by M. R. Hall
'There were a few,' Michael Turnbull said, 'but nothing particularly sinister as far as I'm aware.'
'What about close friends? Was she seeing anyone?'
Husband and wife exchanged a look.
Christine Turnbull shook her head. 'No boyfriend as far as I know. I don't think she had much time for a social life beyond what she had here. You'll have to ask Lennox, he was probably the closest to her of all of us.'
Ed Prince glanced impatiently at his expensive wrist- watch, no doubt anxious to get on the phone to the office and hear what they'd come up with to torpedo her.
Jenny said, 'One final thing: her computer. She'd shut down her email in February and there was no sign of her laptop at her house. Do you know what happened to it?'
Ed Prince turned to her. 'All those connected with the campaign were advised to take steps to secure their personal communications. From what I saw of Eva, she was a sensible young woman who would have taken the advice to heart.'
It was Christine Turnbull who showed Jenny to the door. Over the course of their interview, Jenny had gradually warmed to her. She had expected a beautiful woman in what she suspected was a Dior suit to be aloof and judgemental. In fact, Christine gave every impression of being eager to assist and appeared profoundly saddened by Eva's death.
As they parted at the door, Christine Turnbull spoke quietly, 'I'm sorry if we seem agitated, Mrs Cooper. We're nearing the end of a long road, and what happened to Eva . . .' She shook her head, at a loss for words. 'When you see how much good has been achieved you know evil's never going to be far away. Eva was like a light in the darkness, and even though she's not here for us, she's still shining.'
'I can see that,' Jenny said, and bid Christine Turnbull a warm goodbye.
Walking back across the lobby skirting the busy bookshop, Jenny felt the last vestiges of cynicism dissolve. The people browsing the shelves were young, keen and intelligent. They were looking for meaning beyond themselves while most of their peers, her son included, would currently be alone in front of a computer or a TV screen, part of a vast global generation too over-stimulated and self-obsessed to muster any idealism or sense of greater purpose.
She stopped to study the big plasma screen above the closed door to the auditorium. Bobby DeMont and Lennox Strong were laying hands on some teenagers who had come up onto the stage. Lennox was saying, 'In the name of Jesus, we call upon you, Lord, to fill this young man with your spirit, to guide him to do your will and to give him strength to resist temptation.' The kneeling subject rose to his feet and turned to face the audience. It was Freddy.
'Can I tell them something, Lennox?' Freddy said.
'Sure.'
Gripping his cuffs in his clenched fists and rocking up onto his toes with excitement, Freddy addressed the crowd. 'When I first came to this church I was sick. I was drinking, taking drugs, most of the time I didn't know who or where I was. The doctors said I was depressed, but there was nothing they could do to help me ... I tried to kill myself twice. I mean, really tried. All I wanted was for the pain to end. But then a friend told me about this place. No way did I want to come to a church. I thought that's somewhere for old people and weirdos -' Bobby DeMont threw back his head and laughed uproariously - 'but something said to me just try it, just once.' Freddy's face cracked into a grin so wide he could hardly force out the words. 'That day changed my life. When Lennox called for people who were ill or suffering to come to the front, it felt like a hand was guiding me. And when he prayed over me - you know the feeling when you jump off a high diving board? It was like that, only angels caught me in the air. From being in so much pain, I felt like I was flying, I was so light, so happy—'
'Here.' Lennox handed Freddy a Kleenex to wipe his streaming eyes. The young congregation cheered.
His voice cracking with emotion, Freddy continued, 'I'd never heard of the Holy Spirit. I hadn't even read the Bible. But from that moment I knew I was saved. That's the power of the spirit. It doesn't matter who you are, it doesn't matter what you've done, just open your heart the tiniest crack and I promise you, it'll come rushing in. And if I can be saved, anyone can.'
Bobby DeMont stepped up to his side and clapped a powerful arm around his narrow shoulders. 'Thank you so much for that, Freddy. You see, folks? God does not judge you on your past sins. Some of the greatest Christians of them all have been evil men, persecutors, slave traders, even murderers. That is the miracle of grace, my friends. When you ask to be born again Jesus lifts that sin from you in the twinkling of an eye.'
