The Coroner, page 36
She rang the brass ship's bell that hung at the side of the already half-open front door. There was a sound of movement from somewhere inside. She stepped over the threshold into the kitchen: old quarry tiles and pale oak cupboards. Beyond it, the layout was semi-open plan to a wooden spiral staircase and living room.
'Steve? It's Jenny.'
The noises came from upstairs, a woman's voice in whispered protest, then a guilty silence. She glanced at the table and saw two cups, an empty packet of cigarettes across from his tobacco, next to a set of car keys dangling a bunch of plastic charms.
'Fuck you. Fuck you, Steve.' Her shouts echoed around the bare walls and up the stairs.
She hurled the table on to its side and slammed out.
Spinning her tyres in the rough gravel, Jenny caught sight of the figure in the upstairs window: Annie, annoyed, pulling on her bra.
Her anger propelled her inside. She screamed at the ghost to go to hell and unscrewed a litre of cheap Italian red, taking her first pull straight from the bottle. There. A few good mouthfuls on an empty stomach and she was battle-ready, not afraid of anything. Screw Steve, screw his lies and his deadend girlfriend. Screw everything. From now on it was going to be Jenny first and last. She'd sort out her cases, blow UKAM apart and get her life back, all on her terms.
She tipped out her handbag and found the beta blockers and antidepressants, emptied them into the sink and ran the hot tap until they were small enough to push down the plughole. She didn't need pills; it was other people's junk, not her own, that had brought her down. What she needed was to fight back, let the world know who she was. She'd hold on to a few tranquillizers, just to keep her anger from boiling over so she didn't kill anyone, but that was the only reason. She was too wild, too close to the truth, for people to handle her, that was her problem. Poor, weak people, too frightened to face the truth.
She took the wine and a glass through to the study. It was obvious now what had to be done: she'd write a formal, scholarly report that would set out in devastating detail the cover-up over Danny's death. Marshall's suicide would have to be part of it, but she didn't feel so sorry for him now. He'd paid the price for being weak and his family would have to live with it. She'd send a copy to the Ministry of Justice, one to the local authority, one to the Severn Vale District Hospital Trust and another to Simone Wills, and lodge one with a solicitor. If a new inquest wasn't held which brought the full truth to light she'd deal with the newspapers personally, and tie them up in a contract so tight they couldn't change a word of her copy.
She sat at her laptop for four hours without looking up from the screen, drafting and editing until her report read like a House of Lords judgement. She'd worked through the wine and needed a little something extra before proofreading. In the back of a kitchen cupboard was a half-bottle of brandy that was meant to be used for cooking. She poured two inches into a tumbler and had a taste. It was good, warm all the way down. She topped up her glass and brought it through.
She must have been staring at the screen harder than she thought, because the words merged when she tried to read a printed copy. She rummaged around for the glasses she always resisted wearing and tried again. Better, but not much. She must be tired. One read through and hit the sack, set the alarm for five a.m., make sure her pristine report was on all relevant desks at start of business. Then sit back and wait for the phone calls, maybe do some work around the garden to pass the time.
She was shutting down her computer when her landline rang. It was nearly eleven. She pictured Steve, huddled in a phone box, full of beer and remorse, wanting to come up and spill his heart out, tell her that he was in love. She let it continue and when it fell silent picked up the receiver to check the caller's number. It wasn't Steve, it was Ross's mobile. She remembered she hadn't called him all week. How could she have forgotten? She punched in his number.
'Ross?'
'Mum. How are you?'
'Good. What about you?'
'OK. A few more days to freedom.'
'Of course. Hey, sorry I haven't called—'
'It's OK. I know what happened.'
Jenny stalled, not sure how to explain herself, where to begin.
Ross said, 'Allowing your place to be used, that's not a crime, is it?'
'Apparently so. Not a very serious one.'
'I bet you didn't even know what he was smoking.'
'No .. .' She cringed at her lie.
'I guess you'll get off, then. It's not like you've got a record.' He gave an ironic laugh. 'You should've heard Dad. He thinks you've turned me into a delinquent.'
'I'll tell you what really happened in a day or two. I've been working on a couple of cases.'
He was quiet for a moment. 'Are you OK, Mum? Dad says . . .'
'What? . . . What does he say?'
'It doesn't matter.'
Jenny sighed, a familiar guilt welling up. 'I'm sorry to put you through this. It'll work out . . . Give it a couple of weeks. I just want you to get through your exams without worrying about me.'
'What about next term, do you still want me to come over and stay?'
'Of course.'
He fell into another silence.
'Ross? What's the matter? . . . What's your father been saying? Tell me.'
'I'm fine. You know what he's like.'
'I need to know ... I promise I'm not going to pick a fight with him.'
'He thinks ... he thinks you're not very well. He keeps saying you need help but you're too stubborn to get it.'
