Crossfire (21 page)

“Officer,” the tall man said, turning to the policeman in the witness box. “In your opinion, would this life have been saved if a crash barrier had been fitted at the point where the car went off the road into the water?”

“Most probably, yes,” said the policeman.

“And would you agree with me,” the pin-striped suit went on, “in your capacity as a senior police accident investigator, that the failure of the Oxfordshire County Council to erect a crash barrier at that known accident black spot was tantamount to negligence on their behalf, negligence that resulted in the death of Roderick Ward?”

“Objection,” said another suit, also standing up. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sims,” said the coroner. “I know the procedures of this court.” He turned towards the first suit.“Now, Mr. Hoogland, I agreed that you could ask questions of the witnesses in this case, but you know as well as I do that the purpose of this court is to determine the circumstances of death and not to apportion blame.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Hoogland, “but it can be within the remit of this court to determine if there has been some failure in the system. It is my client’s position that a systematic failure by the county council to address the safety of the public at this point on the highway network has contributed to the death of Mr. Ward.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hoogland. I am also well aware of the remits and responsibilities of this court.” The coroner was clearly not amused at being lectured in his own courtroom. “However, your question of the officer was whether, in his opinion, there had been negligence in the matter of this death. This question is not answerable by this court, and would be better asked in any civil case that may be brought in a county court.” He turned to the witness. “I uphold Mr. Sims’s objection. Officer, you need not answer Mr. Hoogland’s question.”

The policeman looked relieved.

“Are there any further questions of this witness?”

There was no fresh movement from Mr. Hoogland other than to sit down. He had made his point.

However, I now wanted to stand up and ask the officer if, in his opinion as a senior police accident investigator, the circumstances of this death could have been staged such that it only appeared that the deceased had fallen asleep, hit the bridge and ended up in the river, when, in fact, he had been murdered?

But of course I didn’t. Instead, I sat quietly in the public gallery in frustration, wondering why I was suddenly becoming obsessed with the idea that Roderick Ward had been murdered. What evidence did I have? None. And indeed, was the deceased actually Roderick Ward in the first place?

“Thank you, officer,” said the coroner. “You may step down, but please remain within the vicinity of the court in case you are needed again.”

The policeman left the witness box and was replaced by a balding, white-haired man with half-moon spectacles and wearing a tweed suit. He stated his name as Dr. Geoffrey Vegas, resident pathologist at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.

“Now, Dr. Vegas,” said the coroner, “can you please tell the court what knowledge you have concerning the deceased, Mr. Roderick Ward?”

“Certainly,” replied the doctor, removing some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. “On the morning of July thirteenth I was asked to attend the scene of an RTA—a road traffic accident—near Newbridge, where a body had been discovered in a submerged vehicle. When I arrived at the scene the body was still in the car, but the car had been lifted from the river and was on the road. I examined the body in situ and confirmed that it was of a male adult and that life was extinct. I gave instructions that the body be removed to my laboratory at the John Radcliffe.”

“Did you notice any external injuries?” asked the coroner.

“Not at that time,” replied the doctor. “The surface of the skin had suffered from immersion in the water, and the extremities and the face were somewhat bloated. The cramped conditions in the car did not lend themselves to more than a limited examination.”

And I bet they weren’t very pleasant conditions, either. I’d once had to deal with some dead Taliban whose bodies had been submerged in water, and it was not a task I chose to dwell on.

“And did you perform a postmortem examination at the hospital?”

“Yes,” replied Dr. Vegas. “I completed a standard autopsy examination of the deceased that afternoon in my laboratory. My full report has been laid before the court. I concluded that death was due to asphyxia, that’s suffocation, resulting in cerebral hypoxia and then cardiac arrest. The asphyxia appeared to be due to prolonged immersion in water. Put simply, he drowned.”

“Are you certain of that?” the coroner asked.

“As certain as any pathologist could be. There was water present in the lungs, and in the stomach, both of which indicate that the deceased was alive when he entered the water.”

“Are there any other findings that you would like to bring specifically to the court’s attention?” asked the coroner, who, I thought, must have surely read the pathologist’s full report prior to the hearing.

“A blood test indicated that the deceased had been more than three times over the legal alcohol limit for driving a vehicle on the public highway.” He said it in a manner that clearly indicated that the accident, and the death, had been the deceased’s own fault, and nothing else mattered.

“Thank you, doctor,” said the coroner. “Does anyone else have any questions for this witness?”

I wanted to jump up and ask him if he had carried out a DNA test to be certain that the body was actually that of Roderick Ward. The police must have had his DNA on record after his arrest for throwing the brick in Hungerford. And I also wanted to ask the doctor why he was so certain that the deceased had died in the way he had described. Had he done a test to confirm that the water in the lungs had actually come from the river? Could the man not have been forced to drink heavily, then been drowned elsewhere and just tipped into the river in his car when he was already dead? Could the pathologist be certain it wasn’t murder? Had he, in fact, even considered murder as an option?

But of course, again I didn’t. Once more I remained sitting silently in the public gallery, wondering if I was looking for something sinister in this death that didn’t actually exist. Something that might begin to lead me to a resolution of my mother’s problems.

Mr. Hoogland, however, did stand up again to ask some questions of the doctor, but even he would have had to admit that in the light of the blood-alcohol evidence, he was on a hiding to nothing.

“Dr. Vegas,” he began anyway, “can you tell the court if, in your opinion, Mr. Ward would be alive today if a crash barrier had been installed at that location, preventing his vehicle from entering the water? Were there, for example, any injuries you found that he had sustained in the accident that would, by themselves, have proved fatal without his drowning?”

