by M. R. Hall
‘The area became unsafe – tribal hostilities. Foreigners are always the first target.’
Jenny cast her mind back to her conversation with Harry Thorn, picturing him smoking his joint and talking like a weary old soldier: ‘That’s Africa. Tribal factions slitting each other’s throats since the dawn of time. It’s like a bad habit.’
‘You say Mr Jordan remained enthusiastic about his work?’ Jenny said. ‘I got the impression from a colleague of his that it could be pretty thankless at times.’
Sonia answered with a directness that took Jenny by surprise. ‘Adam had every faith in the ordinary people. He was entirely confident he could make a real difference.’
‘What about the politics of the aid business? Did he talk about that?’
The question gave Sonia pause. ‘That wasn’t the nature of our conversation.’
Jenny sensed she was obfuscating, but rather than press her, flashed a disarming smile.
It worked. Whether prompted by guilt or an instinct for self-preservation, Sonia said, ‘Look, I’m a rational person, not a psychoanalyst, and I’m still rather shocked by the news, but if you were twisting my arm for an opinion I’d say that most people in his line of work run deep. He struck me as an idealist, but maybe a little haunted. I don’t know . . .’ She drew her clenched fists into her lap, as if grasping words from the air around her. ‘There was probably some guilt there. A lot of us have it – some strange sense that we don’t deserve what we’ve got and should be devoting ourselves to those without.’
‘You make it sound like an affliction.’
‘Perhaps it is,’ Sonia said. ‘Would any wholly sane person give up their home for a tent in South Sudan?’
‘You don’t think he was altogether sane?’
‘I didn’t say that. He was just . . . exceptionally driven.’
She was a difficult woman to read. One moment she was claiming to know Jordan hardly at all, the next she was analysing his every motive.
‘I am curious to know why Mr Jordan travelled here to talk to you when it’s so easy to communicate by other means. If it was just research . . .’ She left the question half-formed, as interested in what Sonia would read into it as her answer.
‘I asked him for a personal meeting,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘All sorts of information can arise in conversation that wouldn’t occur in an email exchange or phone call.’
‘But why would he lie to his wife? Did you discuss things he might have kept from her?’
‘Not that I can recall.’ She gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jenny pretended to be satisfied with Sonia’s answer and found a card to leave with her. ‘If anything else occurs to you, I’d be most grateful.’
Just then there was a knock at the door and Jenny took advantage of the moments Sonia had her back to her as she went to answer it: she stole a guilty glance at the papers on her desk. Among the loose pages of handwritten notes and open books, she noticed an identity tag of the sort worn by conference delegates. Attached to a length of blue ribbon and partially hidden under a journal, Jenny glimpsed the printed words Diamond Light.
Sonia opened the door to a young woman.
‘Sorry, Katya. Would you mind waiting a moment?’
The visitor glanced across at Jenny with penetrating grey eyes set above high, Slavic cheekbones.
‘It’s all right. I think we’ve finished,’ Jenny said. ‘Do get in touch if you think of anything.’
‘I shall.’
Sonia seemed relieved that their meeting was over, and as Jenny exited onto the landing, she closed the door hurriedly after her. Jenny started down the steps, then stopped and listened. Faintly, she heard Sonia say, ‘I’m sorry, Katya. I’ve just had some terrible news.’
The encounter had left Jenny with more questions than answers. She didn’t believe that Sonia’s meeting with Jordan in the cafe had been a romantic one, but nor could she be sure that it was entirely innocent. If Adam hadn’t wanted his wife to know he was in Oxford, it stood to reason he had something to hide. A lover perhaps? Pretending to have gone all the way to London would have bought him extra hours for a liaison, but it also appeared that he’d been less than truthful about his movements the following Monday. Jenny decided she would have to speak to Karen Jordan again. Whenever there was a lover, a wife nearly always suspected.