'Oh, really? Does he say what for?' Her words came out sounding sharper than she intended. 'Sorry . . .'
'Just forget I said it. I was just worried, that's all.'
'Well, don't be. I'm fine.'
'But you don't sound it.'
'Honestly.' Through the gap in the curtains she noticed headlights pulling up outside. She tugged them back and saw the outline of an expensive saloon, like nothing Steve would drive. Two male figures climbed out.
'After my exams, can I come and stay? ... I could help with your place.' He sounded concerned.
'That'd be great. . .' She heard footsteps on the path, two solid strikes of the knocker. 'Ross, can I call you right back? There's someone at the door.'
'This late?'
'I think it'll be something to do with work.'
'Yeah, right. Check what he's smoking this time.'
'Ross—' He rang off. Hearing the dial tone made her want to cry.
The knocker sounded again, louder this time. Who the hell could it be at this time of night? Detectives? A process server? She grabbed the flash drive from her laptop and scanned the room for a place to hide it. Another two knocks. She went out to the hall, reached up and tucked it in the narrow gap between the top of the door frame and the plaster where she kept a spare key.
She called through the closed door, 'Who is it?'
'Open up, Mrs Cooper.' The voice was hard and abrupt, like a policeman's.
'Tell me who you are and I might think about it.'
The sound of smashing glass came from the kitchen. Jenny spun round and pulled the living-room door shut, but there was no key in the hallway side of the lock.
Another crash of glass in the study. She jerked round to see a gloved hand reach in and pull back the catch on the sash. She dived for the stairs, but stumbled on the first tread and cracked her knee hard. Shit. She groped for the banister as the two men appeared behind her at once. The shorter one was squat, fortyish, muscular, in a waist-length jacket, greying hair cropped short. He grabbed her arm and yanked her upright on to the hall floor, her shoulder feeling like it had popped from its socket. The taller of the two, dark, craggy-featured, sank a heavy fist into her stomach, taking the wind out of her. She dropped, choking, to her knees; the shorter one back- fisted her hard across the face. She felt her head crack against the flags and tasted the blood pouring from her nose. She lay with her legs twisted under her but with no strength to move.
The shorter one, fading in and out of focus, leaned over her, his hands on his thighs. 'If you want to live, Jenny, you know what to do.'
She sucked in a breath, blood clogging her throat. He straightened and kicked her sharply between the legs, a pain that split her pelvis.
'You'll fucking leave it alone.'
She didn't feel the boot hit her chin, only her neck snapping back like a whip as the lights went out.
Steve said he found her face down on the living-room floor, a cushion under her head. He'd driven over just after midnight and seen the window smashed, computer leads and pieces of paper strewn across the front garden. He rode with her in the ambulance, holding her hand while she tried to tell him through a jaw she could barely move what had happened. He said not to worry, the police were already at the house and could see it was a robbery.
They took her to Newport General and loaded her with painkillers. She drifted in and out of consciousness as several pairs of hands lifted her this way and that under the X-ray machine. As they wheeled her back along the corridor, she saw Steve smile down at her with tired red eyes and say it looked like good news, nothing broken, just knocked about. She heard a doctor tell him he couldn't stay, there were people asleep on the ward where they were taking her. She heard him ask where in the building he could wait out the night. A woman's voice said the only place was the waiting room in A&E.
Jenny squeezed his hand. All she could manage was a whisper. 'I want to speak to Williams.'
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The hospital shower smelt of disinfectant but the water was hot and got into her aching muscles. Everything she moved hurt: her legs, her torso, her left shoulder and her jaw. The right side of her face was bruised like a boxer's and she had a swollen lump the size of half an orange on her pubic bone. She tried to cross her wrists on the wall and lean her head against them but she couldn't raise her arm up. All she could do was stand upright under the jet, leaning slightly to make the water change its course.
In a strange way she felt grateful for the physical pain, it seemed to bring her mental turmoil to the surface, like a boil rising to a head. Whatever chemicals her body churned out to create sensations of panic seemed to be fully occupied combating her more immediate trauma. She was in physical agony, but her mind felt almost peaceful, happy at the uncomplicated simplicity of her current struggle.
Steve was waiting at her bedside when she limped slowly back into the ward. He looked at her as if she was a terminal case. 'How are you?'
'Alive.'
'I spoke to Williams. He's going to come in shortly.'
'Thanks. I might have to go and see him first.' She eased into a sitting position on the bed. 'They don't waste any sympathy here, said I can go.'
'That's crazy.'
'Hang around too long in these places you catch something. Believe me, hospitals are fatal.' She tried to reach for her clothes, folded in the nightstand. 'I might need a hand.'
He glanced up and down the ward for a nurse. 'I'll go and find someone.'
'Just pull the curtain. It's nothing you haven't seen before.'
