by M. R. Hall
There was nothing in the dry wording of the order to suggest that the judge had been informed about Jenny’s personal history, and perhaps it was never mentioned in open court, but one way or another she would have been told. And later, in the privacy of her chambers, she would have lifted the phone to Simon Moreton to ask if it were true. And Moreton, the snake, would have replied that on reflection perhaps this wasn’t the best moment for Mrs Cooper to be conducting such a sensitive inquest . . .
In a day or two he would call to commiserate. He’d tell her she was lucky to have survived as a coroner at all, and that if she wished to continue she would have to be altogether more sensitive to her place in the system. No more upsets, no more embarrassments. This was to serve as her final warning.
She looked at the fresh heap of papers on her desk with a sense of foreboding. More deaths, more tears, more loose ends and jagged edges. She was tired. She needed some respite before starting over again.
She had no right to expect Steve to respond, given the way she had treated him, but she had at least to try to salvage the wreckage of their relationship. And besides, there was no one else, nor likely to be. She dialled his number.
‘Jenny?’ He sounded concerned.
‘I’m sorry. I was busy.’
‘I’ve been worried sick. The story in the paper—’
‘I know . . . It’s complicated. They stopped the inquest.’
‘Because of your past?’
‘No . . . Not that they’d admit to. I’ll have to explain.’
She paused, not sure how to make the move, or even whether she still wanted to.
Steve said, ‘Have you spoken to Ross? I’ve tried to call him.’
‘I’ve left messages, but he’s not called back . . . I’m almost glad. I don’t know what I’d say.’
It was Steve’s turn to fall silent.
‘Steve? Are you still there?’
‘Jenny, look . . . the reason I was trying to call you, one of the reasons, is that the firm in France wants a decision. They’d need me in September. I thought things might work out here, but the Edinburgh contract’s got snagged up with egos and politics . . . I don’t want that.’
‘You’re going?’
‘What do you want, Jenny?’
‘Right at this moment? Some company would be nice.’
At five-thirty she was locking the office door and thinking of what she would wear that evening for Steve. She had a daisy-print sundress which she’d only worn once, but which he’d gone wild for, saying it made her look girlishly beautiful and innocent.
‘Mrs Cooper?’
Startled out of her daydream, she looked left to see Sean Coughlin climbing out of his double-parked BMW, the engine still running and the roof down. Father Starr was in the passenger seat wearing sunglasses, a character from a gangster movie.
Coughlin walked towards her. Starr stayed in the car, letting the detective handle the business.
‘I hear you’ve a problem,’ Coughlin said.
Jenny wondered which one he meant. ‘The police at Weston? I doubt that’ll go much further.’
‘With the inquest.’
‘It’s been stopped, Mr Coughlin. I did my best to explain to everyone present – Father Starr was there.’
‘I understand that they got you on a technicality – not enough evidence to justify the inquiry.’
‘Something like that.’
He nodded. ‘That’s good, because I’ve found you some.’
He let the statement hang in the air, waiting to see her reaction.
Jenny said, ‘It’s over.’
‘We’ve taken advice from a friendly lawyer: with evidence, you could start another inquiry.’
‘Now really isn’t the best time. Why don’t you call me on Monday?’
She started towards her car. Coughlin’s footsteps followed her.
‘It’s only circumstantial, but it’s solid. A detective constable in CID took a statement from a woman who lived across the road from Eva. She said she saw a maroon-coloured sports car taking off from outside her house, at about eight forty-five on the night she was killed. He was trying to trace the vehicle when Craven put his hands up. DI Goodison told him to forget it and put him on another case.’
Jenny stopped at the driver’s door of her Golf and stuck the key in the lock. It jammed halfway. Damn. She been meaning to do something about it for weeks.
Coughlin came to her shoulder, close enough that she could hear him breathe. ‘This came from a colleague of his, one of the faith. I’ve no doubt it’s true. Mrs Cooper, do you know who happens to own a maroon-coloured sports car?’
