The Redeemed (29 page)

Resigned to defeat, she gathered her papers into her groaning
briefcase and forced it shut. She snatched the key from

Alison's desk and retreated hurriedly from the hall, the
ghosts trailing in her wake. Slamming the front door, she locked them in,
feeling like a jailer turning the key on the condemned.

Hurrying across the uneven ground, she turned the corner of
the building and saw another car parked alongside hers. Father Starr climbed
out of the driver's seat and strode towards her as she made a dash for her
Golf.

'Was that an admission of defeat, Mrs Cooper?' It was more an
accusation than a question. 'One could be forgiven for forming the impression
that your inquest won't be hearing from Michael Turnbull again.'

Jenny rummaged clumsily through her pockets in search of her
keys.

'An innocent man is still in prison,' he said accusingly. 'I
know you find me troublesome, but he has no voice but mine.'

He drew closer as she switched her search to her handbag.

'You're a woman of conscience, Mrs Cooper. If you stop your
ears to him now, I can promise his cries will never leave you.'

Jenny's fingers at last closed on the keys. She thumped her
bag on the roof of the car as she unlocked the door. Starr was only inches from
her now, all inhibitions gone.

'Is this the woman I was told would tolerate no impediment
to justice? If I weren't so angry, I'd pity you. Do you honestly think you'll
find any comfort in lies, any peace though colluding with this travesty?'

Jenny flung open the door and turned on him. 'Has it ever
occurred to you that it might be you who's wrong?'

'A comment unworthy of your intellect, Mrs Cooper. All I am
asking on Craven's behalf is for his legal entitlement, for due process
fearlessly administered.'

'That is exactly what he is getting.'

Starr gave her a wearied yet knowing look, one that
penetrated her feeble protest and seemed to probe at the heart of her fear.
Quietly he said, 'Do you assume that you are the only person being tested?'

She climbed into the car and pulled at the door. Starr
grabbed the outer handle, refusing to let it shut.

'Please, Mrs Cooper, don't be intimidated.'

Jenny yanked hard, hit the locks and turned the key in the
ignition.

Starr shouted at her through the closed window. 'Then at
least afford me one last chance. There are people I can go to for help. Good
people.'

She slammed into reverse and stamped on the throttle, forcing
the priest to jump clear. He was still calling after her as she sped away.

Dull with indecision, Jenny arrived back in the office to
find that Alison had already gone to lunch, leaving a tell-tale trace of
perfume in the air. She tried to clear her head, to concentrate on the hundred
mundane tasks with which she could fill the afternoon, but even lifting the
overnight death reports from her in tray was an energy-draining effort.

Among the neat stacks of files on her officer's desk she
noticed the latest edition of
Chambers and
Partners Directory.
The annual listings usually lived on the shelves in Jenny's
office. She picked it up to find a scrap of paper marking a page. It opened at
the professional biography of Annabelle Stern, listed as a partner in the firm
of Kennedy and Parr. The portrait photograph was several years out of date, but
the reported cases in which she had featured were recent and dealt exclusively
with the fast-evolving field of personal privacy. The names of show-business
celebrities featured alongside football managers and a leading case described
only as
A v. B
which, it was claimed, had set a new benchmark in curbing
newspaper intrusion. The British civil courts accorded total anonymity only to
royalty and the extremely rich. Whatever the identity of her clients, Annabelle
Stern was trusted by the biggest players and had made her reputation protecting
their dirty secrets.

As Jenny reached for Alison's keyboard to see what the
internet might reveal about her newest adversary, her mobile rang. Simon
Moreton's name blinked up on the caller display. Jenny was tempted to ignore
him. She had nothing to say to her notional superior from the Ministry of
Justice except that she wanted the inquest to end and as quickly as possible.
But a nagging sense of duty forced her to answer and utter a matter-of-fact
hello.

'Ah, Jenny. Glad I got you. I happen to find myself in your
part of the world on a bit of business. Just got word you might have come free
for a spot of late lunch. Shall we say the Hotel du Vin? One-thirty?'

It had taken her many months in post to appreciate the full
absurdity of the genteel code in which Simon spoke. She was undoubtedly the
business and there would be no ducking his summons.

Jenny made her way across the city centre on foot. A journey
that began in sunshine descended into gloom as a cool westerly breeze picked up
and blew in a slate-coloured mantle of cloud from across the Bristol Channel.
The first fat drops of rain were splashing the pavement and filling the air
with the scent of damp concrete when she entered the restaurant. Simon came to
meet her, looking trim and energetic in a summer-weight suit and Liberty print
tie. Running was his latest passion, she recalled, and his suntan and newly
defined cheekbones were a testament to his hours of training. He could have
claimed to be forty, rather than fifty-three, and probably did.

'Jenny. You're looking well,' he said, squeezing her hand.

'You too,' she replied stopping short of the compliment on
his newly honed physique that he was evidently fishing for. Experience had
taught her that flirting with Simon wouldn't end with a playful exchange.

Ever the gentleman, he summoned a waiter to take her coat and
led her through to the dining room. A sliver of Temazepam before she left the
office had taken the edge off her anxiety, and a glass of Pouilly Fume while
they waited for their salmon - no starter for the figure-conscious Simon -
lulled her into a state approaching relaxation. It was strictly small talk
until lunch was cleared: office gossip from the Ministry, the stupidity of
politicians and a handful of anecdotes about lesser coroners designed to make
Jenny feel good about herself, or at least less insecure.
You may be wrong-headed, but we know you're not stupid or
sexually incontinent
, was the subtext.

