by M. R. Hall
She lifted the latch on the heavy gate and picked her way across the pot-holed yard by the light of a miniature torch on her key fob, passing the elderly Land Rover with its smart new aluminium hard top. Before raising the heavy iron knocker on the front door she looked back at her Golf to check: in the darkness McAvoy was invisible. He'd better stay that way.
A man dressed in jeans and a paint-spattered sweatshirt answered. Dogs barked excitedly from behind an inner door. He was the right age, but his skull was shaved in a tight crew cut. He looked fit and muscular, an outdoors man. More nervous than she had expected, Jenny asked him if he was Christopher Tathum. He confirmed that he was, with no trace of anxiety or apprehension, she noticed, just a man living out in the country doing up a house.
She felt guilty saying it, her heart in her throat, but regretfully told him that his name had arisen as a possible witness in a case she was investigating.
'Really? What case is that?' he said. 'I don't think I know anyone who's died recently.' His voice was educated but not overly so. It had a quality Jenny found familiar but couldn't place. His eyes were intelligent, his expression patient but questioning.
The words tripped out of her mouth without conscious thought. 'Two young Asian men went missing from Bristol in late June 2002. We have a sighting of them in the back seat of a vehicle we believe you may have been renting at the time.'
Tathum smiled, nonplussed. 'Where did you get that from?'
'I'm afraid I can't tell you at the moment. What I need is for you to give a statement saying where you were at the time, 28 June to be precise.'
He seemed amused. 'And if I can't remember?'
'Have a think. See what comes back to you.' She offered him the last business card in her wallet. 'Maybe you could set it down in the form of a signed letter and fax it through to my office over the weekend? Or I can send my officer over to take a statement if you'd prefer.'
He peered at the card by the light of the dim bulb in the open porch in which they were standing. 'I don't know anything about any Asians. I'm a builder.'
'Was that your job at the time, sir?'
'I thought you wanted me to write a letter.' There was a hint of threat in his expression now, his facial muscles tightening into a defensive mask.
Jenny said, 'If you could. Thank you.' She stepped away from the door and started across the yard.
Tathum said, 'Hold on a minute. What is it I'm being accused of here?'
She stopped and glanced back. 'You're not being accused of anything. A coroner's inquest merely pieces together facts and events surrounding a death, or in this case a presumed death.'
'I know nothing about your case. You're wasting your time.'
'Then that's what you should write. Set down where you were working, who you were with, and I can discount you from my inquiries. Goodnight, Mr Tathum.'
She turned back towards the gate.
'You come all the way out here and won't even tell me what I'm meant to have done?'
An instinct told her not to stop.
'Hey, lady. I'm talking to you.' She heard his footsteps coming after her.
She wheeled round to face him. Away from the lights of the house, he was nothing more than an angry shadow.
'It's very simple, Mr Tathum, I'm just asking you to account for your whereabouts on a particular night: 28 June 2002.'
'You know what?' He stepped closer. Jenny moved back and found herself pressed against the gate.
'Mr Tathum —’
Where was McAvoy now she needed him?
Tathum glared at her and seemed to swallow the abuse he was ready to hurl at her. She flinched at a sudden movement of his head towards hers, but there was no contact, only a violent jolt to her nerves. He marched back to the house. She fumbled for the latch on the gate, made it through and tumbled into the car.
When she'd got her breath, McAvoy said, 'That was more like it.'
It was McAvoy's idea to pull over at the pub. If she hadn't been desperate to swallow a pill she would have put up more resistance. She retreated to the sanctuary of a draughty ladies' room and thanked God for the opportunity to medicate herself. She had got it down to a fine art: just enough to soothe her nerves without making her dopey. She had asked him for tonic water and had drunk most of the contents of the glass before she realized the feeling of well-being spreading through her wasn't only due to the log fire in the inglenook or the relief of having escaped her encounter with Tathum unscathed. There was vodka in it. Six months of sobriety up in smoke. She should have told him, but part of her thought: what the hell? I've been longing to feel this good. Where's the harm in just one drink? Instead, she sipped the rest of it slowly, telling herself it would hardly touch her that way. Like McAvoy said, she didn't want to go through life frightened. Having a drink was part of learning to handle herself again.