She stopped her struggle with the key. She’d just remembered the car she had seen parked outside the Mission Church.
Coughlin said, ‘What do you know, Mrs Cooper? What happened on your trip to London that made them so panicky?’
Jenny looked from Coughlin to Starr and noticed they had the same stillness about them, the same certainty behind the eyes. A pair of celibate warriors who wouldn’t have much sympathy with her plans for the evening.
‘I’m not sure how much good this will do any of us,’ Jenny said.
‘It’s not about us, is it, Mrs Cooper? It’s about a man who’s in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Surely you can’t sleep easy with that on your conscience?’
‘Take my advice and get him a good lawyer.’
She tried the key again. It refused to turn.
‘We’re all afraid of the dark, Mrs Cooper,’ Coughlin said, ‘none more so than those of us who have found ourselves lost in it.’ He spoke to her softly, like a priest. ‘Don’t you believe that we find ourselves at these crossroads for a reason? It’s a privilege to be truly tested, don’t you think? Imagine a life without even the opportunity for redemption.’
He reached for Jenny’s car key and turned it in the lock without effort.
She touched the handle, but her fingers stiffened. An image of Freddy’s fragile body lying on the mortuary slab flashed before her eyes, and she experienced a moment of overpowering grief. Coughlin sensed it and leaned in even closer.
‘Let your conscience speak, Mrs Cooper.’
Jenny felt her resistance fall away. She began to talk.
‘Before he was saved, Turnbull had parties for his business associates,’ Jenny said, the words spilling out of her. ‘Eva was at one of them as part of the entertainment. It seems she reminded him of it when she was arguing for a pay rise. He got a court order gagging her. Her lawyers can’t discuss her affairs with anyone – it’s a total blackout. I persuaded a judge to grant an exception for the purposes of my inquest, but the Ministry of Justice stepped in to shut me up.’ She paused. ‘This bit I shouldn’t tell you . . .’
Coughlin stayed silent, leaving her to make up her own mind.
‘I’ve been promised the police will investigate Turnbull eventually, but only after he’s got his law passed.’
‘And you gave what in return?’
‘I promised not to rock the boat . . .’ She glanced over at Starr. ‘It seemed like the best deal at the time.’
‘This order you got from the judge – could you still use it?’
She shook her head. ‘My inquest is over.’
‘It was stayed for want of evidence – that’s different, surely?’
Jenny thought for a moment, guessing he had been on the phone to a friendly lawyer. ‘I can see there might be an argument.’
‘Eva’s lawyers are the firm in Queen Square, right?’
‘You know them?’
‘The DC who took the statement about the sports car says they make most of their money from the pornography business – everyone in the trade uses them. One of the partners even owns the warehouses out in Filton where they shoot all the films. He tells me it’s a regular little blue Hollywood out there.’
‘If that’s true, I’m surprised they didn’t put up more of a fight against Turnbull,’ Jenny said. ‘A well-placed leak an
d they could have wrecked him.’
‘A man with his money would have shut them up for small change.’
Jenny thought of Damien Lynd and his pretence of being ethical. No doubt he had performed the same routine while telling Eva that he couldn’t sue GlamourX until she had paid his bill for contesting Turnbull’s injunction. And at the same time he and his partners would have been negotiating their pay-offs with Ed Prince.
Jenny said, ‘Why don’t I talk to them after the weekend? I need to think this through.’
Coughlin said, ‘I understand Mr Craven didn’t take the news of what happened today too well. Between you and me, Father Starr’s worried he might do something stupid.’ Before Jenny could object, Coughlin said, ‘Why we don’t we pay these crooks a visit now, while the spirit’s with us?’
Jenny sat on the back seat of Coughlin’s convertible. Father Starr didn’t say a word as they drove the short distance across the centre of town to Queen Square, his eyes unreadable behind the dark glasses. At first she thought he might have been embarrassed into silence, but then she spotted rosary beads in his fingers and realized he was praying.