He tried not to look as he helped her into clean knickers and jeans and clipped up her bra. She felt his anxiety and guilt but was happy to let him stew in it for a while. He didn't ask any questions and nor did she, not till she was dressed and brushing her hair with her good arm.
'Does Annie know you're here?'
'What happened yesterday was a mistake. There was a problem with her car. I didn't even know she was coming over.'
'It's your life, Steve, you can do what you like. Just don't expect me to stand in line.'
'If it makes any difference, I didn't even—'
She cut him off with a look.
He said, 'I'm going to sort it with her, tell her it's all over. For good, Jenny.'
'I was going to ask you to come back to my place last night.' Jesus. She couldn't believe she could be so manipulative. What was she doing?
She was looking for a reaction, that's what. She watched him agonize, regret and shame on his face.
'I'm sorry.' He touched her hand. 'I mean it.'
She pulled away. 'I need to get to a phone. I want to call that detective.'
They rode back to her house in a taxi in uneasy silence, neither of them knowing how to take the next step, no sexual charge to break the ice. When they arrived she expected him to make his excuses and go, but he surprised her. He helped her from the cab into the house, made her comfortable on the sofa and fetched her breakfast while she waited for Williams to arrive. She had to admit he knew how to behave when he had to. There was hope.
The intruders had taken her computer and several boxes of papers, none of which had anything to do with Danny's or Katy's case, but they hadn't found the flash drive, which Steve fetched from its hiding place in the door frame, nor had they picked up the photographs of Marshall that still lay on the passenger seat of her Golf, which was parked at the side of the house. When Williams arrived with a young male detective in tow, he was able to fetch his police-issue paving slab of a laptop from his car and look at Peterson's files. With Steve hovering at the kitchen door, she talked through the events of the previous fortnight, telling them her theory that once Harry Marshall had Peterson's second report, UKAM had gone for him, and possibly Peterson, too. The fact that Peterson hadn't even produced a written report on Katy's post-mortem until weeks later suggested he'd found himself in a quandary: he hadn't wanted to commit a misleading report to paper. If further proof were needed, the two people who had come anywhere close to the truth, her and Tara Collins, had both found themselves facing criminal charges. All right, Steve was smoking dope, but a man meeting the description of one of her attackers had been at the local pub gathering information in the days beforehand. She'd lay money on him being Williams's informer.
The Welsh detective listened impassively, taking careful notes and asking few questions. When he looked at the photographs of Harry and the boy, he lowered his eyes and shook his head, genuinely appalled.
'I take it Mr Marshall's wife doesn't know about these?'
'No.'
'We'll do our best to keep it that way, shall we?'
Jenny found herself nodding, infected by his moral certainty.
He read back through his notes, getting the sequence cemented in his mind. He turned and spoke to his young colleague in whispered Welsh, conferring with him for some time before turning back to her.
'Obviously what you've told us, Mrs Cooper, could mean a very serious and involved criminal investigation. You're alleging a far-reaching conspiracy - a many-headed hydra, you could say.'
'It all goes back to the same source.'
He nodded, rubbing a finger along his carefully trimmed moustache. 'You see, what concerns me is the jurisdictional issue. Obviously, for some reason best known to themselves, our colleagues in England haven't chosen to investigate the death of Miss Taylor with what you might call appropriate rigour—'
'I'd guess that was a political rather than a police issue. We're talking millions of pounds' worth of prison-building contracts.'
'Very few of them in Wales, I'm sure.' He smiled, inviting her trust. 'What I'm thinking is that if for the time being you were to make a statement relating purely to the assault and break-in you suffered last night, we can start our wider inquiry under the radar, if you like.'
'I'm not sure I follow.'
Williams tilted his head, patient. 'Which police force investigates what crime can be a thorny issue. If what you're telling me is true, I'm sure both of us would like to avoid the situation where the Bristol police are charged with investigating all these matters. Not that I'm in any way a racist, you understand, but I wouldn't trust those English bastards further than I could pee.'
'You want to go after UKAM alone?'
He smiled with his eyes. 'It's been a slow couple of years to tell you the truth, Mrs Cooper. I could do with the excitement.'
'Mr Williams, I could do with having my job back.'
The detective nodded, as if he'd already given this some thought. 'My colleagues in the CPS might be persuaded.' Then, turning to Steve, his face reddening, 'But I'll tell you this, Mr Painter - another whiff of that filth on my patch and I'll have your bloody head.'
Steve, catching Jenny's eye, said, 'Point taken.'
After the detectives had gone, Steve came and sat on the arm of the chair opposite, his movements edgy, as if he wasn't sure that he was still welcome. Jenny, focused on a sharp new pain that was piercing her shoulder, ignored him while she clumsily popped another dose of painkillers out of the foil strip the hospital had given her.
