by Joan Smith
‘ – seems a somewhat arcane point.’ The coroner glanced at his watch. ‘If you could be brief –’
‘Vital reaction after injury is generally observable within two hours, although it has been recorded in as short a period as thirty minutes,’ the pathologist gabbled. ‘In this case, there were few traces of leucocyte infiltration at the edges of the lacerations, with the exception of the one below the left eye. Inflammation was microscopically visible there to a rather greater degree –’
‘Just one moment. You’ve told us that the margin within which this reaction occurs is a wide one – between half an hour and two hours. Am I correct?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Then I do not see –’
Both men paused.
‘I was simply pointing out the fact that the reaction was visible at this site and not at others,’ the pathologist said unhappily.
‘Not at all at the others?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as categorically as that –’
‘So the reaction was visible elsewhere?’
‘Not to a marked degree.’
‘In any degree at all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ The coroner took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I think we’ll move on. If you would be so kind as to bear with me for one moment. . .’
He pushed his glasses up his nose with a practised movement and bent his head. The court was so quiet that Loretta could hear the scratching of his pen. She sat with furrowed brow, her hands clasping her knees, not daring to relax. The important thing was not to think about the crash – the minutes, hours even, Sandra had spent lying in the wreckage. . . She fidgeted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, wishing that the journey from London had taken even longer – long enough for her to have missed the pathologist’s evidence. She looked at her watch and saw it was ten minutes to twelve.
‘Mr Brown –’
The pathologist swivelled his head, an uncomprehending expression on his face. Loretta thought he had sensed the coroner’s hostility, but was genuinely puzzled by it.
‘Mr Brown, if we may turn to another area – the question of the level of alcohol in Mrs Neil’s blood. I trust you have the figures?’
It was like pressing a switch; the pathologist began reeling off numbers, starting with Sandra’s blood-alcohol level at the time of the post-mortem. He followed it with a long and complicated lecture – during which the coroner grew increasingly restive – on its relation to the level at the time of death. Loretta found it no easier to follow than the rest of his evidence and gave up the attempt, allowing the words to flow over her. Eventually he came to a halt, like a clockwork toy winding down, and the coroner rapped out a question.
‘In other words, the amount of alcohol in the deceased’s blood was insufficient to explain her loss of control?’
‘I wouldn’t like –’ The pathologist looked alarmed.
‘Let me put it another way. She was not inebriated – her blood-alcohol level was not above the limit prescribed in law for drivers?’
‘I – no.’
‘If you would be so good as to run through those figures again?’
Brown complied. The coroner recorded them, then fired another question at the pathologist.
‘And you found no medical condition which might explain Mrs Neil’s accident?’
‘I – I did not.’ Short answers obviously unsettled him.
‘Thank you, Mr Brown. The court is grateful for your help.’ The coroner gave a curt nod of dismissal.
The pathologist hesitated. ‘If I may be excused,’ he said, ‘the hospital
‘Of course. We must count ourselves lucky that the hospital is close by, and hope your attendance here has not taken up too much of its valuable time.’
The sarcasm was obvious, but the pathologist seemed to miss it. He gave a nervous smile and stepped down, hurrying with long strides to the back of the room; the door creaked as he went out. The coroner leaned to one side and conferred in a low voice with the uniformed policeman, and Loretta saw both men consult their watches. Then the coroner shook his head vigorously, apparently disagreeing with something the policeman had said. Loretta remembered that he had mentioned another witness, and wondered who it was.
‘Who are you with?’
She jumped, taken by surprise by the man sitting next to her. She stared at him for a moment, not knowing what he meant.
‘I’m not with anyone,’ she whispered back, puzzled. ‘I’m on my own.’
‘Aha, freelance,’ he said knowingly. ‘Don’t see many of your sort in this part of the world. Who’s interested then? Doesn’t look much in it to me.’
Loretta took in the man’s notebook and crumpled raincoat. ‘Oh – I see,’ she said, suddenly realizing he was a reporter. ‘I must be in the wrong place – I thought this was for the public’ He was probably from the local paper, she thought, wondering why she hadn’t noticed before. She had arrived late, of course, and rather flustered. . .
‘What you doing on the press bench, then?’ He was regarding her suspiciously.
‘I just said – I didn’t realize. Where’m I supposed to be?’
‘Oh, very good – I suppose you’ve never been in court before, either. Pull the other one. Come on, what’s the angle? You’ll need my help, you missed most of it. Not that there’s much to tell.’
‘Look, I’m really not –’
Loretta heard a loud cough and looked up to see the coroner frowning at her. She shrank into her coat and looked down at her hands, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.
‘Sergeant Harris – next witness, please.’
The sergeant rose ponderously to his feet and passed the press bench on his way to the back of the court. He disappeared through the double doors for a moment, with the usual squeak, and returned with a short, smartly dressed man in his wake. Loretta watched as the newcomer stepped confidently into the witness box.