As Jenny entered the cloister and turned towards the exit, she passed two men standing in conversation. One was in his fifties and carried an air of seniority, the other in his thirties, tall, blond, and with a pronounced New Zealand accent.
She overheard the younger man say, ‘Yes, the coroner called me, looking for her.’
‘You’ve no idea who it could be?’ the older man asked. ‘She scarcely has any family as far I know.’
They both glanced at her at once as if detecting her interest.
Jenny stopped. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m the coroner who telephoned you. Alex Forster, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced uneasily at his colleague.
‘I can set your minds at rest – it’s not a family bereavement. The case I’m dealing with concerns someone Mrs Blake met professionally.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Forster said.
The older man added, ‘Yes indeed,’ with a faintly embarrassed nod.
Jenny gave them her well-practised smile and walked on, feeling their eyes following her. Leaving the college and emerging into the harsher world outside its sheltered precincts, she got out her phone and dialled Karen Jordan’s number.
Jenny arrived, tired after her drive, to find Karen was already pacing in the empty day room opposite the paediatric ward. Her haunted eyes stared out, dark circles as black as bruises.
‘Who is she?’ Karen demanded.
‘A university tutor,’ Jenny said. ‘Sonia Blake. She specializes in contemporary African politics. But she claims their discussions were entirely professional.’
‘They had more than one?’
‘They met twice, apparently.’ Jenny gestured to some chairs at the adults’ end of the room, away from the area strewn with children’s toys.
‘Is Sam still making good progress?’ Jenny asked, as she drew up a chair.
‘I’m taking him home in the morning.’
‘You’ll be exhausted. Is there anyone to help you?’
‘My mother’s coming,’ Karen answered distractedly. She sat on the corner of a chair angled to Jenny’s right. Jenny could almost hear the chaotic, tormented thoughts screaming inside her head.
‘I didn’t learn anything that would alarm you,’ Jenny said, attempting to offer some reassurance. ‘She’s researching the situation in South Sudan. She said she first communicated with Adam a few months ago, while he was still abroad. He was feeding her information about the situation on the ground.’ She studied Karen’s face for signs of a reaction, but saw only more confusion. ‘You’re sure he didn’t tell you about her?’
‘Is she attractive?’
‘If it’s any comfort, Mrs Jordan, I really didn’t get the impression there was anything between them.’ Jenny felt compelled to repeat every detail she had learned about Adam Jordan’s trip to Oxford, starting with his visit to the bookshop and ending with Sonia Blake’s impression of him as a man motivated by both guilt and compassion.
Jenny then asked the obvious question: did she have any idea why Adam had misled her about where he had been?
No, she answered, protesting that she and Adam had never kept secrets from one another.
‘Mrs Blake did mention he was keen to get involved with a new project,’ Jenny said. ‘Perhaps there was something he didn’t want to tell you yet?’
‘I doubt it.’
Jenny studied her face. She had to have some clue: wives always did.
‘Maybe you have a theory?’ Jenny ventured. ‘What time did he get home on Saturday?’
‘Four o’clock-ish.’
‘So there
was time for him to have gone somewhere else.’
Karen’s face twisted in anguish. ‘The police never found his phone. What happened to it? He always had it with him.’
‘It could easily have been thrown from his pocket. I’ll have my officer summon the records – it might cast some light.’
She leaped at the suggestion. ‘When you can get them?’
‘It can take a while.’ Jenny hesitated, but saw no harm in vocalizing thoughts Karen was already having. ‘Do you think that’s it? Do you think he might have been seeing someone else?’
Karen fell silent and seemed to stare into her dark inner space for a long moment. ‘Adam could never lie to me. He was hopeless at it. I’d have known if there was someone else. I’m sure I would.’
Jenny saw that she was fighting hard to convince herself that her husband hadn’t been hiding something hurtful from her, but also that she could think of no other explanation.
‘You said he was somewhere in Berkshire on Monday,’ Karen said.