“I can state that there were no injuries that Mr. Ward had suffered in the collision which would normally have resulted in loss of life,” the doctor replied. “In fact, there were almost no injuries of note, just a minor contusion to the right side of the head that would be consistent with it banging against the driver’s-door window during the collision with the bridge.” He turned to the coroner. “This may have been sufficient to render the deceased briefly unconscious or unaware, especially in his inebriated condition, but it would have been insufficient, on its own, to cause death. On examination of the deceased’s brain, I found no evidence of injury as a result of the collision.”

It was obviously not the specific unequivocal answer that Mr. Hoogland had been hoping for. He tried again. “So let me get this clear, Dr. Vegas. Are you saying that Mr. Ward would now be alive if a safety barrier had been present at the spot?”

“That I cannot say,” replied the doctor. He pulled himself up to his full height and delivered the killer blow to Mr. Hoogland’s argument. “In the state that Mr. Ward must have been in that night from drink, there is no saying that if he had been able to drive on from that point, he wouldn’t have killed himself, and possibly others, in another road traffic accident somewhere else.”

The coroner, using his notes, summed up the evidence and then recorded a verdict of accidental death, with Mr. Ward’s excessive alcohol consumption as a contributory factor.

No one objected, no one cried foul, no one believed that a whitewash had occurred. No one other than me, that was. And maybe I was just being paranoid.

I stood up and followed the man in the navy blue sweater and jeans out of the courtroom.

“Are you family?” I asked his back.

He turned towards me, and I thought again that I recognized him.

“No,” he said. “Are you?”

“No,” I said.

He smiled and turned away. In profile, I was struck once more by his familiarity. I was about to say something more to him when I realized who he must be.

It was true that I’d never met the man before, but I was certain I’d spoken to his father only the previous Friday. They had exactly the same shape of head.

The other man in the public gallery had been Fred Sutton, the detective sergeant son of Old Man Sutton, he of the broken window and the false teeth.

 

 

I
hung back as Fred Sutton made his way out of the court building. I didn’t really want to talk to him, but I did want to speak to the unfortunate Mr. Hoogland.

I caught up with him in the lobby. Close up he was even taller than he had appeared in court. I was almost six foot, but he towered over me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoogland,” I said, touching him on the arm. “I was in the court just now, and I wondered who you were acting for.”

He turned and looked down at me. “And who are you?” he demanded.

“Just a friend of Roderick Ward’s,” I said. “I wondered if you were acting for his family. None of them seem to be here.”

He looked at me for a second or two, as if deciding whether to tell me or not. “I am acting for a life insurance company,” he said.

“Really,” I said. “So was Roderick’s life insured?”

“I couldn’t say,” said the lawyer, but it was pretty obvious it had been; otherwise, why was he here asking questions and trying to imply negligence by the county council? Insurance companies would try anything to save themselves from having to pay out.

And who, I wondered, was the potential beneficiary of the insurance?

“So were you satisfied with the verdict?” I asked.

“It’s what we expected,” Mr. Hoogland said dismissively, looking past my right shoulder.

Time to dive in, I thought. “Are you absolutely sure that the dead man in the car was Roderick Ward?”

“What?” he said, suddenly giving me his full attention.

“Are you sure that it was Roderick Ward in that car?” I asked again.

“Yes, of course. The body was identified by his sister.”

“Yes, but where is the sister today?” I said. “And is she the beneficiary of your client’s insurance policy?”

He stared at me. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “I’m just curious. If my brother had died, and I’d been the one to identify him, then I’d be at the inquest.” Mr. Hoogland wasn’t to know that the coroner’s letter to Stella Beecher was in my pocket.

“Why didn’t you say this in court?” he asked.

“I’m not what they call an ‘officially interested party,’”I said. “So why would I be allowed to speak? And it’s not compulsory for members of the deceased’s family to be present at an inquest. Anyway, I don’t have access to the full pathologist’s report. For all I know, he might have already done a DNA test and double-checked it against the national DNA database.”

“Why would Roderick Ward’s DNA be in the database?” he asked.

“Because he was arrested two years ago for breaking windows,” I replied. “It should be there.”

Mr. Hoogland opened a notebook and made some notes.

“And what is your name?” he asked.

“Is that important?” I said.

“You can’t go round making accusations anonymously.”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” I said. “I just asked you if you were sure it was Roderick Ward in that car.”

“That in itself is an accusation of fraud.”

“Or murder,” I said.

He stared at me again. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” I said.

“But why?”

“It just seems too easy,” I said. “Late at night on a country road with little or no traffic, low-speed collision, contusion on the side of the head, alcohol, car tips into convenient deep stretch of river, no attempt to get out of the car, life insurance. Need I go on?”

“So what are you going to do about your theory?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s not me that has the client who’s about to pay out a large sum in life insurance.”

I could see in his face that he was having doubts. He must be asking himself if I was a complete nutter.

“You’ve nothing to lose,” I said. “At least find out for sure if the deceased really was Roderick Ward by getting a DNA test done. Maybe the pathologist already has. Look in his report.”

He said nothing but stared at a point somewhere over the top of my head.

“And ask the pathologist if he tested to determine if the water in the lungs actually came from the river.”

“You
do
have a suspicious mind,” he said, again looking down at my face.

“Did Little Bo Peep actually lose her sheep, or were they stolen?”

He laughed. “Did Humpty Dumpty fall, or was he pushed?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Do you have a card?”

He fished one out of his jacket pocket and gave it to me.

“I’ll call you,” I said, turning away.

“Right,” he shouted to my departing back. “You do that.”

I
woke in agony. And in the dark, pitch-black dark.