by M. R. Hall
In a drab, oppressive room, Jenny confronted her interrogators across a table stained with the rings of a thousand cups of the weak, sugary coffee that was the only refreshment on offer. Fuller laboured through the formalities with the sinister fastidiousness Jenny supposed she had developed to intimidate the child-molesters, wife-beaters and other inadequates she spent the bulk of her working life pursuing.
Giving the impression she had all the time in the world, Fuller finally opened her small black notebook and read aloud the notes she had made in Jenny’s office immediately after her arrest. They recorded precisely Jenny’s account of removing the two bags from the evidence and effects store at the D-Mort and taking them back to her office, the procedure she went through in filming their unsealing, and her subsequent trip to the left-luggage office at Paddington. She had a mastery of detail, Jenny could give her that.
‘Do you accept that what I have just read to you is a fair and accurate record of what you told me earlier today?’ she asked.
‘It’s entirely accurate,’ Jenny said.
‘And you admit that you removed the items from the evidence and effects store without permission?’
‘I didn’t require permission,’ Jenny said. ‘I am a coroner lawfully conducting an inquest. The bags contained evidence relevant to my inquiry.’
‘Did you abide by the procedures laid down in the Coroners and Justice Act? Schedule 5 requires you to have the permission of a senior coroner before entering and searching any premises for the purposes of obtaining evidence.’
‘I didn’t. And the reason I didn’t was that it had already been made perfectly apparent that no such permission would have been granted.’
‘So you admit you were acting outside the law?’
‘On the contrary: I was seeking to ensure that evidence the law requires to be examined was obtained for my inquiry. The Ministry of Justice and Sir James Kendall, on the other hand, are the ones failing properly to apply the law. We could argue about it until we’re blue in the face, but the proper place for that argument is the High Court, not a police station.’
Fuller persisted, ‘But you accept that the property was not yours to take.’
‘I accept no such thing. And what’s more, you should know that the law of theft requires an intention permanently to deprive the owner of his or her property. I had no such intention. I took temporary possession for the purposes of my inquest, nothing more.’
Jenny’s assertions were part strict legal fact, part bluster and argument, but it was enough to make Fuller unsure of her ground. She wasn’t the brightest detective Jenny had ever met, but she was smart enough to want to avoid becoming embroiled in a claim of unlawful arrest. Less than fifteen minutes into the interview she suspended her questioning and left Jenny alone in an empty room for nearly the best part of three hours while she consulted with Crown Prosecution Service lawyers.
It was the middle of the evening when Fuller and Ashton returned. They appeared calm and relaxed, as if they’d both enjoyed a good dinner in the police canteen. Jenny had had only some lukewarm coffee and a stale biscuit. The effects of the beta blocker had worn off and she was fast becoming anxious and jittery. Fuller sensed it as soon as she stepped through the door.
‘Sorry to have kept you, Mrs Cooper. Why lawyers can’t give a straight answer when you need one is beyond me.’ She eased her solidly built body into the chair opposite, carrying the smell of the canteen on her clothes.
‘Because there isn’t one?’ Jenny countered.
‘We got there in the end,’ Fuller said. ‘The good news from your point of view is that the CPS are dubious about a burglary charge. They’re not too confident about attempting to pervert the course of justice, either. Even better news, they’re not sure that what you did at the left-luggage office amounted to fraud.’
Jenny nodded, trying hard to disguise her elation.
Fuller switched on the tape recorder. ‘Interview resumed at twenty-one-oh-eight. Persons present: Detective Sergeant Karen Fuller, Detective Constable Ewan Ashton and suspect Mrs Jenny Cooper. Before we continue, Mrs Cooper, do you require a solicitor to be present?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. This won’t take long.’ She referred to a set of notes she had brought back with her. ‘Thank you for your patience. The purpose of this resumed interview is simply to clarify a couple of points we discussed earlier. In the video you took of yourself opening the evidence bags, you describe removing a left-luggage ticket from the wallet. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you took that ticket to the left-luggage office at Paddington Station?’
‘I did.’
‘What then happened to the ticket?’
‘I imagine it was thrown away.’
‘You didn’t retain it?’
‘No. I exchanged it for Miss Casey’s left luggage: a laptop computer.’
‘Thank you,’ Fuller said. She exchanged a glance with the detective constable, who had remained silent throughout. ‘Anything you wish to add?’
‘No. That covers it,’ he replied.
Fuller turned to Jenny. ‘Our lawyers have advised us that the lawful owner of that ticket is Miss Casey’s next of kin. You have permanently deprived him of it, and are therefore guilty of theft.’
‘You are joking?’
‘It wasn’t yours to dispose of, Mrs Cooper. You know the law.’
‘You’re charging me with the theft of a scrap of paper?’
‘Yes. Interview terminated at twenty-one-thirteen.’ Fuller switched off the tape recorder. ‘But you know lawyers – they’re bound to have changed their minds by the morning. I’m in no particular hurry. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’
For the second time during her tenure as coroner, Jenny suffered the humiliation of being booked into a police cell. So much for innocent until proven guilty. They took away her few possessions and stripped her of her jewellery. She was fingerprinted, photographed, DNA-swabbed and subjected to a humiliating search before being locked in a graffiti-stained cell whose thick walls did nothing to muffle the screams and yells of the drunks, junkies and streetwalkers who were to be her neighbours for the night.