He was funny and contagious, sensitive and witty. He told her stories about his courtroom adventures that made her laugh until she cried, and tales of the tragic characters he'd met in prison that moved her to tears. And the more he drank, the warmer and more poetic he became. She began to see the complex layers of his contradictory character and to understand his moral code: his acceptance of people, both good and bad, with equal humanity because 'ultimately we're all God's creatures'. In her mildly intoxicated state she found him a beguiling mixture of humility and creativity, of wilful independence and thoughtful submission. His guiding philosophy as a lawyer, he said, had always been, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' It didn't mean - as most people thought - that judging others was sinful, but that all who cast judgement would one day be judged, and by far more demanding laws than any contrived by man.
'And that's where I find my grain of solace,' he said, his fingers cradling his tumbler a whisker away from hers. 'I've done some wicked things in my life, mixed with some truly evil men in this fallen world, but I've never doubted for a moment that I'll be judged as harshly as the next.'
'Do you think you'll get through the strait gate?' Jenny said, with a smile.
'I'd like to think I might squeak it . . . who knows?' He sipped his whisky, his gaze drifting inwards.
Jenny watched him, wondering what he was thinking, what sins he was hoping this crusade might wash away.
She was tempted to ask, but something stopped her. She didn't want to know, didn't want to be forced into judgement. She was learning from him, that was enough, drawing down some yet to be defined wisdom.
From deep in his reverie, McAvoy said, 'Do you think those kids really were terrorists?'
Jenny said, 'Does it matter?'
'What's done in the dark must always come to the light,' McAvoy said. He tipped back the rest of his whisky. 'We should be going.'
Chapter 17
'Mum . . . You OK?'
Jenny rose out of a leaden, dreamless sleep, her limbs too heavy to move. Ross's anxious voice was coming from the foot of the bed.
'Mum?'
'Mmm?' she said, turning her eyes away from the shaft of light streaming through the partially opened curtains.
'I thought you might be ill . . .'
Something felt wrong, constricted. Barely awake, she tried to move to a sitting position and realized she was dressed in her skirt and suit jacket.
'You weren't well when you came home last night,' Ross said. 'I didn't know what was wrong.'
She blinked, her vision slowly coming to focus. Her sleepy gaze wandered around the room. She saw her shoes lying near the door, her handbag on the floor at the side of the bed, the contents - including her two bottles of pills - spilling out on the rug.
'How are you feeling?'
'Fine . . . just tired. What time is it?'
'Just gone nine. It's all right, it's Saturday.'
He glanced down at the pills then back at her with the same questioning eyes he'd had as a young child. 'What happened?'
She didn't have a clue. Didn't remember going to bed or even arriving home. A dim memory surfaced of dr
iving out of Bristol on the motorway, jerking awake at the sound of a rumble strip under her tyres, a loud horn sounding behind her . . .
'I'll be right down,' she said weakly. 'Just give me a moment.'
She moved to the edge of the bed and swung her legs out onto the floor to prove the point. Unconvinced, Ross withdrew and went downstairs.
'You could make some coffee,' Jenny called after him.
It took several minutes under a cool shower to get any life back into her muscles. As the blood started to flow, the previous evening's events gradually drifted back to her. She remembered driving back from the pub to Bristol feeling fine. She and McAvoy were laughing and listening to music. Nearing the city, she'd become drowsy - that would be the alcohol combining with her beta blocker, slowing her heart. She had dropped him off outside his office. He told her to look after herself, then reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand. There had been a moment when he might have leaned forward and kissed her, but he did it with a look instead. She relived a feeling of near elation as she drove back through Clifton, crystal white fairy lights glittering on trees outside the cafes and boutiques like star dust. Then it went hazy . . . drooping at the wheel . . . crossing the Severn Bridge . . . her shoulder dragging against the wall as she climbed the stairs, Ross following behind her.
She was back in her bedroom pulling on a sweater over her blouse when she noticed the notebook, her journal, lying open on the floor at the foot of the bed where Ross had been standing. She stooped down and snatched it up, her heart in her throat. She had written yesterday's date in an erratic hand, and three scrawled lines:
I don't know what happened tonight. That man ... he does something to me. I don't even find him attractive - he's so tired and used up. But when he looks in my eyes I know he's not afraid of anything. What does it mean? Why him? Why now? It's as if
The last 'f' trickled off down the page leaving the thought forever incomplete.
