by Joan Smith
‘No, sir.’ Neil’s tone was chastened.
‘Your wife was – she was a competent driver?’
‘She had no convictions, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And she was familiar with the approach to Shore House?’
‘Yes. We’ve been going to the place regularly for ten or eleven years. She wasn’t fond of it, but she knew the road.’
The coroner made a further note, then took off his glasses. ‘Mr Neil, there is one further matter on which you may be able to throw light. During their examination of the house, the police discovered a broken window in the downstairs bathroom. Were you aware that this damage had taken place?’
‘I don’t think – no. I was at the house in September, shutting it up for the winter. I thought I made sure before I left that everything was secure.’
‘It has been suggested that the broken window is the result of a break-in, or an attempt at burglary. Is anything missing from the house?’
‘No.’ Neil’s voice had audibly regained its strength. ‘The police asked me to check. . . there are one or two valuable pictures, and a video recorder. Nothing’s been taken.’
‘Thank you, Mr Neil. You may step down.’
The coroner checked his watch. ‘Court will adjourn for ten minutes,’ he announced unexpectedly.
‘Court rise!’
Taken by surprise, Loretta was still getting clumsily to her feet as the coroner pushed back his chair, gave a perfunctory bow in her general direction, and disappeared through a door in the side of the room.
Chapter 7
‘Go on – you can tell me. Who’re you doing it for?’
It was the reporter again, and Loretta felt a surge of irritation as she sat down. She was preoccupied with the problem of Tom Neil’s evidence, and she wanted time to think. Before she could say anything, however, he was off in the same vein.
‘Bet it’s one of the nationals –’ He shook his head, apparently determined to disbelieve her earlier denials. ‘You know something I don’t, that it? What’s it all about, then, the husband making out she did herself in?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Loretta said flatly, and with complete honesty. ‘Look, I’m nothing to do with the press.’
She noticed Tom Neil heading for the doors at the back of the room and jumped to her feet, intending to follow. Then she realized she had no idea what to say. The question she wanted to ask – why Neil had apparently lied to the coroner – was neither tactful nor likely to get results. She could mention Sandra’s bags, and hope things would develop from there; if, on the other hand, he simply thanked her and took them off her hands, what then? She decided to take the coward’s way out and wait until the end of the inquest. It seemed safe to assume that Neil wouldn’t leave the building before then. She leaned back in her chair, comforted by this logic, and saw that the reporter was watching her with narrowed eyes.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, I sat in the wrong place,’ she said, wondering if she should move. Not that she was doing any harm where she was, but he was getting on her nerves. ‘If I’m a journalist, where’s my notebook?’
Her neighbour grinned unpleasantly, showing nicotinestained teeth. ‘Think I was born yesterday? Got a tape recorder in there, haven’t you?’ He pointed at Loretta’s shoulder-bag, which was standing open on a chair on her other side. ‘It’s illegal, you know, but I don’t suppose you worry too much about that. Do I get a whiff of a love triangle? Got a girlfriend, has he?’
‘I’m not from the papers!’ Loretta lost her temper. ‘Sandra was a friend of mine –’
‘Yeah, and my name’s Nigel Mansell. All right, have it your own way. I would’ve helped you out, but. . .’
He picked up his notepad, tore a clean sheet of paper from the middle, and began composing his story. Sensing that Loretta was watching him, he hunched protectively over the table to prevent her getting a glimpse of what he was writing. She shook her head, turned to her other side, and ostentatiously fastened the catch of her shoulder-bag.
Her mind went back to Tom Neil, and she felt tired and dispirited, a reluctant participant in events she didn’t understand. Then, quite suddenly, she remembered a remark June had made on Saturday evening to the effect that Sandra had gone on sleeping with her husband long after leaving Winchester. Loretta brightened, thinking that Neil’s evidence wasn’t necessarily untruthful – it could be an alternative version of reality. Perhaps he really believed his wife had gone to London only to train as a social worker; perhaps she had let him believe it. Sandra’s view of the world was markedly solipsistic, and it would not be out of character if she had chosen to keep her options open.