Coughlin cruised past the rows of parked Mercedes and pulled up on the double-yellow outside Montego House. He told Father Starr to stay in the car and followed Jenny to the office’s front entrance.
‘Let me do the talking,’ Jenny said.
‘You’re the boss.’
‘Do I use your real name?’
‘Certainly. This is lawful business, right?’
‘Maybe.’
Coughlin smiled and pressed the buzzer.
The uppity receptionist looked baffled at the arrival of two unexpected visitors. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Jenny Cooper,’ Jenny reminded her. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Sean Coughlin of the Metropolitan Police. We’re here to speak to Mr Lynd.’
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ Coughlin said.
‘I’m afraid he’s with clients.’
‘Could you please tell him it’s urgent?’
The receptionist looked from Jenny to Coughlin, then down at the phone, searching for a reason not to pick it up.
Gently touching Jenny’s arm, Coughlin said, ‘Why don’t you tell us where we can find him? You looked as if you were about to go home. We wouldn’t want to hold you up.’
Eyeing him warily, the receptionist got up from her chair and pushed it under the desk. ‘I believe you’ll find Mr Lynd in the meeting room at the end of the corridor on the first floor.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Coughlin said, and waited for her to start towards the front door. Quickening her pace, she left the building without a backwards glance.
Jenny glanced up at the painting above the fancy fireplace: the half-caste man with cold eyes, rich on slave-grown sugar.
‘Are we going to find him or admire the antiques?’ Coughlin said. He headed for the stairs.
They arrived at a wood-panelled landing on the first floor. The Persian carpet and expensive fittings gave an impression of old-world opulence.
‘You’d never think they were in the skin business,’ Coughlin said.
Jenny stepped ahead of him and led the way along the passage, passing a number of ornately carved oak doors and heading for the one at the end with a brass plate that said Meeting Room.
She knocked twice and turned the handle, entering to see Damien Lynd starting up from the conference table. His meeting was with two attractive young women, scarcely more than girls, and a middle-aged man with a ponytail and a pot-belly that bulged over the top of his skinny jeans. He looked seedy enough to be their pimp.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Lynd, but it can’t wait. This is Detective Inspector Sean Coughlin. Could we have a word?’
‘My apologies,’ Lynd said to his startled clients, his face colouring. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
Lynd followed them into the corridor and marched several yards from the door before turning to confront them. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m here to enforce Mr Justice Laithwaite’s order,’ Jenny said. ‘It was served on you yesterday afternoon. I’d be grateful if you’d hand over Miss Donaldson’s files.’
‘Out of the question,’ Lynd said, confident of his ground. ‘Your inquest was stayed this morning. I’ve seen that order, too.’
‘For want of evidence. More has since come to light. As of this afternoon I’ve started a fresh inquiry.’
Lynd said, ‘Even if you’re entitled to do so, Mrs Cooper, Mr Justice Laithwaite’s order relates to your previous investigation. I don’t think we have anything more to discuss.’
Jenny stepped in front of him. ‘We can read the words together if you like, Mr Lynd. It says I’m entitled to disclosure for the purposes of my inquiry into Miss Donaldson’s death. Now you can either assist me, or Mr Coughlin here will have to assist you in fetching what we’ve come for.’
‘Even if I could lay my hands on the files, I really can’t comply without clarification from the judge. This will have to wait.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cooper, that’s my final word.’
Lynd turned to the office door behind him and reached for the handle. Coughlin pushed past Jenny and clamped a hand on his shoulder.
‘I don’t think you understand, Mr Lynd.’
Lynd spun round, his face twisted in anger. ‘You’ve no right to be here and you know it. Get out.’
Coughlin said, ‘If you’ll pardon me, you don’t look like a man with the balls to tough this one out. In fact, I’d say you were as anxious as we are to get this done and yourself in the clear. You’re not the boss here, and I don’t suppose it was your decision to protect Turnbull, even though he’d like most of your clients out of business – am I right?’ He looked Lynd in the eye. ‘Think of it as your one chance to do good, Mr Lynd. Believe me, you’ll feel a better man for it.’
