by M. R. Hall
‘If we all looked out for each other like that, the world would be a much better place,’ Jacqui said regretfully. ‘Then I suppose it takes a bit of hardship to bring people together.’
On that they were both agreed.
The mid-afternoon lull ended with the arrival of several other customers and Alison took her cue to leave. Heading back towards the administration block, she spotted a sign to St Mary’s church. She took a detour and went to investigate. It wouldn’t do any harm to look in at the WAGs Club, if only to let them know she was a friendly face before any gossip started. And if she could manage to meet a few people without Sergeant Price in tow, so much the better.
WAGs DROP-IN – 2 TILL 4. The handwritten sign festooned with painted flowers provided a welcome dash of colour amidst the drab military buildings that surrounded the hall and the modern church building next door. Alison stepped through the doors and found herself in a large, airy room filled with the sounds of excited young children and the babble of female conversation. Part nursery, part impromptu cafe and social club, twenty or so young women were seated at tables arranged at the near end of the hall while a host of preschool children played in a roped-off area at the other. Many of the women had babies and young infants on their knees.
A woman with tied-back blonde hair and an air of polite authority appeared almost immediately to greet her.
‘Hi. I’m Melanie Norton.’
Alison introduced herself as the coroner’s officer and told Melanie that she was happy to explain to anyone who might be interested what she and the coroner, Mrs Cooper, were doing at the camp.
Melanie seemed a little unsure how to respond, then mentioned that she was the wife of Major Christopher Norton, Kenny Green’s commanding officer.
‘I thought you might be,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t worry about that, I’m not here to ask questions, only to answer them. I don’t suppose I could get a cup of coffee – I’m parched.’
‘Of course.’
Melanie found them a space at the end of a table and watched politely as Alison wolfed her doughnut. A tendency to eat too quickly and messily was one of several unfortunate consequences of her accident. Sometimes she was even aware that she was doing it, but if she was hungry enough, somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Between mouthfuls, and sometimes, during them, Alison explained to Melanie that, with the help of Sergeant Price, she would be spending the next few days gathering statements from members of Kenny Green’s platoon. There were obviously only a small number of witnesses to the incident that had resulted in his death, so it shouldn’t take long. Melanie said that, sadly, she was familiar with the process. There had been three fatalities in the regiment during the past year. It had been the worst period she could remember.
Alison wiped the last crumbs of sugar from her lips with the back of her hand. ‘That’s better. I was famished.’
Melanie smiled, glad she didn’t have to watch any more.
‘I can’t imagine Chris will be in any state to talk for a while yet. It takes a while. Even my husband . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Coming home’s such a shock. Everything’s different. It takes a good while.’
‘I’m sure,’ Alison said. It dawned on her that Melanie was probably only a little over thirty, yet apart from her, she was the oldest woman in the room. She seemed to be carrying a heavy weight of responsibility on her slim shoulders. ‘How’s Mrs Roberts coping? How do you cope in her situation?’
Melanie shrugged. ‘You just do your best. We do what we can. Her little girl’s over there – Leanne. I’m minding her this afternoon.’
Alison followed her gaze to a little girl shooting down a plastic slide.
‘We haven’t told her yet,’ Melanie said. ‘Anna’s waiting for the right moment.’ She forced herself to look away. ‘So, who would you like to meet? There are a couple of women here with husbands in 2 Platoon. Shall I introduce you?’
‘Do you mind if I ask you about Kenny Green first? I suppose you must have known him?’
Melanie nodded. The sadness that had been lingering beneath the surface forced its way into her eyes. ‘He was always smiling. Kind. One of those you knew you could rely on completely. That was my impression and I’ve heard Christopher say it, too. I’m sure that’s why he had him in his platoon.’
‘But tough? The sort you’d imagine could handle himself in a tight spot?’
‘I’m sure,’ Melanie said. ‘They’re all tough, and brave. Too brave for their own good, sometimes. The problem is . . . the problem is that it’s always the nice ones. I don’t know . . .’ She shook her head. Whatever it was she was about to say, she stopped herself. She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘I’m not making a lot of sense, am I? Bit tired, I’m afraid. Things have been rather hectic.’ She stood up from her chair. ‘You must come and say hello.’
Without waiting for an answer, Melanie set off towards a group of women seated at a far table. Alison followed her wondering what it was that she hadn’t been able to share. Something her husband had told her? Or maybe just a suspicion based on all the subtle signs only a wife could read? There had definitely been something.
Alison decided to bide her time. Earn her trust. She put on a smile and went to meet the WAGs of 2 Platoon.
TWELVE
Sarah lay on her bed staring at the screen of her cheap tablet computer and tried to make sense of the confusing jumble of long words. The email from one of the regiment’s admin officers began with the sentence: ‘Dear Ms Tanner, I am writing to explain the procedure for administering financial support to the dependants of a deceased serviceman.’ She understood that it was a letter about money, but there was no mention of how much. The only other part she understood was at the end: ‘While Mr Green’s salary will no longer be paid, you may well be eligible upon application to a Survivors’ Guaranteed Payment and Bereavement Grant. You will be contacted by the Service Personnel and Veterans’ Agency within the next few days who will process your application shortly.’ Again, no numbers. Just a vague promise.