‘I must remind you that you are still on oath –’
The man gave a brisk nod, and Loretta was impressed by a sense of energy and confidence. It occurred to her that he was another expert witness – something to do with Sandra’s car, perhaps. She remembered her speculations of the previous afternoon and sat up straight, wondering if she was about to learn the reason for the police interest in the case. There had been nothing in what she had heard so far to explain it.
The coroner, who had been consulting his notes, raised his head.
‘You told the court last week that your full name is Thomas Edward Thornton Neil. . .’
Loretta stifled a gasp. This was Sandra’s husband? She was not sure what she had expected, but this man was older, too self-assured – his appearance gave no hint that he had a personal interest in the case.
‘You gave your address as Paternoster Square, Winchester. You also said that you own a small house about three miles from Lymington, with a water frontage. A location known as Hardimans Deep – Shore House, I believe it is called?’
‘That is correct.’ Neil’s voice was loud and firm – that of an altogether larger man, Loretta thought, oddly.
‘You are forty-five years of age, and your occupation – you are a wine shipper?’
‘Correct.’
Neil’s tone reminded Loretta of something – she couldn’t place it for a moment. Then it came to her: he sounded like a contestant in an up-market quiz show, eager to get the preliminaries out of the way and start on the real questions. She was astonished by his self-control, the absence of any hint of grief; then she reminded herself that he and Sandra had separated years ago. It was not as if theirs had been a close relationship.
‘You also told the court –’ the coroner paused, searching for the right words. ‘Last week you also told us that two police officers called at your home, your home in Winchester, on the afternoon of January the first this year – New Year’s Day – with the news that your wife had been involved in a road traffic accident. A fatal road
traffic accident.’
‘Yes.’ Neil nodded emphatically.
‘You subsequently drove to the mortuary in Lymington where you identified the body of your wife, Mrs –’ the coroner checked his notes ‘ – Mrs Alexandra Patricia Neil, who was thirty-seven years of age at the time of her death?’
‘I did.’
The coroner fiddled with his spectacles. ‘Ah, Mr Neil, if this is distressing for you –’
Neil interrupted him. ‘It’s quite all right – I understand.’
The coroner looked affronted. Loretta thought it was his standard speech to bereaved relatives, and he was used to finishing it. ‘I was about to say that if at any time you would like to adjourn for a few moments, or you would like to sit down – you must feel free to mention it.’ He frowned at Neil, who appeared not to notice.
‘Thank you. I’m grateful.’
The coroner hesitated, then resumed questioning.
‘I believe you returned to England only the day before your wife’s accident?’
‘I understood there was some doubt as to the time of the crash – whether it was on New Year’s Eve or in the early hours ... I returned to England on the thirty-first of December. We – my children and I – arrived home from the airport around lunchtime.’
‘I see. I am right in thinking that your wife did not accompany you on this holiday?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Can you – could you tell me when you last saw your wife, prior to her accident?’
‘It was at the beginning of December.’ The answer was given without hesitation; Neil did not seem to be embarrassed about his separation from Sandra. ‘Perhaps I could explain – my wife worked in London, and had done so for some years. . .’
His voice tailed off; there was a distinct loss of assurance, but that wasn’t the only reason Loretta looked at him in surprise.
‘Sandra had a very –’ he hesitated ‘ – a very exacting job at a rehabilitation unit in West London, and her case-load was particularly heavy at that time of year. She usually returned home – to the family home, that is – as often as possible. The period before Christmas was very busy, and she was unable to get away. . . Sandra was very conscientious.’
A deep frown creased Loretta’s forehead. Her memory wasn’t sharp about everything Sandra had told her over Christmas, but she clearly recalled their telephone conversation on Christmas Eve. ‘I’ve been working away from London,’ Sandra had said, giving it as the reason she’d lost touch with her friends in the city.
‘ – went to Switzerland without her,’ she heard the coroner saying, and realized she had not been paying attention. ‘I’m sorry to pry into your private affairs in this manner. . .’
‘There’s no need –’ Neil gestured with one hand, and took a deep breath. ‘It is – was – our usual practice to take the children skiing at Christmas. . . Sandra was in fact an accomplished skier. This year I left it rather late to book – it was impossible to get flights which fitted in with her work schedule. Obviously the children were very disappointed. . . after some discussion on the phone we decided I should take them alone. That is a decision I – obviously I regret it.’
The coroner looked puzzled.
‘Why is that, Mr Neil?’
‘Because – because of subsequent events,’ Neil said, conveying the impression that the answer was self-evident.
‘You mean – the fact that your wife did not see her children over Christmas? Of course, with hindsight –’
‘No, not that. I – I think it may have exacerbated a state of anxiety – of overwork. . .’ He pursed his lips.
‘Mr Neil, are you suggesting – was your wife. . . depressed in the period leading up to Christmas?’
Neil looked down at his hands, which were resting on the brass rail of the witness box. ‘I – ’
‘Mr Neil, I don’t want to press you –’
Neil lifted his head. Loretta was shocked by the change in his face, by his abrupt transition from confidence to a visible struggle to maintain control. He tugged at the knot of his tie, as though he was finding it hard to breathe, and the first time he opened his mouth no sound came out.
