Authors: M.R. Hall
The Redeemed (41 page)
File number six
began with Eva's contract of employment with the Decency campaign. Her salary
was £3 6,000 for the year, in return for which she pledged her exclusive
services, to undertake whatever media assignments were arranged for her, and to
'conduct herself at all times in a morally impeccable manner and in accordance
with the principles of the Decency campaign'.
The problems had
begun the previous autumn, when GlamourX refused to pay her royalties, asserting
that her involvement with Decency contradicted the terms of their agreement.
Eva wrote a stream of increasingly emotional letters to Michael Turnbull
complaining that she was losing £8,000 per month and could barely afford to
pay her mortgage. Lynd had done his best to argue her corner, but Kennedy and
Parr had stonewalled him, claiming Eva's disputes with former employers were
nothing to do with their client.
Eva had exploded
the bomb the previous November. A letter signed by Ed Prince warned Lynd that
his client had made 'allegations of a sexual nature relating to alleged
previous contact between her and Lord Turnbull at a business reception in
2003', and that unless she retracted the accusation and signed an undertaking
never to repeat it, 'serious consequences' would ensue. Another angry letter
from Ed Prince dated two weeks later stated that, as she had failed to sign,
High Court proceedings would be started immediately. The next item in the file
was a copy of Mr Justice Laithwaite's original order, dated 3 December. The
injunction prohibited Eva (who in the secret proceedings was referred to only
as 'B') from disclosing any details of any past meetings or sexual contact
between her and 'A' to any third parties. In particular, she was to make no mention
of any past connection or relations between her and 'A' to his wife,
colleagues, friends or associates.
Jenny handed the
order to Coughlin. 'Look at that. It means Christine Turnbull didn't know.'
Coughlin was
sceptical.
Jenny continued.
'It's an injunction to protect privacy. If the cat was out of the bag there
would have been no point mentioning her in the order if she knew already. It
also explains why Eva wasn't sacked - how would Turnbull have explained that to
his wife?'
Starr and
Coughlin exchanged a glance. Jenny turned through the following pages of the
file. There were a number of letters about unpaid fees and Eva's angry reply.
'Wow,' Jenny
said, 'things were really turning ugly in February.' She was looking at a note
Lynd had made of a meeting with Eva. Turnbull's lawyers had demanded that she
hand over her laptop computer and mobile for 'security reasons'. Eva was
objecting, saying she needed the phone for her producing work. Jenny read out
the note:
E. D.
ill-tempered and truculent, claiming that Christine Turnbull is encouraging
violent exorcisms that are taking place at the Mission Church targeting gays
and the mentally ill. Claims to have witnessed an incident involving a
disturbed teenager. I advised that such complaints were unconnected with her
employment dispute with Decency and should be directed to the church trustees.
E. D. pointed out that Christine Turnbull is
chairman
of the
trustees. I repeated my former advice and stressed the need for payment of
outstanding bills before Reed Falkirk would undertake further contractual work
or litigation. E. D. became increasingly irrational, threatening to break the
terms of the December injunction. I advised of consequences.
Jenny said,
'That must have been Freddy Reardon. It's a miracle Eva held out as long as she
did.'
Starr said,
'Surely the opposite of a miracle, Mrs Cooper?'
'What does
contractual
work mean?'
Coughlin asked.
Jenny had
reached the end of the file and opened the last one. It contained a handful of
loose documents, some of them stamped
DRAFT.
She fanned them out across the desk.
There were forms
relating to the formation of a new company to be called, 'Fallen Angel Ltd';
the directors were named as Eva Donaldson and Joseph Cassidy.
'She was
starting a production company with her ex- boyfriend,' Jenny said, then pulled
out a document headed
Actors'
Agreement
and ran her eye down the page. 'Oh . . .'
She couldn't
explain why she was so disappointed with Eva, or even why it came as a
surprise.
Father Starr
stepped towards her. 'What is it?'
She handed the
paper to him, preferring not to read it aloud. She glanced through the other
papers - technicians' contracts, actors' medical warranties, a studio-hire
agreement - while Starr and Coughlin read about the production Eva was
planning to mount in August:
Daddy's Girl.
Among
the papers Jenny found a letter Damien Lynd had drafted to a potential investor
in the movie. It contained what he called the 'elevator pitch': 'Eva plays a
beautiful young woman who, following a disfiguring attack by a jealous
boyfriend, turns to the only man who'll still love her - her daddy.'
Jenny showed the
letter to Starr and Coughlin.
The two men read
in silence, then Coughlin said, 'Do you believe she would have made this film?'
Jenny thought
about it. 'No. I think she was testing God, and hoping one way or another he
wouldn't let her.'
Starr didn't
comment and put the letter back on the table. 'What do you think, Sean? Do you
have enough to make an arrest?'
'We've got a car
and a motive,' Coughlin said. 'The only person I've got to convince is my
Presbyterian Super'.'
'We'll pray for
him,' Starr replied.
It was past nine
when Coughlin dropped her back at her car, an hour later than she'd told Steve
she would be at his farm for dinner. She dialled his number repeatedly as she
sped out of the city and across the Severn Bridge, the low evening sun making
the water beneath her glow an unholy red. Each time it rang and rang without
answer.
Evening had
faded to dusk as she bumped along the rough track and turned into the yard.
