Blood From Stone

by Frances Fyfield

  My sister’s death, my parents’ mortality, is not my fault or my blame, it’s all over, now. I must say my prayers and go to sleep. It’s me and myself for all time, now. I’ve nothing to protect any more, except this.

  In his own neat flat, Peter Friel reprimanded himself for being a liar. Not exactly that, but certainly a little economical with the truth. His need to apologise to her for the inadequacies of the law was certainly genuine, but the bottom line of the truth was that he was now hired by the hour to find out why Marianne Shearer had jumped in the way she did on the day she did, and what her legacies were, and the pay was good and he had to do it. One way or another, someone in that case had pushed her into despair. R v Boyd, featuring dead Angel Joyce, Marianne Shearer’s last big case, with a copy of the transcript on his desk. They all had them. She had ordered dozens of copies.

  She had jumped to her death because of this case. There was no other reason and she followed no one’s example.

  How pretty Hen Joyce was; he would always think of colours when he thought of her.

  He looked up the website, Frockserve.com.

  He took out the transcript of the trial, read to dispel his dreams and make himself remember the fine details he had forgotten.

  No one was ever as straightforward as they looked, however colourful.

  EXTRACT FROM TRANSCRIPT: R v BOYD

  Cross-examination of Henrietta Joyce by Marianne Shearer, QC

  MS. Ms Joyce, you have just told the Court that your sister phoned you from her place of work almost a year after you had last spoken to her. You have said that the last thing you knew was that she was with her boyfriend and was happy and you were happy with it?

  Witness interrupts.

  HJ. I didn’t say that. You’re paraphrasing. The last thing I knew about Angel was that she was apparently all right. She’d been on a training course, chucked it, met a man and gone off to live with him in Birmingham. I said our parents were happy with this, I didn’t say I was. I didn’t say I knew anything beforehand about what her real situation was, because I didn’t know. I said I hoped she was happy. Please don’t twist what I say.

  MS. No need to be aggressive, Ms Joyce, just answer the questions. So, you hadn’t seen your sister in a while before she phoned you?

  HJ. No.

  MS. How long?

  HJ. Sighs. I saw her intermittently before that, mostly when I went home to visit my parents once a month or so. Angel was usually there. She never really left.

  MS. So, how close were you to Angel? You’d fled the nest, and she’d stayed dependent? How much older were you?

  HJ. I do wish you’d only ask one question at a time. That was three, wasn’t it? Can I answer in reverse? Angel was eighteen months younger than me. We were very different in temperament and development, but we learned the same things and we were close.

  MS. Ms Joyce, would it surprise you to know that the other Ms Joyce, Angel, your baby sister, told my client, the Defendant, that she was not close to you, in fact, that she did not like you at all? You had always bullied her and she disliked you intensely. Hated you, in fact?

  Pause

  HJ. No, it doesn’t surprise me. She might well have said that. Although I must say it hurts. I didn’t always approve of her, or she of me, for that matter.

  MS. Your sister said to the Defendant, ‘She’s a control freak.’ She said you would always try and stop her. You tried to control your parents and her. You always went to the rescue when there was no need. You were bossy, domineering, jealous, even, and you always knew best.

  Witness shrugs.

  HJ. Takes one to know one, Ms Shearer.

  Fuss in court.

  MS. Just answer the questions.

  HJ. I thought I was.

  MS. Your sister phoned to say she was in distress. You stated she told you she wanted to leave the Defendant.

  HJ. No, I didn’t say that.

  MS. You said so, Ms Joyce, in your evidence. You said, quite clearly, that you went to Birmingham to rescue her because she was distressed.

  HJ. If you had listened, Ms Shearer, you would have heard that I said in my evidence in chief that I went because I was distressed. She sounded lost and alone and she told me she wanted me to find him, because he had left her.