'How many of you out there haven't been born again?' Lennox chimed in. He scanned the hands going up in the audience. 'OK. Well, if you people want to change your lives for ever, all you have to do is join me in this prayer.' He pointed a finger to the big screens above the stage. 'Say after me: Dear Lord, I recognize that I am a sinner, and I truly repent. .
Jenny turned to see Ed Prince approaching. He stopped alongside her, following her gaze to the screen. The camera picked out individual young men and women earnestly mouthing their prayers of commitment: 'I believe that He is risen from the dead, and I accept Him as my personal Lord and Saviour . . .'
'Are you a believer, Mrs Cooper?' Prince said.
'After a fashion.'
'See all those young black kids, boys who'd have been out with knives, girls who'd have been pregnant? Lennox Strong has led them here like Moses through the wilderness. And the white kids looked up to Eva.'
'I've no intention of harming your good work.'
Focusing his deep-set eyes on her, Prince said, 'Do you know who our greatest enemies are? People who call themselves Christians but don't believe it should be happening like this. You know who I mean?'
Jenny shook her head.
'Oh, I think you do, Mrs Cooper. I think you know perfectly well.' He glanced briefly at the screen - born-again faces overcome with emotion - and headed for the exit.
'Ha-le-lujah!' Bobby DeMont's cry blasted out through the auditorium doors and into the lobby. Freddy Reardon and two young women were convulsing on the floor of the stage.
Chapter 10
Creeping through stop-start traffic Jenny checked her answerphone. Alison had called to say she'd spoken to both Patrick Derwent and Deborah Bishop and that Father Starr had been phoning the office badgering for Jenny to get in touch. The only other caller was Steve, saying that he'd found some information about her cousin that she might find interesting. His message sent a shot of panic through her. She dialled his number with clumsy fingers.
'Steve, it's Jenny.'
'Hi,' he said, sounding perfectly relaxed.
'What is it?'
'I dropped into the library at lunchtime and looked up the local newspapers from those dates we turned up.'
'And?' She struggled to control the steering wheel, her palms slippery with sweat.
'You sound like you're driving. Why don't I come round this evening?'
'Where are you now?'
'Just leaving the office.'
'Then meet me in town. Do you know Rico's?'
'Around the corner from your office.'
'I'll be there in ten minutes.' She rang off before he could make any excuse and dialled Alison's number, her heart pressing hard against her ribs.
Alison answered from what sounded like a busy wine bar.
'Hello, Mrs Cooper,' she said agitatedly.
'How did you get on with Derwent?'
'He's adamant Jacobs was trying to convert his daughter, but he hasn't got a lot of evidence. He found the text of a prayer in her belongings that he's convinced Jacobs gave her, and the rest is just suspicion. He says that in the three days she was off the drugs she was experiencing some sort of religious euphoria. He claims he didn't put all the pieces together until he read about Jacobs's death.'
'What sort of prayer was it?'
'One for healing.'
'Catholic?'
'I wouldn't know, but there's no mention of Our Lady.'
'Wha
t did Bishop say?'
'No change from her evidence at the inquest. There was no official complaint, and as far as she knew Jacobs never pressed religion on any of his patients. She admitted some pamphlets from the Mission Church of God were found in the reading room, but she didn't think there was a problem. As long as it's not pornographic or racist, the kids are free to read what they like.'
'Do you think she's telling the truth?'
'I couldn't say. To be honest, I don't think she's got much of a clue about what goes on on the shop floor. Her office isn't even in the unit, it's over the other side of the road.'
'I suppose I'd better have another talk with his wife.'
'What for, Mrs Cooper?' Alison said. 'We know what the poor man's problem was. Shouldn't we just leave it at that?'