She switched the tablet off and placed it on the bedside table next to the photo of her and Kenny taken at their engagement party, a fortnight before he left for Helmand. He was wearing a black, muscle-hugging Hugo Boss T-shirt she had bought him for Christmas. She was dressed in the Free People bardot top and matching skirt they had chosen in Bristol. Her outfit had a gipsy feel and she had styled her hair to match. Two long, loose plaits, the rest teased into what the hairdresser had called ‘designer scruff’. God, they looked happy. She even remembered how he smelt that night, and the feel of his arms around her waist. The touch of his cheek against hers as they danced had been delicious. The softness and the smoothness and the gentle way he had held her had brought them closer than they had ever been. She had almost forgotten they were boy and girl. It was just skin on skin, body against body.
The thought of it made her ache. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She didn’t even try to wipe them away. She wanted to feel them. Holding an image of him in her mind, feeling him close, she closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow.
Sarah blinked awake feeling the now familiar stirring in her belly. The baby was on the move again. It felt like it was kicking at an imaginary football. It always happened around this time in the early evening, just when she should be thinking about eating. But tonight, food was the last thing on her mind. An image of Kenny’s body lingered behind her eyes. Rachel had kept calling the body ‘him’, but it wasn’t him, it was an empty shell. She wished she hadn’t seen it. She had only gone with Paul because she knew how much it would have upset Rachel if she hadn’t.
The baby kicked again, sharply. Sarah rolled onto her side wishing it would stop. She just wanted to sleep. To blot everything out. No chance. Moments later she heard footsteps outside her bedroom door and a cautious knock.
‘Sarah?’ It was Paul. ‘There are a couple of people downstairs who’d like to talk to you. Solicitors or something.’
‘Solicitors?’
‘Yeah. They’re in the sitting room. Look, I’ve got to go to work in a minute . . .’
‘It’s OK. I’ll come.’ She hauled herself out of bed. Her limbs felt like lead. And she had heartburn. She grabbed a hairbrush but gave up after a few strokes. It was a hopeless, tangled mess. She pushed it back from her face and forced it into an elastic. The spots would show on her forehead, but it couldn’t be helped. She was past caring.
Sarah came downstairs clutching her tablet computer, assuming that whoever had come to see her was something to do with the letter.
Paul was hovering nervously at the foot of the stairs. The door to the sitting room was closed. ‘Rachel’s still in her room. She took a sleeping pill earlier. I thought it best not to wake her.’
‘OK.’ Sarah didn’t know what she was meant to do with this information.
‘I’ve got to shoot off in five minutes . . .’ He cast an anxious glance up the stairs and seemed to change his mind. ‘You go on in and talk to them. I’ll go and have a word with her.’ He patted Sarah on the shoulder and went on up.
Something was wrong, but with Rachel there always was. Sarah couldn’t remember a day without a mood or a drama. She carried on into the sitting room.
The two lawyers stood to greet her. One was a man of about Paul’s age dressed in a dark suit and tie with streaks of silver in his swept-back black hair, and the other a woman of about thirty, blonde and slim. Both were tall and imposing and loomed over her. She could tell at once that they were rich. Seriously rich. She caught a flash of gold Rolex as the man extended his hand.
‘Claydon White. Pleased to meet you, Miss Tanner. You have my deepest sympathies. This is my colleague, Carrie Rhodes.’
Carrie offered her perfectly manicured hand. She smelt of delicate perfume and was wearing a diamond engagement ring that made Sarah’s look like something from the Saturday market. ‘Good to meet you, Sarah. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘I apologize for calling on you without warning,’ the man said, ‘but we felt it was important to make contact as soon as possible. Do you mind if we sit?’
Sarah shook her head and took a seat in an armchair while the two strangers seated themselves on the sofa. Their beautiful clothes made the room feel shabby.
‘Is this about the letter?’
‘The letter?’ The man glanced at the woman, then back at Sarah. ‘Which letter is that?’
Sarah fumbled with the tablet and brought it up on the screen. ‘This one.’ She handed it to the woman, who glanced at it briefly, then showed it to her colleague.
‘I see. No. This is a letter from the army letting you know that you are going to be eligible for some compensation for Kenny’s death as well as a sum of money every month. We’re nothing to do with the army. We’re independent solicitors.’ He reached into his inside pocket and handed her a business card bearing a London address. ‘Samson, Masters and White – that’s the name of our firm. Those are my details on the bottom right – Claydon White, email and direct line. You can call me Claydon, by the way. Claydon and Carrie. We should have our own TV show.’
Sarah nodded. He seemed nice. Friendlier than most of the rich people she had met.
‘What we do, what Carrie and I do in particular, is represent people who have suffered serious injuries through no fault of their own, or the families of those who have been killed as a result of negligence. You must have heard of people suing for compensation . . . ?’
‘Like on the ads?’