There was no sign of his Land Rover or the dog. She climbed out of the car and
made her way through the empty lower storey of the barn. She called his name up
the rickety stairs, but there was no reply. The door to his loft was bolted
shut. She went out into the yard and around the edge of the vegetable garden
to the area of grass, somewhere between a garden and a small meadow. She saw
that he had set two places on the table he had made himself from a fallen
cherry tree.
Jenny sat on one
of the bentwood chairs listening to the faltering grasshoppers and watching the
bats flitting in the fading light. She left him a note under the water jug. It
said:
One last try? Jx.
It could have
been a perfect evening. Instead, it felt like an end.
Steve didn't
call back that evening, or at all. The weekend had felt as if it would never
end. His silence, which for days had been so convenient, now felt like a
yawning void. On Monday morning, Jenny sat in her car outside her office,
hoping that in the last few minutes before nine he'd phone and say he'd
forgiven her; he didn't. She would have phoned him, except she was too
frightened of what he'd say, terrified that he'd tell her now was the time to
face everything she had been putting off.
Alison muttered
a muted good morning as Jenny came through the door carrying the box containing
Eva's files. Jenny noticed she was dressed more soberly than of late and,
through the fog of her own emotions, realized that her officer was close to
tears.
'Are you all
right?'
'Perfectly,
thank you, Mrs Cooper,' came Alison's brittle reply. She fetched a single sheet
from the fax machine. 'I presume this is for you. I'm just making a cup of tea.
Would you like one?'
'Coffee would be
good.'
The fax was a
copy of a statement Coughlin had taken late the previous evening from a Mrs
Diane Grant. She stated that on the evening of 9 May she had been on her way
out of the house to collect her daughter from the railway station when she
noticed a well-dressed woman walking briskly towards a large, maroon-coloured
sports car on the opposite side of the road, some twenty yards from Eva
Donaldson's house. The woman had climbed into the driver's seat and driven away
fast. She had appeared relaxed enough, Mrs Grant said, but she had been
carrying a tatty carrier bag, which had looked odd for someone driving such an
expensive car. She confirmed that she had told this to a detective on the
morning of Tuesday, 11 May, and that she hadn't been contacted by the police
since.
Competing with
the sound of the heating kettle, Jenny said, 'I paid a visit to Eva Donaldson's
solicitors last Friday evening. I forced disclosure of her files—'
'I know where
you went, Mrs Cooper.'
'You do?'
Alison didn't
reply. She banged cupboard doors and noisily clinked spoons and cups, managing
to channel what felt from Jenny's end of the passage like boiling rage into the
act of making their drinks. There was a short silence, followed by a sob.
'Do you mind my
asking how?' Jenny said.
Through
sniffles, Alison said, 'I was with Martin. He was
at
my house ...
He had a call, said he had to go . . . I'd been a bit
suspicious, I thought he mightn't have been telling the truth about being
separated from his wife, so I followed
him ...
I followed his car to Easton, where another man got in, then to Queen
Square
...
I saw him go into the office and then you coming out with
the
others ...
I should have
gone after you, but I didn't know what was
happening
... I
promise you, Mrs Cooper, I had no idea, I really didn't. He
seemed so genuine.'
'Did he ask many
questions?'
'Not really . .
. not that I noticed.' She broke down into a fit of sobs.
Jenny felt her
anger subside. 'I'm sorry, Alison. You weren't to know. I knew those lawyers
were capable of some pretty low things — '
'I've no excuse,
Mrs
Cooper ...
I should
have—'
She left the sentence unfinished as tears overwhelmed her. Jenny hovered
ineffectually, not sure how to comfort her, when the telephone rescued her from
making a decision.
'I'll get it,'
Alison sniffed.
'No. I will,'
Jenny said, and hurried into her office, terrified it would be Steve.
'Bloody hell,
Jenny. Did you know about this?' It was Simon Moreton. He was furious.
'About what?'
'The
arrest.
The bloody Met
have arrested Christine Turnbull outside the House of bloody Lords. In front of
the world's press, on her way in to watch her husband open the debate. Dear God
. . .' he stammered. 'What the hell have they got on her?'
Jenny spoke
quietly: 'I'm not sure you want to know.'
'Fuck, fuck,
fuck. It's the Lord Chancellor on the other line. Wait there—'
Jenny rang off
and switched on her PC.
She brought up
the live news on the internet. A near- hysterical reporter spoke over a replay
of images taken outside the main entrance to the House of Lords in Parliament
Square. A smiling Michael and Christine Turnbull climbed out of a familiar
black Mercedes van and made their way towards a scrum of media corralled behind
a barrier. As they paused to field questions, two police cars pulled up, sirens
blaring. The camera caught the look of shock on Christine Turnbull's face as
Sean Coughlin and a female detective walked towards her, Coughlin saying, 'Lady
Turn- bull, I regret to inform you that you are under arrest. . .' The rest was
lost in the explosion of hysteria among the reporters. The cameraman fought to
hold on to the image of Christine being led to a police car, shaking her head
as her husband stood paralysed. He made a half-hearted attempt to follow her,
but was swallowed up by the crowd who had broken out from behind the barrier
and were swarming the police car as it pulled away from the kerb. The cameraman
caught a brief shot of Christine crouched in the back seat, her hands shielding
her face.
Coughlin was in
the seat in front of her. Jenny could have sworn she saw him smile.