The Redeemed (12 page)

Jenny declined the standing invitation to lunch in the
judicial dining room, and made do with a tired sandwich from the public canteen.
There were more pressing issues than lunch. Both lawyers had agreed before the
break that Dr Andy Kerr's post-mortem report could be admitted in evidence
without the need for him to appear in person, leaving Jenny with no more
witnesses to call and a verdict to reach. The law required her to be satisfied
'beyond reasonable doubt' of her decision. She had no real doubt that Alan
Jacobs had deliberately taken his own life, but such was the stigma of suicide
that case law required all other possible explanations to be totally ruled out.
Filling out the form of inquisition and sealing it with the official stamp
should have been a formality, but a nagging voice told her that there was still
more left to be discovered, and that any verdict would be open to question
until Alan Jacobs's lover (if that was what he had been) was found. Despite his
widow's refusal, it was within Jenny's power to order the police to go out and
search for the man. With the proliferation of traffic cameras and CCTV, she had
no doubt he could be found, but at what cost to Mrs Jacobs? Never having known
him, not having a face forever etched in her memory, would allow her to invent
her own fiction. Her daughter could grow up without being haunted by a spectre
forever associated with her father's grisly death. Jenny vacillated. An open
verdict wouldn't carry the stain of suicide and the bitter sense of cowardly
desertion that went with it, but nor would it bring closure.

It had to be suicide. She picked up her pen to record the
finding when there was a knock on the door. Alison entered.

'It seems we may have another witness, Mrs Cooper - a woman
who went to the same church group as Alan Jacobs.'

'She's here?'

'Yes.'

'What does she want to say?'

'I've no idea. I just saw her in the corridor being collared
by the priest who was sitting at the back.' With a faint air of disapproval,
Alison added, 'I think they're discussing ethics.'

'Get her name,' Jenny said. 'I'll call her anyway.'

The elderly priest wore an expression of disappointment as
Mary Richards entered the witness box and whispered the oath. She was a
fragile, bookish young woman who stated her occupation as mature student. She
was studying for a doctorate in tropical medicine. Jenny could picture her
working for a charity in a disease-stricken part of Africa, driven by a sense
of controlled compassion.

Ceri Jacobs reached for her mother's hand and squeezed it
hard, disturbed and frightened by the appearance of this unexpected interloper.

Jenny said, 'How did you know Alan Jacobs, Miss Richards?'

'He and I attended the same enquirers' course at St Xavier's.
We had been going most Wednesday evenings for just over four months.' She
glanced at the priest. 'Father Dermody ran it.'

'Would you mind explaining what that is?'

'It's for people who want to learn about Catholicism - its
teachings, doctrine, tradition.'

'And you got to know each other?'

'A little, though not so that we'd socialize - it wasn't that
sort of group. But we did participate in various exercises together. Praying
for one another in pairs, for example.'

'And you prayed with Alan Jacobs?'

Mary Richards hesitated. The priest wore a look of grim
warning.

'Miss Richards, you have sworn an oath to tell the whole
truth,' Jenny prompted.

'I know—'

'And anyone who attempts to stop you doing that is acting
quite improperly, not to say illegally.'

Father Dermody's face turned to granite. The witness gave an
anxious nod, then closed her eyes, as if offering a prayer for forgiveness.

'Of course, our prayers were offered in strict confidence,
but given what's happened I feel justified in repeating what little he told
me.' She turned to Mrs Jacobs. 'I only prayed with Alan once. He prayed for his
wife and his daughter and for several people I believe he was caring for in his
work. It was all sincerely meant, not unusual in any way, but I remember he
fell silent for a moment. I sensed there was something else he wanted to say
and I tried to prompt him, then suddenly his face started running with tears.
It surprised me. I'd always seen him as very in control, strong, but calm. I
asked him what the matter was. He said, "I've become involved with some
people I shouldn't have. I thought they were helping me but now I don't know. I
don't know what's going on. I feel as if I don't know who I am any more."
I remember the look of despair on his face. I tried to get him to say some more
but he wouldn't. So I prayed for him. It must have been at least three weeks
before he died, but he more or less avoided me in the sessions after that.'

'Might he have spoken to anyone else in the group before his
death?'

'I somehow doubt it. He kept his distance from all of us. I
think he felt he had embarrassed or compromised himself. I was in a difficult
position—'

Jenny said, 'I understand.'