This explanation ironed out some of the discrepancies, though not all of them. There was still the question of where Sandra had been working, and Neil’s motive for suggesting that she had committed suicide. Loretta put up her hands and pushed her hair back from her face, letting her head fall backwards until it touched the wall behind. When she returned to a sitting position she saw a man watching her from the well of the court, the place she now realized was intended for the public. He met her gaze unabashed, and his right eye closed in a brief wink. Loretta stared at him in surprise, and went on looking after he had turned back to the magazine on his knee. He was in his mid-twenties, thickset, and with dark curly hair; good-looking in a very masculine sort of way. Loretta wondered who he was, but had no time to speculate, for at that moment the police sergeant appeared through the side door, followed closely by the coroner.
‘Court rise!’
There was a general shuffling of feet and Loretta noticed Tom Neil slip in and take a seat near the handsome young man. At least she had been right in assuming he would stay to the end. She turned to look at the coroner, listening attentively as he began what she guessed was his summing-up.
‘I have been inquiring into the death of Mrs Alexandra Patricia Neil,’ he said gravely, ‘a married woman with two children. It is a case with an unusual feature, which relates to the deceased’s date of death. The fatal road traffic accident in which she died occurred without witnesses; no other vehicle was involved; and Mrs Neil survived the crash for an indeterminate period of time before life became extinct. Hence it has been more than usually difficult to establish either the time of the accident or the time of death with any degree of accuracy; Mr Brown, the pathologist, places the collision very roughly between ten forty-five p.m. on the night of December the thirty-first last year and twelve-thirty a.m. on January the first. The significance of these dates will immediately be apparent; although the margin of error appears small, it is sufficient to leave unanswered the question of whether Mrs Neil’s death occurred in 1987 or 1988.
‘Mrs Neil’s car, a Ford Sierra registered two years ago and which she bought last February, left the road and collided with a tree. The accident happened on the road from Shore House, a residence owned jointly by herself and her husband. A post-mortem was performed, and revealed the cause of death to be multiple injuries. Mrs Neil had earlier consumed some alcohol, but was below the limit laid down for those about to take control of a vehicle.
‘It appears that Mrs Neil, who spent Christmas alone in London because of her work commitments, did not inform anyone of her intention to visit Shore House. With the help of Mr Sanders, who was staying at the house next door and heard her car, I have been able to establish that she arrived at Hardimans Deep on the evening of her death at just after eight p.m. Unfortunately for this inquiry, Mr Sanders went out at approximately eight-thirty on the evening in question, noticing as he did so that Mrs Neil’s car was parked by his gate, there being no direct vehicular access to Shore House. Mr Sanders attended a New Year’s Eve celebration in Romsey, and did not return home until just before ten-sixteen the next morning, a time fixed by the 999 call he made on discovering his neighbour’s body in the wreckage of her car.
‘It appears that Mrs Neil left the house in some haste, or that she was contemplating only a short jo
urney, since she was not wearing a coat. Additionally, Mr Sanders later found his gate had been left open. We can only conjecture as to her destination, police inquiries at neighbouring houses – if they can be described as such in this somewhat scattered locality – having failed to unearth anyone who admits to having contacted her in the course of the evening. Nevertheless, I have to bear in mind the date and the possibility that Mrs Neil, like her neighbour Mr Sanders, had received a last-minute invitation to a New Year’s Eve party. Let us bear in mind that Mr Brown’s estimate of the time of the accident – between ten forty-five p.m. and twelve-thirty a.m. – favours the period before midnight rather than after, suggesting that she may have been in a hurry to reach her destination in time for the customary celebrations. This may also account for the rather excessive speed at which Mrs Neil’s car appears to have been travelling when it left the road.
‘The police have, quite rightly, raised a puzzling feature of the case. That is the broken window in the downstairs bathroom. I believe I am correct in saying that the police have considered the possibility that Mrs Neil disturbed an intruder in Shore House, and crashed her car in an attempt to escape. Against this I must weigh the facts that no unidentified fingerprints were discovered in the house, and that the fragments of glass had been swept up and placed in a waste bin in the kitchen. Most significant of all, Mr Neil tells us that nothing had been taken, and I conclude that the most likely explanation is that Mrs Neil discovered the damage, which may well have been caused during the celebrated storm last October or by children playing on the nearby public beach, on her arrival at Shore House and dealt with it to the best of her ability.’