‘Sandra was – some years ago Sandra decided she wanted to train as a social worker. The children were growing up, and she felt she needed ... I was hostile to the idea at first, but then I saw how much it meant. . . My wife was – energetic, and she wanted to do something that would make her feel – useful. She left school with A levels, but she didn’t work after we got married. . . She got a place at a college in London, but it was always her intention – we agreed she would look for a job nearer home as soon as she was qualified – when she’d got some experience.
‘That never – she had been looking for a job in Hampshire for some time, but nothing suitable seemed to. . . Her job in London was – well, I thought it made too many demands on her. She became more and more exhausted. . . The business of Christmas was the last straw, I thought she needed a holiday and the children needed her. . . There was a row – I urged her to give the job up. She refused, and there was a – coolness between us. I think my decision to go ahead with the holiday was – ill-judged.’
He stopped, staring at the jug of water on the table in front of the coroner. ‘Could I – some water?’
‘Sergeant Harris.’
The policeman got up, filled a glass and took it over to the witness box. Neil finished it in three long gulps and handed it back.
‘Thank you.’
The coroner cleared his throat. ‘Mr Neil, may I get this clear? What you have described is a – a rather unusual domestic arrangement, but you are not suggesting that you and your wife. . . that your marriage had broken down?’
‘Certainly not!’
Neil’s tone was heated. Loretta bit her lip and, without realizing what she was doing, began to twist the ends of her hair around the fingers of her right hand.
‘But you are saying that your – um – domestic arrangements, that is to say, your wife’s absence from the marital home as a consequence of her job, had caused a certain. . . froideur in the approach to Christmas?’
‘I – yes.’ Neil was contemplating his hands again.
‘And you are further suggesting that your wife’s state of mind as a result of this – this disagreement – may have had a bearing on ... subsequent events?’ The coroner’s tone was ice-cold.
Neil shook his head, opening his hands and closing them as if he didn’t know what to say. ‘I – it crossed my mind.’
‘Was your wife – had she been treated for depression?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘And we have heard from Detective Constable – from the police that nothing was found at Shore House to indicate why your wife was there – certainly no note –’
‘No, but –’
‘But?’
‘But it seems odd,’ Neil finished lamely. ‘She was – she knew we’d be back on the thirty-first, I thought she’d be keen to see the kids. . . When she didn’t get in touch I tried ringing her in London, I tried all day, but she wasn’t there. And she didn’t – what was she doing at Shore House? She didn’t even like the place much, she thought it was too isolated – I keep a small boat there, a dinghy, but she was always reluctant. . . And the police say – apparently there was nothing wrong with her car –’
‘With respect, Mr Neil, this is all speculation.’ The coroner looked stern. He observed Neil over his glasses for a moment, then began adding to his notes.
Loretta dug her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, unconsciously shredding an old bus ticket. She had no idea what to make of Neil’s evidence, of the almost unrecognizable portrait he had drawn of his marriage and his bizarre suggestion that Sandra – Sandra, of all people – might have crashed her car deliberately. Loretta could no more imagine Sandra killing herself than – than Fergie. She had been upset over Christmas, it was true, but there was a steely selfishness about her, a degree of self-regard wh
ich was at once the reason for Loretta’s dislike of her and a powerful argument against the notion that she was a candidate for suicide. Everything about Tom Neil’s story was at odds with Sandra’s version of events, but it wasn’t just her ignorance of court procedure that held Loretta back. His anguish seemed genuine; she had been very struck by his emotional collapse as soon as he started talking about his wife. Loretta was conscious of feeling sorry for him, something she found hard to square with the fact that he appeared to be telling lies. She jerked out of her reverie, anxious not to miss anything.
‘ – distressing for you, especially in view of the circumstances,’ she heard the coroner say. He hesitated, giving the impression that he was reluctant to refer directly to the Neils’ unconventional matrimonial set-up. ‘But you seem to be suggesting that your wife’s death may have been – intentional. I have to ask whether you have any evidence for this, other than an inference drawn from her supposed state of mind in a period – at a time when you yourself admit to having had little contact with her?’
‘I – no.’
‘It is the case, would you not agree, that the deliberate crashing of a car is a most unusual and uncertain method of committing suicide?’
‘I suppose so. Yes.’
‘Mr Neil – if I may offer a word of advice. In my experience it is not uncommon for the bereaved to search for explanations of the deaths of their loved ones which – which do not meet the facts of the case. Particularly when an element – however unjustified – an element of guilt may be involved.’ The coroner fiddled with his papers. ‘Now, if I may press on –’ He examined his notes for a moment, then began to speak in altogether firmer tones. ‘The police officer in charge of the case has told us that your wife was not wearing a coat at the time of the accident, and it appears that her departure from the house was somewhat hasty. Is this a matter on which you can throw any light?’