Neither of the lawyers had any questions for Mary Richards.
The images her sketchy evidence had conjured were vivid enough without causing
further distress to the widow. Jenny hastily summarized the evidence, eager to
bring proceedings to an end. The faces of Ceri Jacobs, her family and priest,
as they waited for the word they all dreaded, were pictures of desolation. As
she started to read aloud from the form of inquisition, a lump as hard and dry
as pumice stone formed in her throat. But at the last moment, as if succumbing
in a struggle with a supernatural force, she struck a line through the word
'suicide' and recorded an open verdict.

Alison shoved a note into her hand the moment she stepped
through the door. 'Simon Moreton called, twice. You're to phone him back
immediately.'

'What does he want?'

'Didn't say. But I'd guess it was your blood.'

'What have I done now?'

Alison shrugged and went back to her emails. Jenny noticed
that she had swapped her dark trouser suit for a slim-fitting skirt and
matching jacket that was stretched a little too tightly across her shoulders.

'Are you going somewhere?' Jenny said.

'Just meeting a friend.' 'Oh?'

'Yes.' Alison thrust a second piece of paper in Jenny's
direction, her cheeks colouring. 'You might want to look at this.'

Jenny cast her eyes over the email from someone calling
himself Doc Scratch.

He claimed to be the tattoo artist who had drawn Eva
Donaldson's design. He said his diary showed she'd come on the morning of
Friday, 23 April, a little over two weeks before she died. She had called
herself Louise Pearson and paid in cash, but everyone in the studio had
recognized her from the television. You couldn't mistake the scar.

Alison said, 'I sent emails to all the studios I could find.
There seems to be one on every street corner these days.'

'Have you spoken to him?'

'Only briefly. He said she was very quiet. She came in
knowing what she wanted, lay back and let him get on with it.'

'Is that all?'

'He said she seemed subdued, not down, but as if she were
preoccupied with something.'

The phone rang. Alison checked the caller display. 'It's
Moreton again.'

Jenny hurried through to her office.

'I'll see you on Monday, Mrs Cooper,' Alison called after
her. 'I'm off now.'

'Have fun.'

Jenny snatched up the receiver with a sense of dread. 'Hello,
Simon. I've been wondering where you'd been.'

'It's Amanda Cramer,' a humourless voice replied. 'You may
have seen the circular; I was recently appointed assistant director for
coroners. Simon's concentrating more on strategy. From now on operations and
personnel will be chiefly my responsibility.'

'Oh, I see,' Jenny said, taking an instant dislike to Amanda
Cramer. 'I don't think we've met.'

'Briefly, at the Christmas drinks.'

Jenny cast her mind back to the tedious evening in Gray's Inn
Hall spent sipping orange juice amidst a sea of anonymous, suited officials
getting drunk on cheap wine. Oh God. Now she remembered. Moreton, who for all
his conformism was good fun at parties, and Jenny had been laughing at one of
his suggestive jokes, when a joyless young woman with bad skin and flat shoes
stepped between them. 'Dear God,' Moreton said when Amanda Cramer had finally
taken the hint and moved on. 'I've never said it about any woman I've worked
with, but I just couldn't, not even with Viagra.'

'Of course, I remember,' Jenny said. 'How can I help you?'

'Two things. Firstly, we've received a complaint about your
handling of the death of Eva Donaldson. We understand there's no reason cause
of death couldn't have been formally recorded after the verdict in the criminal
trial, but for some reason you've neglected to do so.'

'That would be because I'm conducting an inquest.'

'Why would you do that? The superior tribunal has reached its
decision. There's no possible justification for more public money to be spent
on a needless formality.'

'With respect, Ms Cramer, that is a matter in my discretion.
And the Crown Court is not a superior tribunal. It has an entirely separate
function.'

'But you have no power to contradict its verdict.'

'I'm well aware of my powers.'

'Then I would advise you to exercise them appropriately. You
could start by releasing the body. This should have been done immediately after
the Home Office post-mortem.'

'The release form is on my desk ready to sign at the
appropriate moment. Is that all?'

'No. We'd like your assurance that Mr Donaldson and his
family won't be caused any more distress.'

Jenny felt her fragile patience ready to snap. Civil servants
had a flimsy grasp on the concept of judicial independence at the best of
times. Simon Moreton would at least have tacitly acknowledged that he was
merely playing the part expected of him; Cramer was a straightforward bully, unafraid
to do the Minister's dirty work. The morning newspapers had reported that the
Decency Bill was on the brink of winning government support. That meant Michael
Turn- bull and his new political allies would be desperate to avoid any hint of
negative press surrounding the final surge of their campaign.