  MS. Ahh. Is it not the fact that you found your silly, angelic sibling alive and well and whingeing about the fact that her boyfriend was in the process of leaving her? A common enough occurrence in a young woman’s life, surely? As well he might, after she had drained him dry and driven him mad with her infantile dependence and her spendthrift tendencies?

  Witness clutches rail of witness box.

  HJ. I found a rat in a trap, Ms Shearer. I found a starving, brainwashed woman in rags. With polished nails and a missing finger. No one would keep a dog like that. Not even a silly bitch.

  MS. She didn’t want releasing, did she Ms Joyce? She wanted to wait where she was until he came back?

  HJ. She didn’t seem to know what she wanted. She was terrified of him at the same time. She was paralysed.

  MS. Terrified? And wanting him to come back?

  HJ. Yes.

  MS. The two don’t go together, do they? Isn’t it true, Ms Joyce, that you found your spoiled baby sister weeping and wailing because she had driven her boyfriend away, and it was you, not him, who finally kidnapped her? You did not do as she asked, which was look for him. You took her away and you took everything else you could find with you. You wanted to be back in control of the sister you bullied. What have you done, Ms Joyce?

  Witness is silent.

  MS. You knew she had to be the centre of attention, to the extent that she would injure herself to get it. She would even starve herself, she’d done that before, hadn’t she? You knew that.

  HJ. No, I didn’t know that. It isn’t true.

  MS. You knew she was unstable and demanding. And yet you, Ms Joyce, from the depth of your experience, condemned my client for the symptoms of your sister’s mental instability. What qualified you to judge?

  Ms Shearer turns pages of witnesses’ depositions, reads from it.

  You do dry cleaning, Ms Joyce, that’s your job. What does doing laundry tell you about life? Does it make you obsessive? Since when does being a dry cleaner make you God?

  Witness remains silent.

  His Honour Judge McDonaugh. That isn’t helpful, Ms Shearer. I think we’ll adjourn now, until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Pray stand for Her Majesty’s Coroner.’

  They stood obediently as the Coroner entered from his own side door, at the back of the raised stage which held his vast desk, ushered forward by the Coroner’s own Sergeant. HM Coroner was a thin man with a large head; he took his own seat, easily, while the Sergeant sat below, busily arranging his papers. The Coroner smiled on those assembled, adjusted his jacket, checked the position of the gavel on his desk and folded his hands in front of him, as if waiting for something to happen. The room was wood-lined and oblong, with a raised, square witness box to the left of the Coroner’s dais, so that only a witness would be at his eye level. The rest of the oblong was occupied by three rows of benches with elongated narrow desks, all surrounded by plenty of open space and a few plastic chairs at the back for spectators. Thomas Noble always found the place reminded him of a church without decoration, its very plainness speaking volumes about the anonymity of death. It was a little like the inside of a large communal coffin.

  Frank Shearer sat next to him, and on his left, the photographer, Paul Bain and on the far side of him, a plain-clothes police officer. There was really no need for any of them to be there. Thomas recognised the Coroner as the new model, the type who made it his business to make light of formality and talk in plain English. Speaking for himself, he preferred pomp and distance, because at least one knew where one was. Obfuscation was usually better than straight talking. There was never any comfort in a Coroner’s Court, however much the coroner’s purpose was dressed up o
r dressed down and Thomas did not like it if he himself was left with nothing to explain.

  ‘Mr Noble?’ the Coroner said.

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘Good. I can rely on you to explain that this is all a bit of formality. I shall open the inquest into the death of Miss Marianne Shearer, and then adjourn it, once I’ve explained what I do and why you have to listen to me, OK? Can I just check who’s here?’

  He produced half glasses to look at his papers.

  ‘Mr Frank Shearer, brother of the deceased, Mr Bain, witness to the death of the deceased, DC Jones of the Metropolitan Police, Mr Thomas Noble, legal representative of the deceased?’

  They all dipped their heads in dutiful acknowledgement, like a row of puppets.

  ‘And those sitting at the back?’ the Coroner asked. ‘Are these family members?’