The meeting-room door opened and the pimp looked out. ‘What’s going on, Damien? I’ve got to be somewhere.’
‘Five minutes,’ Lynd apologized. ‘Help yourself to coffee.’
The man grumbled and slammed back inside.
‘They’re in the storeroom,’ Lynd said. ‘There’s a copier you can use.’
Jenny said, ‘If it’s all the same, I think we’ll make do with the originals.’
Lynd thought about arguing, but instead pushed his designer glasses up his nose and took off towards the stairs.
Coughlin said, ‘Looks like you’ve got the place to yourself, Mr Lynd, or are your colleagues just keeping their heads down?’
The lawyer didn’t answer.
They followed him across the reception area and through a door into a short, windowless passage that led to a secure storage room protected by a heavy steel door. Lynd typed in the access code, then heaved it open. They entered a large, low-ceilinged vault with a bare concrete floor. Archive boxes were stacked on rows of industrial shelving separated by narrow aisles.
Jenny and Coughlin followed Lynd to end of a row. He pulled a box off the shelf. ‘This is hers.’
Jenny said, ‘You’re sure that’s everything you’ve got?’
‘Film contracts, house conveyance, terms of employment. The lot.’ He set it on the floor and took off the lid, revealing ten or more files stacked on their sides. ‘Do I get a receipt or something?’
‘I’ll fax one over.’
Lynd glanced up at Coughlin. ‘Is this all you want from me?’
Coughlin said, ‘Hand me one of those files.’
Lynd stalled for a moment, puzzled. Coughlin leaned down and took one from the box. Lynd stayed crouched on the floor, staring at the concrete as Coughlin opened it.
‘What’s this, Mr Lynd? I don’t see Miss Donaldson’s name.’
He showed it to Jenny. It looked like an old set of company accounts for a restaurant business. Coughlin pulled out another file and wrenched it open: a bunch of letters in a tenancy dispute. ‘Did Miss Donaldson own a fish restaurant? Or have you got her mixed up with
another one of your whores?’
Lynd pushed up to his feet and took a step back. ‘I want a guarantee . . . I was just one of her lawyers. I want to know I’m not going to be implicated in whatever it is you’re investigating.’
‘You’re not helping yourself, Mr Lynd.’ Coughlin said. Jenny flinched, as, without warning, he threw the file in Lynd’s face, the pages fluttering to the floor at his feet. ‘Now get the right fucking box before I rip your balls off, you piece of shite.’
Jenny gave Coughlin a look, but his eyes were locked on Lynd, who was slowly shuffling backwards, shaking his head. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t do it.’
Coughlin kicked the box aside, shot out a fist and drove it hard into Lynd’s stomach. As the lawyer slumped forward, the detective grabbed his shirt with a powerful left hand, hit him hard across the face with his right, then reached down and grabbed his crotch.
Lynd made a pathetic croaking sound. His broken glasses dropped to the floor.
Jenny was appalled. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Do you think I was kidding you, Mr Lynd?’ Coughlin said, ignoring her. He tightened his grip. Lynd’s face twisted in agony.
Jenny started at a splintering crash that echoed down the hallway and through the open door.
‘You devious wee bastard!’ He slammed his fist into Lynd’s temple. Jenny saw the lights go out even before his neck had snapped back onto his shoulders and his legs folded beneath him. ‘Turn this shit-hole over,’ Coughlin shouted at her, shoving past and heading for the door.
Jenny looked down at Lynd, who was now slowly stirring and groaning. Thank God he was moving. She glanced up at the shelves, the hundreds of identical boxes. Where would she start? From out in the hall she heard sounds of a struggle, furniture being thrown, Coughlin yelling. She ran out into the short passageway. The door to the reception area was wide open. Next to an upturned sofa, a thug in a camouflage jacket was holding Coughlin from behind, while a shorter man in a business suit drove the butt of a night stick into his stomach.
Jenny had no control over the scream that came out of her. The two men dropped Coughlin to the floor and started towards her.