It was Jenny who was first to grow tired of the pretence. 'I
had a call from your number two the other day, several actually.'

'Yes.' He smiled. 'A bit keen, isn't she?'

'You normally make the awkward calls yourself.'

'I'm afraid she took the initiative on that one. I was
otherwise engaged at the time.'

Jenny looked at him over her wine glass, letting him know she
didn't believe a word.

'I know she lacks a certain finesse,' Simon said by way of
apology, 'but she's not a bad girl.'

'She was trying to persuade me not to conduct an inquest.'

'That's a little strong. Advising you of the potential hazards
might be a fairer way to put it.'

'And you left it to her because you didn't want to be tainted
by association. Better to keep clear completely than to try to dissuade me and
fail.'

Simon studied the tablecloth with a thoughtful smile. 'Surely
you can see it from my perspective, Jenny. Craven freely confessed to murder.
He pleaded guilty in court. A coroner's function isn't to subvert the criminal
process.'

'Particularly when a major witness, who happens to be a close
friend of the government, is about to steer his bill through Parliament.'

Her petulance confirmed his instincts. 'I admire your
tenacity, Jenny, you know I do, but the one element of holding judicial office
you can't seem to grasp is your duty to the administration of justice as a
whole.'

'The last time I checked, the coroner's duty was to be
fearless and independent - as I pointed out to Miss Cramer.'

'But you and I both know the dividing line between admirable
independence and perversity can be razor thin. It's the ability to execute that
fine judgement that we look for in our coroners. Can I put it any more clearly
than that?'

'I've hardly done anything outrageous.'

'Holding Lord Turnbull in contempt was a little over-
zealous.'

'He ignored a summons - what else would you call it? I'll
probably stop short of having him locked up if that's what you're worried
about.'

'It would be appreciated.'

'Is that all this is about?'

'Not quite.' He tapped the ends of his fingers together
nervously. 'There is something else, something rather more significant, you
might say.' 'Oh?'

'I'll level with you, Jenny. Even before this case there were
moves afoot to ease you aside, perhaps to a post some considered more suited to
your specific skills.'

'Such as?'

'I did hear something in the family law sector suggested; an
advisory role of some sort.'

'Sounds fascinating,' Jenny replied caustically.

'I managed to head them off, persuaded them your successes
outweighed any "temperamental" issues -' he looked her in the eye -
'and that I could guarantee an improvement in that department.'

'That was rather presumptuous.'

'Yes.' He leaned back in his chair. 'It was probably a little
rash of me. Foolish even. And now this matter of your past-'

'There's nothing to know.'

'Really?'

'My cousin died. The police were involved. No one was
charged. The coroner recorded accidental death.'

'But the police are looking again, I hear.'

'That's hardly a coincidence. Have you read the names of the
lawyers the Decency campaign has employed?'

'You can hardly be surprised, Jenny.' He wore an expression
of pained regret. 'The thing is, it's not something we can weather that easily,
or perhaps at all.'

'Meaning?'

Simon leaned forward, adopting a cosy, familiar tone. 'You'll
have to believe me when I tell you this is an entirely informal visit. No one
knows I'm here; it's not even in the diary. And the reason I came was to warn
you -' his face twitched in a nervous smile - 'that if you should cause undue
embarrassment, any influence I once had over your security of tenure will be
gone.'

'Since when did causing embarrassment amount to unfitness
for office?'

'There are more than enough grounds on the file, Jenny,' he
said. 'We both know that.'

He was alluding to her psychiatric history, which she had
neglected to mention when applying for her post. The antidiscrimination laws
were moving in her favour, but not quickly enough to save her if Simon's
superiors decided her time was at an end.

'And if I play to the rules?'

'You may survive. But you'll be under scrutiny, of course.
Trust will take time to restore.'

It was the fact that he had behaved so impeccably which told
her that for once he was deadly serious. On every other occasion they had met
he had contrived to brush her hand, or to touch legs beneath the table, but
today he had kept to himself. Even his eyes had remained chastely fixed on her
face. There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have told him to go to
hell and lectured him on the separation of powers, but somehow she had lost the
stomach for the fight. Without the strange comfort of his flirting she felt
very alone. Yes, that was the sensation hovering beneath the dulling haze of
alcohol: a fear of being abandoned, a dread of finding herself at forty-five,
washed up, unloved and unemployable.

They lapsed into silence as coffee arrived, then, sensing her
need to reflect, Simon chit-chatted about a sailing trip he'd recently taken
with friends. Jenny smiled, but it was only a surface gesture. And she knew
that despite his bonhomie Simon could see that he had brought her to the point
that they had both known she would eventually reach: would she give in and
finally become one of them, or would she strike out alone into the wilderness?

As he called for the bill, Simon allowed himself a final,
dangerous moment of sincerity. 'I do hope you make the right decision, Jenny.
I've grown fond of you, I really have.' He reached across the table and patted
the back of her hand, and when she didn't recoil, he let it settle and closed
his fingers around hers. 'There's a lot you can achieve without going to war
every time, you know. You could still be a real asset to the service.'

They parted amicably with a handshake and pecks on the cheek.
Simon climbed into a waiting taxi and gave a friendly wave as he departed. As
an exercise in washing his hands of a troublesome coroner, it couldn't have
left a smaller stain on his conscience.