The coroner stopped and poured himself a glass of water, sipping from it delicately. Loretta was surprised by the fluency of his delivery, and wondered if the purpose of the brief adjournment had been to give him time to rehearse.
‘This situation I am called upon to consider,’ he continued, pushing the half-empty glass away, ‘is one in which a young woman gets into her car probably before midnight on New Year’s Eve, drives at speed along a thickly wooded stretch of road, and unhappily crashes into a tree. Her husband has told me that Mrs Neil was depressed – in effect, of his suspicion that her action was deliberate. He has produced no evidence for this claim, and indeed had not seen his wife for almost a month prior to her tragic accident – a somewhat unusual state of affairs which, you might think, in itself goes some way to explain the burden of guilt which he appears to have taken upon himself.
‘If, however, we rule out suicide as the cause of Mrs Neil’s unlucky accident, as I propose to do, what other explanations remain to be considered? The police inform me that her car was in excellent mechanical condition, and Mr Brown was able to find no medical condition which might have caused a fit or blackout. The accident happened on a moonlit night when visibility was good, and the ground was dry with little frost.
‘Let us consider the location of the accident a little more closely. Shore House, though a private residence, stands on the edge of the New Forest. It is reached by a long road, one might even call it a track, which crosses fields and then traverses a somewhat dense tract of woodland. The accident occurred just after Mrs Neil’s car entered this belt of trees and although it was, as I have said, a clear night, this fact is virtually irrelevant at this point in her progress. Indeed, the abrupt passage from bright moonlight to darkness may go some way towards explaining Mrs Neil’s loss of control. I have also to take into account the fact that, while not actually inebriated, her judgement may have been marginally impaired by her earlier intake of alcohol.’ He paused for a second and took a surreptitious glance at his watch.
The police have, as I noted earlier, raised the question of whether Mrs Neil’s death was precipitated by the action of another person. The question I have to consider is whether the possibility of outside agency is strong enough to prompt an open verdict. I am reluctant to consider such a verdict, especially in a case where there is no evidence of foul play and in which the relatives of the dead woman may seize upon it as a signal that some degree of self-blame is in order. I have in mind the fact that no evidence has been produced to show that another person was in Shore House that night, nor is there anything to suggest that Mrs Neil was not alone in her car when the accident happened. There is certainly no suggestion – and this is surely the salient point – that her injuries were sustained anywhere or at any time other than in the vehicle and in the course of the collision. This is a tragic case, in which a healthy young woman has been robbed of her life, two children have been left motherless, and Mr Neil has lost the companionship of his wife. I may say that it is a salutary reminder to us all that the motor vehicle is a far from unmixed blessing. Having given due consideration to all the matters raised by the case, it is my intention to record a verdict of accidental death.’
He stopped and looked sternly ahead of him, his eyes coming to rest on the figure of Tom Neil, who was leaning forward, hands clasped together.
‘Mr Neil –’ Neil raised his head. ‘I should like to put on record the court’s sympathies in this matter. Thank you.’
‘Court rise!’
Sergeant Harris’s voice boomed across the room, once again catching Loretta unprepared. She had not expected the inquest to end so abruptly, and she was still in her seat when the reporter pushed past, muttering something she could not make out.
‘Wait –’ She put out a hand but he was already opening the door at the back of the court. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tom Neil get up and she turned towards him, observing the slightly dazed expression on his face. As she watched he squared his shoulders, straightened the knot of his tie, and moved ponderously towards the exit. Loretta snatched up her shoulder-bag to follow him, but the movement dislodged its magnetic catch and her belongings slid in an untidy heap to the floor.