‘That’s the lower end of things. We only handle big claims. High Court actions. Cases with large sums of money involved. And we especially like to represent people who can’t afford lawyers’ fees. We don’t believe that justice should only be for those who can afford it. We don’t charge people a penny for what we do. We take all the risk, and if we win, we take thirty per cent of whatever the court awards. Look us up on the internet. Have a look at the sort of cases we’ve fought and won. You’ll see that most often I deal with people who have suffered medical accidents. Yours would be the first case of a serviceman killed in action, but it’s a challenge I would relish, I can assure you.’
Carrie took over. ‘The way it works, Sarah, is that when a soldier dies in action, his dependants – that’s wives, partners, children – are entitled to a modest amount of money from the Ministry of Defence. Besides the bereavement grant you might end up with something like a thousand pounds a month.’
At last, a figure. Twelve thousand. Just enough to get by, but it would be a struggle to manage in a place of her own.
‘The grant could be up to thirty-seven thousand. It sounds like a lot, but it doesn’t go far.’
Sarah had no idea it was that much. That was two years’ wages in one go. Enough for a deposit on a flat.
‘I presume you’re pregnant?’ Carrie said.
‘Eight months.’
‘It’s expensive bringing up a child. Especially by yourself. Clothes, cots, buggies, nappies. It all adds up. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.’
All the things she and Kenny were going to buy together when he came home. She already knew which car seat, carry cot and buggy she wanted. They weren’t even expensive ones, but they would still cost more than £500.
‘That’s why it’s important to make sure you get the maximum you’re entitled to,’ Carrie continued. ‘That’s what we want to make sure of.’
‘We certainly do,’ Claydon said. He leaned forward and gestured with his hands as he spoke. ‘I appreciate this is a difficult time and I don’t want to load you with information, but I’m going to try to explain exactly why we are here today. It’s really quite simple. If a soldier dies in action simply doing his job and the army is not at fault – just doing its job – then all you are entitled to is that bereavement grant and the thousand pounds a month. But if there’s evidence that shows the army was negligent in some way, and that a man was put in harm’s way when he shouldn’t have been, then you have a case that can go to court and you can argue for a lot more money. Money that your fiancée would have earned over a working lifetime. Now, nobody says the army has an easy job, and we all know that soldiers are paid to take risks, but if an officer knowingly leads his men into a situation where there’s a risk of death, and that is not a risk that it’s reasonable to take, then we can argue that he was negligent. Do you follow?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. So the question is, how do we know if there is such evidence? Well, the first place it might emerge from is the coroner’s inquest. The men who were with Kenny when he was killed will all be giving evidence. We would like to represent you at that inquest – free of charge. Firstly, because we would like you to know as much as you can about how and why Kenny was killed, and secondly, because if there is evidence that unreasonable and unnecessary risks were taken with his life, I want to take that before a court and get you what you deserve. How does that sound? Would you like us to represent you, free of charge, Sarah?’
Claydon sat back and waited for her to reply.
Sarah thought about what he had said. There were many questions she knew she ought to ask, but she didn’t know where to begin.
‘You can ask us anything,’ Carrie said. ‘Anything at all.’
Sarah brought her hand to her belly as the baby kicked again. She was starting to feel faint as well as sick and even more upset and confused. ‘What do you mean by “unreasonable risks”? How do you know what happened?’
‘We don’t,’ Carrie said.
‘You must know something otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’ Sarah had never passed any exams, but she did understand money. She knew that these two wouldn’t have come all this way if there wasn’t plenty in it for them. ‘Do you know something I don’t? Who told you about Kenny, anyway?’
Claydon and Carrie exchanged a glance.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Claydon said, ‘I had a phone call from a journalist who’s been covering the war in Afghanistan
almost since it began. I have asked this woman to let me know about any cases like Kenny’s. She called me to say that he was killed and two others seriously injured while attempting to rescue a colleague who was being held hostage by Taliban fighters. She had heard a rumour that the hostage was taken from out of the forward command post where Kenny’s platoon was based. From what she tells me, there’s something not quite right about that. Those posts have permanently manned watchtowers and are surrounded by minefields. There may be a rational explanation, but the army aren’t offering one. In fact, they’re refusing to make any comment at all. She’s hit a stone wall which, understandably, makes her suspicious.’
Sarah heard voices on the stairs. Paul was speaking to Rachel in the quiet, pleading tones he used when he was trying to calm her down. She was having none of it. A moment later she burst through the door.
‘I’m Kenny’s mother. Would someone please tell me what’s going on?’
White touched Carrie’s arm, letting her know he would handle it, and rose to his feet.
‘Claydon White. Solicitor. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Green.’
Rachel refused his offer of a handshake. ‘It didn’t take you vultures long, did it? We’re a grieving family. If we need a solicitor, we’ll get one. Now, please go and leave us in peace.’
‘I appreciate you’re Kenny’s mother, Mrs Green, and you have my deepest sympathies for your loss, but the person we actually came to see was Ms Tanner, his legal dependant and mother of his child.’
Rachel shot Sarah an accusing glance.
‘I don’t care who you came to see. This is my house and I didn’t invite you into it. My husband thought you were something to do with the inquest. Now will you please get out before I lose my temper.’