Jenny couldn't resist a retaliatory blow. 'You're surely not
attempting to influence the judicial process, Ms Cramer?'

'Not at all, Mrs Cooper, but if you won't abide by your wider
responsibilities, we can't be expected to abide by ours.'

'And what does that mean?'

'Let me put it this way: you'll be sailing into this particular
storm without a lifeboat.'

'I can't say I haven't been warned,' Jenny said sarcastically.
'You said there was a second matter.'

'Yes: your erroneous verdict in the Alan Jacobs case. Bristol
CID is furious. Your local paper is running a story saying they failed to
investigate the possibility of murder.'

'I said nothing of the sort.'

'Then I suggest you issue a press release and clarify the
situation. Coroners can hardly be effective without the support of the police.
Goodbye, Mrs Cooper.'

Jenny collapsed into her chair. She felt shaken without
knowing precisely why. There had been several run-ins with the Ministry over
the past year, and each time she had been vindicated. Perhaps that was the
problem: she had proved rather too good at unearthing the truth.

'Hello?'

She jumped at the sound of the voice in reception. Forcing a
breath past her racing heart, she stepped out to see Father Starr standing in
the middle of the room as if he had appeared out of thin air. In the shadowy
light she could see the sharp outline of his skull beneath his face.

'I'm sorry if I alarmed you. One of your upstairs neighbours
was leaving as I arrived.'

'You could at least have knocked,' Jenny said. 'What can I do
for you?'

'You might answer my calls. Pay the slightest attention.'

Jenny bristled. 'I have been conducting an inquest.'

'So I understand,' Starr said. 'I hear you behaved very
compassionately.'

She felt the tightness again, a spasm beneath her ribs.

'What is this, a Catholic conspiracy?' Jenny said, only
half-jokingly.

'As we sow, so shall we reap. It may be coincidence, but
experience tells me they don't happen often.'

'You've lost me,' Jenny said. The disturbing sensations
gripping her body were hardening into panic. She hated being spoken to
cryptically almost as much as being caught by surprise. 'What do you want,
Father?'

'For you to have courage, Mrs Cooper.'

He held her gaze with a self-assurance that was not quite
human. Without fear or self-consciousness he seemed to reach inside her.

'When you came to the prison I mentioned a mutual friend—'

'You mean Alec McAvoy.'

'Yes. I met him a number of times through my work there. He
spoke of you once.'

'Is he alive?'

'Honestly, I couldn't say.'

'When did he mention me?'

'I took his confession while he was assisting in your
investigation last year into the missing young men. It's not betraying a
confidence to say that he thought very highly of you.'

'What did he say?'

'That you were one of the
few.
I took him to
mean one of the few people in his orbit worthy of complete trust. I have formed
a similar opinion.'

'Even though I don't answer your calls?'

Starr smiled. It was a warm, spontaneous gesture that showed
him to be human after all. Jenny felt a wave of relief pass over her.

'I'll confess,' Starr said, 'I observed your reaction when I
mentioned him. It was probably a little unfair of me, and it's been weighing on
my conscience. He is, or was, a very charismatic man.' He glanced towards the
partially open door to her office. 'It is safe to discuss such matters?'

'There's no one here but us.'

'It's only right that I tell you -' Father Starr paused and
gestured with his hands, as if rehearsing what he had to say - 'he described
you as a beautiful and a troubled woman whom he felt fated to meet. I don't
think I would have felt prompted to mention it were it not for that word -
fated.
It stayed with me for some reason. Finally meeting you in
person seemed to suggest an answer, or at least the route to one.'

She felt herself blush. There were butterflies in her
stomach. Why torment her with this when McAvoy was already dead?

'You would tell me if you knew anything, even if only a rumour—'

'You have my word. Well, there you are. My conscience is
clear -' he hesitated - 'well, almost. Forgive me, I'm a priest, and sometimes
far too conscientious for my own good, but I feel I ought to ask - are you
troubled, Mrs Cooper?'

'I think the lines have become blurred enough already, don't
you?'

Starr looked at her, as if about to say something which he
then decided against. 'I apologize. It wasn't my intention to make you feel
uncomfortable. You are going to conduct this inquest, yes?'

'If I were to say no?'

Father Starr looked into her eyes, then dipped his head and
slipped from the room as quietly as he had arrived.