‘Yes. Have you any thoughts about that?’
‘He had Sam with him, all day. That’s all I can think about.’
‘Is Sam talking yet?’
‘Not really. He only has a few words anyway. He’s like his father – more of a thinker than a talker.’ She shuddered, as if suddenly very cold.
‘Look, there’s really no hurry,’ Jenny said. ‘Why don’t I give you a few more days to see what you might remember? If there was someone else, they might even contact you – it happens.’
Jenny stood up from her chair and gently touched Karen’s shoulder. ‘You’ve still got Sam.’
It was past eight o’clock when Jenny drove up the twisting lane to Melin Bach, and the sun was slowly disappearing behind Barbadoes Hill, casting the valley in long shadows. Thankfully she had at least remembered to stop at the supermarket and restock with supplies – the last time Ross came to stay she’d learned that he was capable of eating in a single day more than she would in a week. After last night’s interruption she was keen for them to have a relaxed dinner alone together to talk about nothing in particular, just to be in each other’s company. It now seemed obvious that it had been a mistake to invite Michael the first night of Ross’s stay – another of her many maternal misjudgements – but this evening she was determined to make things right.
She drew into the parking space at the side of the house and lugged the heavy bags of groceries up the uneven path, their stretching handles digging painfully into her fingers. Shouldering open the heavy front door, she braced herself for the smell of burned toast, thumping pop music and dirty dishes scattered over the furniture. But the house was silent, and passing through to the living room it seemed to her even tidier than she had left it.
‘Ross? Ross, it’s Mum.’
She dumped the bags on the kitchen floor and saw that the back door was bolted from the inside. Outside on the lawn, the six chairs were tilted neatly against the table.
‘Ross!’
There was no reply.
She turned to see a note propped up the kitchen counter. A sense of dread stole over her. She forced herself to pick it up and read.
Mum, I was going to call but didn’t want you to take this the wrong way. I’d like to spend some time with you – honestly! – but maybe weekends would be best when you’re around more. Mates in Bristol are bugging me to meet up, so I’m going to stay at Dad’s for a couple of days. Would you mind dropping my stuff off? – couldn’t manage it all on the bus. See you tomorrow??
R
PS. Michael seems like a great guy. I think he likes you a lot.
She left the note on the counter and unlocked the door to the garden. Kicking off her shoes on the step, she drifted across the grass and down to the edge of the stream. It couldn’t have been a more perfect evening, except that once again she had no one to share it with; and no one to blame except herself.
NINE
THE NEXT MORNING JENNY MOVED about the silent cottage and carried Ross’s luggage to the car with an aching loneliness that refused to leave her. As she closed the door to the empty spare room, her eyes welled with tears, forcing her back to the mirror to fix her make-up.
On a patchy line from somewhere deep in County Cork, Michael had told her not to take it to heart: a young man needs to be out on the town with his friends, not marooned in the country. She knew it made sense, but it did nothing to right the injustice of it all. Some women were cursed in love; she had been cursed as a mother. A fractious marriage, frantic career, burn-out and divorce: life had thrown up every possible obstacle to her being the mother Ross deserved. And it was David who had reaped the reward: David, who when she had become pregnant aged twenty-five suggested she terminate and leave motherhood to when she was more established in her work.
Mist hung over the forest canopy in the valley’s basin like a pall of smoke. As Jenny descended the hill, she felt a chapter of her life close. She was still a mother, but a kind she didn’t yet know how to be: a mother to an adult who no longer needed her, who would never seek her out for comfort and affection again.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Jenny came into the office to find Alison with the phone pressed hard to her ear.
‘Damn. Number withheld.’ She dropped the receiver back on the cradle.
‘Who was it?’
‘A man – he didn’t say who – calling to find out what had happened to Adam Jordan.’
‘Was he a friend?’
‘He didn’t say. He had a foreign accent.’
‘What kind? African?’