Jenny considered the prospect of knocking on Ceri Jacobs's door once more and felt her determination to dig out every last grain of truth quickly fade. In the weeks before his death Alan Jacobs was clearly upset and confused; the pressure cooker was starting to blow. Even if she could place every event in sequence they might not add up to a logical picture. All she would have achieved would be yet more agony for his humiliated widow.
'Maybe you're right,' Jenny said. 'What would it achieve?'
'You've done all you can,' Alison said, sounding relieved, and anxious to end the call. She had rung off before Jenny had a chance to ask what Father Starr wanted, but he could wait. There was something far more daunting about to confront her.
Steve was waiting for her at a table in the little cobbled yard at the back of the cafe, where you could smoke a cigarette with your cold beer and tapas. Despite the warm evening they were the only ones sitting outside. Jenny was glad they were alone. She felt fragile enough without having to worry about who might be listening. If she hadn't been so on edge it would have made for a pleasant date: gentle samba music playing on the stereo and Otavio the handsome waiter treating her like a princess.
'You didn't tell me you were going to dig around in my past,' Jenny said, reaching for Steve's tobacco tin and helping herself. One of these days he would decide he could afford cigarettes that came in a packet.
'It was almost an accident.'
'Yeah, right,' Jenny said.
He unbuckled his briefcase and brought out a handful of photocopied newspaper articles.
'They're from the Weston Mercury, October 1972..' He looked at her hesitantly. 'Do you want to see or not?'
'Give them to me,' Jenny insisted.
The first headline read: Girl Dies in Fall. In three short paragraphs the article stated that five-year-old Katy Chilcott had been killed in an accidental fall down the stairs of the family home at Pretoria Road. Her parents, named James and Penny Chilcott, were said to be being comforted by relatives.
Feeling numb, Jenny quickly turned to the next article. A photograph of her father in his early thirties sat beneath the words, 'Weston Man Questioned Over Girl's Death'.
Following the death last Thursday of five-year-old Katy Chilcott in what was initially thought to be a tragic accident, detectives yesterday arrested the dead girl's uncle, Brian Chilcott.
The owner of Chilcott Motors was taken from his home on Sunday afternoon and is believed to have spent the evening helping officers with their enquiries. He was later released on police bail. Detectives are said to be awaiting the results of a post-mortem examination.
Neighbours of the dead girl's family saw Chilcott arrive at the address at approximately 5 p.m. on Thursday afternoon. Shouting was afterwards heard coming from inside the premises. Chilcott was seen leaving with a young child believed to be his daughter shortly before an ambulance arrived.
A hospital spokesman said that Katy Chilcott died as a result of 'significant trauma' to the head.
'Does it bring anything back?'
'The arrest bit does. It's what I was remembering with Dr Allen.'
'What about what happened inside the house?' Jenny shook her head. It was a blank. She looked at the final article. It was dated Friday, 24 November. Under the headline, Girl's Death Ruled Accidental, was a brief report of the coroner's finding that Katy had died as a result of falling down the stairs at the family home, striking her head on the tiled floor. The coroner, Mr C. R. Benedict, was quoted as saying, 'Katy's death was a tragic and sadly unavoidable accident to which no blame can be attached.'
'What is it?' Steve asked.
Jenny shrugged, placing the articles back on the table.
'There's something. I can tell.'
'It's Dad, I suppose.' She tried to untangle the knot of emotions that had been disguised by her initial shock.
'What about him?'
'He could have quite a temper. I can remember him smacking me, the look on his face, more than angry, enraged.' She drew on her cigarette, assailed by fragments of long-forgotten memory: her father erupting at a spilled glass of milk and a sharp slap on the legs; his face, boiling red, yelling at her mother, the sound of her shriek as he hit her, her sobbing as he thundered down the stairs and crashed out through the front door.
'You look tired,' Steve said. 'Shall I drive you home?'
Jenny didn't answer. She was remembering the helpless, terrified feeling her father's fury stirred in her. Even as a small child she had intuited that it came from somewhere deep within him, a place neither she nor her mother could reach.
'Jenny? Why don't we get the bill? We'll pick something up and cook at your place.'
She shook her head.
