate it."
"Superintendent?" Ferguson asked.
"Leave it with me, Senator."
"Why don't you join me in my car, Superintendent, and we can get started. I'm not looking for a funeral--I'll arrange that back home--but a Catholic priest would be appreciated."
"Consider it done," Hannah said.
"I'll come with you, too." Dillon turned to Ferguson. "We'll see you later."
"Running things now, are you?" Ferguson asked.
"Don't I always?"
T hey drove to Park Place, Hannah huddled in the corner, making one call after another. She was still at it when they arrived. Mary opened the door and Quinn led the way into the drawing room.
"Coffee, Mary."
"And tea for me," Dillon said.
She went out and Quinn said to Dillon, "He was good, friend Dauncey, very good."
"Yes," Dillon said. "But he'll trip up yet. There's something there. We just have to find it."
Hannah clicked off. "I've arranged for an undertaking firm we use to pick up your daughter. The ceremony will be at North Hill Crematorium at two o'clock. A Father Cohan will meet you there."
"Meet us there," Dillon said. "I'm going with you."
"Then I'll come, too," Hannah said. "If that's all right with you."
"Of course it is," Quinn told her. "I'm very grateful."
"That's what friends are for, Daniel," said Dillon.
F ather Cohan was a London Irishman and the only good thing about North Hill Crematorium. The whole thing was a bad experience, and the taped celestial choir in the background didn't help, but Cohan was as robust and sincere as anyone could want.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
I wonder, thought Quinn. A total waste of a young life and to what end, to what purpose? No, I can't believe, not any longer. Let those who will do so, but not me. And yet, for some strange reason, he thought of Sister Sarah Palmer and Bo Din all those years ago in Vietnam.
Father Cohan sprinkled the coffin, it moved on the conveyor belt into the darkness beyond, and it was over.
One of the undertakers said, "We'll deliver the ashes this evening, Senator. Park Place, I understand?"
"Number eight." Quinn shook hands. "I'm grateful."
They moved outside and Father Cohan went with them. "You have a car, Father?" Hannah asked.
"Yes, I'll be fine." He grasped Quinn's hand. "Give it time, Senator. There's always a reason. You'll find it one day."
They moved to the Mercedes, where Luke waited. "That's it, then," Dillon said.
Quinn shook his head. "No, there's one more thing I want to do before I leave. I'm going to drive up to Oxford and retrieve Helen's things from her room at St. Hugh's. I'll drop you two off."
"Her room?" Dillon lit a cigarette and thought. "You know, I never looked at her room, or Grant's. You don't mind if I come, too, do you?"
T hey made Oxford in an hour and a half. Quinn gave Luke directions, and they turned in through the gates at St. Hugh's and paused at the lodge. The porter emerged. "Can I help?"
"You may remember me, Daniel Quinn? I'm here to collect my daughter's things."
The porter stopped smiling. "Of course, sir. May I say how sorry I am. She was a lovely girl. I'll phone the principal to let him know you're here."
"That's good of you."
They drove on and Luke dropped them at the entrance. Quinn led the way into the entrance hall. "We'll check in with the principal and then get on with it. His office is this way, just beyond the Junior Common Room. That's w
here the kids hang out."
By the entrance there were rows of pigeonholes. Each one had a slot with the student's name, in alphabetical order. They paused and Quinn found his daughter's. There were three letters. He examined them and sighed, holding one up. "My last letter to her from Kosovo."
Dillon ran a finger along the names and found Alan Grant's pigeonhole. There was no mail in it, but the box wasn't empty. Dillon reached in and pulled out a pen. He looked at it curiously, then dropped it in his pocket. There was something about it...
The door to the principal's office opened and he came out. "There you are, Senator." He held out a hand. "I can't tell you how distressed we all are."
They shook hands.
"You'll have come for your daughter's clothes and belongings. I asked some members of the staff to pack her suitcase. I hope we did right."
"That was kind of you."
"Do you need me to come with you?"
"That won't be necessary."
"Here's the key to her room." The principal handed it over, hesitated, and then said, "Your daughter was a wonderful young woman, well liked by the staff and other students. What I heard of the circumstances, it's beyond belief. It simply is so out of character that it doesn't make sense."
"To me, neither, but I'm grateful you said it." Quinn turned away and Dillon followed.
The room was on the first floor. There was a single bed, two suitcases beside it, a carrying bag open and empty on the bed, a wardrobe, table desk, and chair. Books were on two shelves, a photo of Quinn with his arm around Helen stood on the desk. It was very quiet, very simple, and yet the room was filled with her presence. He leaned on the desk, a dry sob wracking him.
Dillon put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy. Just breathe slowly."
"I know. I'll be okay. I'll pack the carrying bag with her books and the odds and ends."
He started taking them down and Dillon moved to the window and took out the pen and examined it.
"What have you got there?"
"I noticed it in Alan Grant's pigeonhole. It looks familiar somehow, like I've--" He snapped his fingers. "Of course!"
"What?"
"I've seen one of these before. This isn't an ordinary pen. It's a recording device."