‘No. He didn’t sound African.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Only as much as he could read in the newspaper – he jumped off a bridge.’
Alison turned to her computer and started banging the keys in a way that told Jenny she was put out.
‘Is everything all right?’ Jenny asked innocently. It was the question she had avoided asking for days.
Alison pretended to be surprised at her inquiry. ‘Sorry. Am I being short?’ She kept her eyes on the screen. ‘Maybe it’s because I’m expecting some results this morning. I’m sure I’ll be fine later.’
‘Right.’ There was little more Jenny could say. Results usually meant the medical kind. Jenny assumed from Alison’s lack of embellishment that it must be connected with the breast-cancer scare she had had the previous autumn. A tiny lump had been removed – caught well in time, the oncologist had reassured her – and she had been given the all-clear.
Alison briskly changed the subject. ‘There’s a message from the Health Protection Agency. They’re asking if you can go for a meeting today.’
‘Go where?’
‘They’re over in Gloucester.’
‘They can come here if they want to talk – I’m far too busy.’ Jenny headed into her office. ‘Let me know if you have any luck with that number.’
‘I managed to speak with Jim Connings by the way,’ Alison said.
Jenny had a momentary blank.
‘My contact in the path’ lab. You wanted to know if they’ve seen a lot of drug-resistant infection.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Off the record, they’re coming down with infections resistant to most of the drugs they can throw at them. TB, C. diff, strep, the lot. It’s like you thought, patients are bringing strains in from countries where things only get partially treated. At the moment it’s the very sick and the old who are dying, but they’re seeing more and more healthy adults with infection. On the record, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Do you think he might give a statement?’
‘Oh, I expect so – for about half a million.’ Alison pointed a warning finger at her. ‘Don’t even think about a subpoena, Mrs Cooper. I promised him it was strictly confidential. He’s a friend.’
In the space of two intense hours, Jenny blotted out the world beyond her office door and made decisions in sixteen separate marginal cases, decid
ing she had sufficient medical evidence to issue death certificates in thirteen – the usual run of deaths on the operating table, old people found dead in their homes, and middle-aged men who had dropped from heart attacks – and three that required further exploration. When she had first taken up her post, a coroner from a neighbouring district had assured her that she would become inured to tragedy, and the day would soon arrive when even the most disturbing set of post-mortem photographs would fail to make her flinch. It hadn’t happened yet. The casual randomness with which death could strike shocked her every bit as much as it always had. The remaining three cases on her desk were all of the kind that made her fear for the fragility of life. A healthy twenty-year-old woman had suffered a fatal brain aneurism on a train. A forty-year-old father of four had been crushed by a truck reversing into the supermarket warehouse where he worked. A three-year-old girl had choked to death on the lid of a marker pen in a crowded day nursery.
Jenny was struggling to end a harrowing phone call to the dead child’s mother, who was demanding to know why no one had faced criminal charges – she refused to understand that the coroner had no connection with the police – when Alison appeared in the doorway with an impatient visitor.
‘Dr Verma, from the HPA,’ Alison said with the slight tilt of the head she used to indicate that they were dealing with what she called an awkward customer.
Dr Verma made no attempt to cover her irritation at being made to travel thirty miles for a meeting she had expected to host. She helped herself to a chair while Jenny continued to placate a mother who was now accusing her of being part of a conspiracy to protect a junior nursery nurse she held responsible for her child’s death.
Ending the call on a sour note, Jenny offered her visitor a weary smile. ‘It would be nice to give good news sometimes.’
Dr Verma responded with the bemused expression of one who didn’t let personal feelings interfere with the serious business of work. Her short black hair and severe suit suggested that her life didn’t consist of much else.
She introduced herself as the specialist microbiologist on the team handling the Freeman case. She was, she implied, an expert with knowledge far in excess of anything Jenny could hope to match, although she didn’t appear to be much over thirty. Dipping into her briefcase, she pulled out a copy of the Western Mail.