She sat hugging her knees on the hard cot shelf feeling shocked and numb, but as much as she tried, she couldn’t imagine having done anything differently.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘MRS COOPER?’
Jenny opened her eyes and blinked against the harsh fluorescent light. Alison was standing in the doorway of the cell alongside the custody sergeant.
‘I’ve come to bail you out.’
Slowly coming to consciousness, Jenny swung her feet over the edge of the shelf and onto the hard floor. Everything ached. Her neck was cricked and she had lost all sensation in one arm.
‘What time is it?’ she croaked.
‘Six. You’ve got to be back here for another interview at ten. I thought you’d appreciate a wash and change of clothes.’
Jenny hoisted herself to her feet. ‘What about the inquest?’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. I’ve told everyone it’s postponed. Come on, let’s get you out of here.’
Alison led her along the narrow corridor, through the reception area and out of the security door into the biting pre-dawn air. Neither spoke as they made their way the short distance along the street to where Alison had parked, but in the confined space of the car the tension between them mounted until neither could bear the silence any longer.
‘You might as well spit it out,’ Jenny said.
Alison stared at the road ahead.
‘You’ve had enough, I don’t blame you.’ Jenny sighed. ‘But thanks for rescuing me. I appreciate it.’
Alison gave her a concerned glance. ‘Do you think you’re quite all right, Mrs Cooper? You have been under a lot of strain—’
‘Don’t believe everything Simon Moreton tells you.’
‘This is very serious. I don’t think you should be flippant
. If I were you I’d be getting a good lawyer. Why don’t I make some calls for you?’
‘Before you leave, you mean?’ Jenny instantly regretted her acid remark. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t blame you, honestly. I know I haven’t exactly been easy to work with.’
Alison turned off a deserted Whiteladies Road and into Jamaica Street. ‘I wasn’t intending to mention my future, but now you’ve brought it up I might as well tell you that I will be handing in my resignation. I’ll work out my four weeks’ notice, of course.’ She pulled over into a space behind Jenny’s Land Rover.
‘What will you do?’ Jenny said, feeling more than a little betrayed now that the inevitable moment had finally arrived.
‘There’s plenty of time to work that out.’
‘You’ll miss it.’
‘We’ll see. I really should drive you home – you’re not in any fit state.’
‘I’m fine.’ Jenny reached for the door handle.
‘You forgot this.’ Alison handed her the bail sheet, which she had left on the parcel shelf. ‘For God’s sake make sure you’re back at the station before ten. It was hard enough getting you out this time – I don’t think Fuller likes you.’
‘I don’t exactly have a crush on her either.’ Jenny tucked the sheet into her pocket and climbed out of the car. Before closing the door, she said, ‘I don’t suppose there have been any messages from Michael Sherman?’
Alison shook her head.
‘No. Of course not.’
The police had at least shown the decency to break down the kitchen door, which couldn’t be seen from the lane, but that was as far as their generosity had extended.
Every shelf and cupboard had been ransacked. Her study had been turned upside down. The floor was ankle-deep in paper, the drawers of her filing cabinet in an upturned heap on top of them. Both Nuala’s laptops were gone, as well as the box of USB sticks on which Jenny backed up all her own files. Upstairs they had tossed her clothes into a single heap on the bed. Some kind soul had found the few items of silk underwear she possessed and spread them out on top. She would have felt less violated by a gang of drug-crazed burglars.
The chaos was too overwhelming to begin to deal with. She extracted some clothes from the tangled pile and carried them through to the bathroom. Her most urgent need was to wash the smell of the cells out of her hair. By the time she had showered, dressed and tried to hide the lines that had aged her ten years overnight, it was nearly eight o’clock. It would take forty-five minutes to drive back to the police station, which left her a little over an hour to decide her next move. Shutting her eyes to the mess, she made her way back downstairs.
From amongst the pans and utensils littering the kitchen floor, she picked out the stove-top espresso pot she had owned since before she was married. She made the strongest coffee she could and steeled herself to return to her study to check her messages. There were none, or at least none the police hadn’t already listened to and deleted. Out of curiosity she checked the number of the last caller and saw that her ex-husband had tried to phone late the previous night. He must have heard about her arrest on the local grapevine. Great.
She fetched out her mobile and retrieved DI Williams’s number. He answered from his car.
‘Mrs Cooper? I thought you were in Bristol nick.’
‘I got bail, well, four hours’ worth. I suppose you gave up on those witnesses?’
‘You know me better than that. Like you said – I’ve got grounds for a criminal investigation.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly, Mrs Cooper. I’ve got a team of boys heading for Dalton’s place, another on their way to Cambridge and I’m currently driving past Harrods thinking I wouldn’t live in this hell-hole if you paid me – eight o’clock in the morning and it’s bloody pandemonium.’
‘Does anyone else know what you’re doing?’
‘Only my super, but he’s as sound as a bell. Pembrokeshire man – loathes the bloody English.’