  Thomas turned to see the three sitting in the spectators’ plastic chairs. Two journalists, which was one more than normal, and a man in a heavy coat who sat with his arms crossed. Thomas could have sworn that he winked. As he looked, a small woman came in and sat at the end of the row, nearest the exit door. She was carrying a bag of many colours which she placed on her lap. Everyone looked straight ahead.

  ‘No, sir, not family members,’ the Coroner’s Sergeant said, gazing disapprovingly at the newest incomer.

  The Coroner looked down at the front row. No signs of terrible grief, no wailing women. He could be brisk.

  ‘Good. No need for anyone to take the witness stand at this stage. I’ve got statements from you all. Ms Shearer jumped from a sixth floor window at eight a.m. on Jan fourth, and it’s now Jan ninth, OK? Are we agreed?’

  Nods all round. He wrote it down.

  ‘I’m assured that this incident is not related to the death of Mrs Ward, ten days ago. Similar circumstances, very different people. I should stress that the latter case is not within my jurisdiction and is not being considered by this court, so we should dismiss it from our minds.’

  There were further nods.

  ‘And you, Mr Bain, saw her fall, and you, DC Jones, were present when death was certified and you accompanied the body to a place where it was identified by Mr Noble in the presence of my sergeant, and you, Mr Shearer, are the next of kin? And Mr Noble’s her executor?’

  Again, they all nodded.

  ‘Right. There is therefore no doubt that Ms Shearer is the deceased, and equally no doubt that further post-mortem enquiries have to be made. For those present, I must explain my own, very humble role in all this. To put it plainly, whenever a person dies in out-of-the-ordinary circumstances – without having received medical attention within two weeks of their death, for instance; not old, not unwell, basically, death not expected – there has to be an inquest. That means an inquiry. The Coroner’s role is to establish cause of death, nothing more nor less. Not to say why this person died, but what caused it. Not who was to blame, if anyone was, but cause. In the case of what looks like a self-inflicted death, which this certainly does, I have four possible verdicts. Accidental death, Death incurred whilst the balance of mind was disturbed, an Open Verdict, or Suicide. The last means definite evidence that the deceased was determined to make away with him- or herself and actively planned to do so and only that last verdict requires proof beyond reasonable doubt.’

  There was the sound of the exit door shutting. Thomas turned. The girl with the carpet bag and the two journalists had already left, as if realising nothing more was going to happen. The Coroner frowned.

  ‘I’m adjourning this for two months, by which time I expect to see evidence which will make my verdict inevitable. Not blame, not analysis, evidence.’

  ‘Pray stand for Her Majesty’s Coroner!’

  He was gone.

  ‘Charming,’ Frank Shearer said. ‘Why the hell were we dragged halfway across London for that? He could have written us an email or phoned.’

  ‘Not allowed,’ Thomas said. ‘We have to be here, present and correct, and show ourselves. The Coroner is an ancient institution begun in the days when you had to turn up to prove you existed. I think we have to go. You might like a word with Mr Bain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if he has anything to add.’

  ‘The one who took the pictures?’

  ‘Be nice to him, Frank. He isn’t the one who jumped. He could be useful.’

  They crossed the dismal waiting room, where another posse of people waited their turn with the Coroner, shuffling to one side to let them through. It reminded Thomas of the ruthless efficiency of a crematorium. Thomas had read the Coroner’s daily list. Short cases and adjournments first, full hearings next. The man had a long day.

  Paul Bain, equally bemused by his role in the day’s procedure, stood outside, smoking, along with other waifs and strays who were wondering what to do next. The suppressed anxiety of the courtroom spread into the street, despite the brusque kindliness of officials who marshalled them in and marshalled them out. There was an air about Bain which said, ‘Is this it?’ He looked like someone who expected to be punched.

  ‘Good of you to come, Mr Bain,’ Thomas said to him with his frightening bonhomie.

  ‘I didn’t have any choice, did I? Are you the lawyer? Will I have to come next time?’