'You've got to eat. You look like a ghost.'
'I'm going to see my dad.' She stood up from the table, grabbing the photocopies and stuffing them into her handbag.
'Now? Isn't it a bit late?'
'He doesn't care what time it is. He doesn't even know.'
'Jenny, I really don't think —’
'You started it.'
She marched inside, making for the exit. Steve chased after her, grabbing her arm. Otavio looked round from tapping an order into the till.
'Jenny, please.'
She turned, sharply. 'What do you expect me to do?'
'At least let me come with you.'
Brian Chilcott had been confined to the nursing home in Weston-super-Mare for nearly five years. When Alzheimer's struck in his late sixties, his second wife left even more quickly than she had arrived. 'What would I be staying /or?' she said to Jenny. 'He's not my Brian any more, but he'll always be your father.'
It was the time of the evening when the elderly residents of the home were being given their night-time sedatives and hoisted into bed. With Steve in tow, Jenny passed along the carpeted corridor that smelled of urine, disinfectant and cold tea, catching nightmarish glimpses of decrepitude through semi-open doors.
Her father's door was shut. Jenny paused to gather strength.
Steve put a hand on her shoulder. 'You don't have to do this.'
'I do.' She reached up to touch his fingers. 'Come in with me.'
'You're sure?'
'For me. He won't know who you are.'
She pushed open the door and found her father propped up in bed, wearing bright blue pyjamas buttoned all the way up to the neck. For once the television was silent. A magazine lay open but untouched on his lap.
'Hello, Dad,' Jenny said quietly.
The old man, seventy-four years old and as strong as a carthorse, turned to look at them, but said nothing.
'Dad, you know me, don't you? It's Jenny?'
He stared at her blankly, seeming to focus on the wall behind her.
Steve sat on the arm of the stiff-backed armchair in which Brian spent most of his waking hours. 'Hello, Mr Chilcott. I'm Steve. Pleased to meet you.'
Brian appeared to respond. His eyes moved briefly to Steve's face before travelling to Jenny. She thought she detected a faint hint of recognition.
'I'm sorry it's been such a long time. I've been busy,' Jenny said, adding the lie: 'Ross sends his love.'
Brian turned his gaze back to Steve.
'That's not Ross. That's my friend, Steve. There's Ross.' She pointed to one of the few framed family photographs arranged on the shelf at the far end of the bed: Ross aged fourteen, posing with a surfboard on a Cornish beach.
There was a long moment of silence. Brian seemed to lose concentration and drift back to wherever he had come from.
'Dad—'
No answer.
Jenny was beginning to abandon hope, when her father said, 'He's the spit of me, that boy, and trouble with it.' He smiled.
It was a phrase he'd coined long ago, but at least it was something. The nurses had told her there were days, even weeks, during which he said nothing at all. But on some days he would bellow obscenities and hurl his belongings around the room without provocation. There was no pattern to his behaviour. His ex-wife was right, Jenny thought, he wasn't himself any more, so much so that she scarcely connected him with the man who, after her mother had left, had brought her up single-handedly from the age of twelve.
She reached into her handbag. 'Dad, I want to show you something.'
Steve shot her a look, losing his nerve now that he was confronted with the reality.
Ignoring him, she produced the crumpled photocopies and smoothed them out on the blankets.
'You remember last time I was here I asked you about Katy - Jim and Penny's little girl? I want to know what happened to her.'
She held the first article in front of him. 'The newspapers said she died falling down the stairs. You must remember that.'
'He's got a man's shoulders, that boy. He'll be a strong 'un. We worked on the trawlers when we were lads.'
'Please,' Jenny said. 'I need to know. Look.' She held up the article bearing his picture. 'The police took you in. They came to get you from our house, I remember. I was outside in the street and they took you away in their car.'
Brian appeared to look at the article and study it. There was nothing wrong with his eyes. He'd never had glasses, not even for reading.
'They thought you'd hurt her. You were at Jim and Penny's house before the ambulance came. There was a row, the neighbours heard it. Please, Dad. Try.'