‘Oh shit!’ she exclaimed, forgetting where she was, and went down on her knees to retrieve everything. Neil must have come by car, she thought, stuffing her purse, her makeup bag, and that morning’s post back inside – perhaps she could catch up with him in the car park. She seized the paperback crime novel she had brought with her and her cheque book, stretching under the table in an attempt to reach her brand new diary. Too late: a pair of shiny black loafers came into view, and a man’s hand scooped it out of reach.
‘Allow me.’
The voice was friendly and teasing. Loretta manoeuvred awkwardly in the confined space and got to her feet, clutching the strap of her shoulder-bag in her right hand.
‘Women Painters Diary 1988.’ It was the good-looking man who had winked at her from the well of the court. ‘You interested in art?’
‘I – yes. Thank you.’ Loretta took the diary from his outstretched hand and began sliding out from behind the press table, anxious to catch up with Tom Neil. The man moved with her.
‘Who are you with, then?’ He smiled, making light of the fact that he was now barring her way. Loretta felt a paralyzing sense of déjà vu, and glared at him.
‘I only meant – makes a nice change from Len Miller,’ he said disarmingly. ‘Same old face, day in, day out. He’s almost part of the furniture.’
‘I’m not a journalist,’ Loretta said shortly. ‘Now if I could get past –’ She took a step forward, wondering what sort of pervert would hang around inquests trying to pick up women.
‘Not a relative, are you?’ He had moved back a pace but was still between her and the door.
‘No. A friend. Look –’
‘Of Mrs Neil? Or Mr Neil?’ His tone was quite different – sharp, inquisitive.
‘Of Mrs – of Sandra. What is this?’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Got time for a coffee?’
‘A coffee?’ Loretta was getting desperate. Tom Neil would surely be gone by now; was she going to have to follow him to Winchester?
‘Just a little chat, nothing official.’
‘O
ffi-’ Loretta stared at him. She turned her head sideways and read the title of the magazine he had been reading earlier: Police Review. He was also holding a file, a manila one tied with pink ribbon like those she had seen on the table in front of the uniformed sergeant. ‘You’re a policeman?’
‘Yep. This is my case.’
‘Oh. . .’ She thought rapidly. She had probably missed Tom Neil, and it couldn’t do any harm. She didn’t have to tell him anything if she didn’t want to –
‘All right.’
‘There’s the canteen – or there’s a caff about ten minutes’ walk from here. That too far for you?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, preferring it to the police canteen.
‘OK. Let’s go.’
He stood back at long last and allowed Loretta to precede him to the door. She reached for the handle but he was there first, holding it open and motioning her in front of him.
‘After you.’
It was said in a natural tone, not as if he was making a point of his chivalry. Loretta hesitated, decided not to argue, and walked past him into the smoky lobby.
‘Great place, this,’ said the policeman, biting into a sausage sandwich with tomato ketchup oozing thickly from the edges. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
Loretta said nothing, unwilling to admit she had been tempted to join him. She watched him eat, her mouth watering as the sandwich disappeared before her eyes. The cup of black tea she had ordered was strong and bitter, hardly a substitute for locally made herb sausages. . . She didn’t know why she had been so abstemious. Reaching for the bowl of white sugar standing in the middle of the Formica table, next to a jar of English mustard and an encrusted bottle of brown sauce, she added a few grains to her tea in the hope of making it more drinkable. She appraised her companion covertly as she stirred it, taking in the square-cut baggy suit, the fashionably narrow tie partially obscured by the paper napkin he had tucked over it. He was not her idea of a policeman, resembling neither the old Dixon of Dock Green stereotype nor the over-eager, officious breed she had occasionally encountered in London. If it hadn’t been for his very slight Hampshire accent she would have assumed he was foreign, from somewhere in the Mediterranean; it would account for his olive skin and deep brown eyes, the dark curls forming a widow’s peak over his wide forehead. He really was very good-looking, not in a way that attracted Loretta, but the young waitress in jeans and apron who took their order had lingered at the table, joking with him and blushing. Sausage sandwiches weren’t even on the menu, which featured dishes with archly rustic or nautical names –’The Forester’s Feast’ and ‘The Bosun’s Beef Casserole’ had stuck in Loretta’s mind. It was clear that the policeman was a favoured customer.