  ‘’Fraid so, Mr Bain. Next time, you’ll have to give evidence, verbally. I wondered if we could talk to you about that.’

  ‘I’ve given a statement to the police. That’s all I’m doing.’

  You gave your statement to the newspapers, you little swine, Thomas wanted to say. You’ve had your lucky moment and you don’t look as if it’s made you happy, yet. Tough luck.

  ‘I’m looking after Ms Shearer’s affairs.’ He almost added ‘in her absence’, and thought at the same time that the choice of the word ‘affairs’ was unfortunate. Marianne must have had Affairs, in the improper use of the word, and he might have to find out about those, too. Distasteful, but she was leaving him with no choice. There was some elegant man to whom she had alluded but never described.

  ‘And I simply wanted to ask you, as the only observer of her untimely death, if there’s anything else you noticed. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  He managed to make the sympathy sound genuine. Bain had a face like a weasel and the stature of a small, disappointed man to whom life had not been fair. He was defensive, belligerent and apologetic at the same time, trying not to admit he was out of his depth and still suffering something he did not deserve. Being paid well for the evidence of his own trauma was not a palliative. He was still owed some sort of compensation for feeling bad. Frank Shearer stood to one side, saying nothing, but hemming him in. Paul stubbed out his cigarette. Frank took out a packet and offered him another. It came across rather like a command to stay still. He took the cigarette. Frank lit it for him, solicitously, holding the lighter far too close.

  ‘What else could I have noticed? I noticed her, that was all. You couldn’t really notice anything else.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but now you’ve had a few days to consider, do any other details come to mind?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I saw a woman jumping off a fucking balcony, that’s what I saw.’

  ‘Could you see inside the room?’

  ‘Not beyond the curtains, no. I remember them blowing outwards, there was a bit of a breeze, I had my coat on, oh shit.’

  The cigarette trembled in his fingers and he took a deep drag on it. It seemed to calm him.

  ‘You didn’t by any chance see anyone else on the balcony?’

  ‘Would have been in the pictures, wouldn’t it? There was someone on the next balcony.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. I mean, could you have seen someone else behind Ms Shearer? You know, in the room itself.’

  ‘I couldn’t see . . .’

  ‘Not even a shadow? A teeny, weeny shadow? A movement? Perhaps you’d like to think about it,’ Thomas said, smoothly proffering his business card. ‘And then, when you have, co
me and see me and discuss it? I’ll pay your hourly rate, of course, whatever that might be. Thanks so much for your time.’

  He shook Paul Bain’s hand, warmly, watched his face turn from puzzlement to shrewdness, and ushered Frank away.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Frank said as they sank into a taxi. ‘What exactly are you up to? Christ, Tom old boy, you were practically offering the guy money up front for something. Whose money and why?’

  ‘Don’t ever think I don’t work hard for you, Frank. I’m always devoted to the interests of my clients. I was just acting strategically, that’s all, taking an opportunity, just in case. I told you we don’t want a verdict of suicide. I’ve looked at the policies. The damn policies are about all I’ve got. If it’s suicide, the estate could be short of rather a lot of money. Mr Bain has already shown that he’s absolutely corruptible, so it occurred to me that he might be willing to muddy the waters a little. The mere suggestion that there might have been someone else in the room behind Marianne does exactly that.’

  ‘But you don’t think there was? The police would have found that out, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t think there was anyone else there. I think she deliberately chose to be alone. The room was booked for a single occupant. But there could have been someone else there, and as for the police going through the place with a fine-tooth comb to see if there was any evidence of a visitor, well I know the police and I doubt if they did. Suicide isn’t a crime, and it wasn’t a crime scene. All pretty cut and dried as far as they were concerned. No one got into her room until about twenty minutes after she jumped. They would have taken away her stuff and responded to pressure from the hotel to get the room back in service as soon as possible. Apparently she left it very tidy. They wouldn’t have dusted it for fingerprints. So there’s room for suggestion.’