‘Well, keep it that way. Call me when you’ve got news.’
‘Will do. You look after yourself.’
Jenny rang off and dialled Michael’s number. Frankly, he didn’t deserve her attention, but she felt he ought to know that she had got herself arrested and more than likely lost her job trying to find out what had happened to his ex-girlfriend. She expected to get the usual automated message with which he seemed to screen all his calls, but there was no answer service of any kind, just a voice saying the number she had dialled was unavailable. She dialled directories, requested the number for Sky Drivers and ended up with another machine; this one informing her that office hours were between nine a.m. and six p.m. She felt a surge of anger. How dare he ignore her after all that had happened? She looked at the time: it was ten past eight. If she drove quickly she might just make it.
Jenny pulled into the car park next to the Sky Drivers office at Bristol airport at shortly after nine. Making her way to the block that housed the offices of the small airlines and freight companies, she scanned the rows of parked cars looking for the old blue Saab she remembered seeing Michael driving, but there was no sign.
Sky Drivers inhabited a small set of rooms on the third floor. Jenny arrived outside on the landing, pushed through the door to the compact reception area and found it empty.
‘Hello?’
A girl with a belly ring showing above the waistband of her trousers drifted vaguely through from a back room carrying a mug of herbal tea. She clearly wasn’t expecting visitors.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Jenny Cooper – Severn Vale District Coroner. I’m looking for Michael Sherman.’
‘Mike?’
‘Yes. I need to speak to him. He’s not answering his phone.’
‘Right.’ The girl sat in the swivel chair behind the desk and blinked through puffy eyes at her computer screen. ‘I’ve got a feeling he booked himself out.’ She brought up a spreadsheet and located Michael’s name. ‘Yeah – four days. Actually, he’s not back until next Monday.’
‘Do you have any idea where he is?’
The girl looked up at her with a hint of suspicion. ‘Are you something to do with the inquiry into the plane crash?’
‘Yes, I’m a coroner,’ Jenny said, and, responding to some gut instinct, asked, ‘has he mentioned it?’
‘Kind of . . .’ She appeared a little confused.
‘You said he booked himself out. Is this something he did recently?’
She glanced back at the screen. ‘Yesterday . . .’
‘You seem unsure.’
‘No, it’s just that I thought it might be something to do with you – or with the inquiry, I mean . . . what with his girlfriend being on board and everything.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Nuala . . . Nuala Casey.’
‘I know who she is. I thought their relationship had been over for some time.’
‘Yeah, so did I, I guess.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jenny said. ‘Were they together or weren’t they?’
‘Oh . . . I’m not really sure I should be talking about it.’
‘I’m asking you – formally – was Michael Sherman in a relationship with Nuala Casey immediately before she died?’
The girl hesitated, realizing she had crossed some sort of line and no longer had the option to retreat. ‘I don’t know about immediately, but she came by a few weeks ago to meet him.’
‘When?’
‘Just after Christmas, I think . . .’ She clicked over to a screen containing a diary. ‘It would have been around the 28th. He and I were the only ones sad enough to be working.’
‘What did she want?’
‘She came to meet him, that’s all. She sat over there and waited for him to come back from a flight.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Quiet . . . She didn’t talk much. I think she was doing something on a computer.’
‘What about when Michael arrived – did they seem
close?’
‘Friendly. I’m not sure they kissed or anything . . .’ She pulled a face as she tried to remember, as if something wasn’t quite sitting comfortably in her recollection. ‘You know, I’m not sure he was expecting to see her. That’s right, I think he was a bit surprised. It was almost as if she’d come to break some news to him or something.’
‘Did you hear their conversation?’
She shook her head. ‘No. They left pretty quickly.’
December 28th. Jenny thought back to the entries in the diary on Nuala’s laptop. She had cancelled a flight on that day. And on the 29th she had been at the spa at the Cavendish Hotel in Berkshire. Had Michael been lying to her about his relationship with Nuala? Why would he do that? Did he know more than he had told her?
Jenny said, ‘Do you know what Michael was doing on 29 December?’
The girl gave her a guarded look. ‘Is he in some sort of trouble?’
‘No . . . Please, just tell me where he was.’
She consulted her screen. ‘He was flying. He took a family party over to Guernsey at ten in the morning and flew back that afternoon.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I arranged it myself. They’re some of our best clients – the Colthards, you know, the National Hunt trainers. They always ask for Michael. I think they like the fact he was in the RAF.’
‘And Nuala didn’t come here again?’
‘No . . . But she hadn’t been here for, well, nearly a year, I suppose.’
‘Did he ever talk about her?’
‘He doesn’t really talk about anyone.’
It sounded as if Nuala had come to seek him out, but why? And why hadn’t Michael told her? He was hiding something, he had to be. Jenny glanced at the clock behind the desk. It was nine-fifteen. If she didn’t leave soon she’d be in even more trouble.
‘Look, I really need to speak to him. Is there any way of getting hold of him? Is there anyone who might know where he is?’
‘You’ve tried his home?’
‘He’s not answering. Is he always like this?’
‘Mostly . . .’