She stuffed the journal into the drawer at the foot of her wardrobe, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame.
Ross called up the stairs. 'What do you want for breakfast?'
'Toast is fine. I'm coming now.' She took a deep breath and told herself not to panic. He hadn't seen the journal. He'd been too concerned about her to notice it. He'd probably spotted the pills, but she could explain those - stress of the divorce, new career; the medication a temporary help in easing the strain. Everyone took them at some point in their life. He'd understand.
He'd made toast and coffee and set out cups and plates on the small fold-out table, only big enough for two, which took up most of the floor space in the tiny kitchen. He was showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes - unheard of on a weekend.
She put on a bright smile. 'Anything planned for today?' He shook his head. 'Karen's away with her mum.' 'I've got to work tomorrow so I thought maybe we could go for a walk, drive over to the Beacons as it's sunny.'
Ross poured her some coffee. 'Don't you think you'd better rest?'
'It was a long week,' Jenny said, 'that's all. The mother of the boy who disappeared died on Thursday—'
'I read about it in the paper.' 'Oh?'
'This case is a big deal. It's been on the news and everything.'
'I try not to listen. They never get their facts straight.' She tried to sound light-hearted and fell short.
'Are you sure you're up to it?' Ross said, in the scathing way only a teenager can. 'You seem pretty stressed to me, crashing out in your clothes.'
'I fell asleep reading. Don't you ever do that?'
'God, do you have to be so touchy all the time?'
'I'm sorry if I'm not Julie-bloody-Andrews.'
'Why do you always over-react?'
'Can we just have breakfast without arguing?' She grabbed a piece of toast and stabbed her knife into the butter. It slipped out of her fingers. She picked it up and fumbled it again. She gave up and forced her hands into her lap, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
'What's wrong with you?' Ross said.
'Nothing.' She sniffed. Damn. Why did she have to fold now?
His irritation melted into concern.
'What are all those pills for?'
'They're just to help me cope . . . It's taken me a while to get over the divorce.'
'But you were ill before you got divorced.'
'I wasn't—'
'Then why were you seeing a psychiatrist?'
'Who told you that?' she said, as if he'd been fed a lie.
'I heard you and Dad arguing about it.'
It took all Jenny's effort not to break down. 'I'm better now. Everything's changed. I've got a new life. It just takes a while to adjust.'
He was having none of it. 'Why can't you just tell me the truth for once? Steve doesn't think you're better. I know he doesn't.'
'What's he been saying?'
'Nothing specific. I can just tell from the way he talks about you.'
'Ross, please, you have to believe me. Yes, I was very unhappy for a time, but I'd been with your father since I was twenty, barely older than you are now. Being on your own takes some getting used to.' She forced in a breath, somehow managing to keep the tears at bay. 'It's all getting better now. I've got a great job, you . . .' She reached across the table and took his hand. 'You don't know how much that means to me.'
'No pressure then,' he said sarcastically.
'No. There isn't. Honestly.' She let go, realizing how oppressive and guilt-making she must feel to him, but at the same time filled with the selfish need for his reassurance. 'All I want is for you to feel free, but cared for. Your father and I both-'
He recoiled in embarrassment. 'Yeah, all right.'
Jenny allowed herself to smile. They'd made connection. 'I was serious about the two of us going out together. How about it?'
'Whatever you like,' Ross said, and took a mouthful of toast.
Jenny knew the expression he was trying to hide from her behind his mask of macho indifference. In all its essential elements his face hadn't changed since he was a toddler. He felt reassured, comforted in the way he had when he'd run to her with scraped knees needing a hug.
'Do you have to keep looking at me?'
'I'm not-'
The phone rang in the sitting room.
'I'll get it,' Ross said, and went to answer, eager to break the tension.
He came back with the receiver and handed it to her. 'For you. Andy someone.'
Andy? She had a mental blank. 'Hello . . . ?'
'Mrs Cooper. Andy Kerr, sorry to call you on a weekend - your officer gave me your number.'
'Is this about the Jane Doe?'
'I'm not sure ... I came into work this morning to catch up. I still had the dosimeter kicking around my office. I was playing around with it waiting for my computer to boot up when I realized it was still picking something up. I took it over to the fridge thinking there might still be traces from the body when it started going crazy . . .' He paused, sounding as if he scarcely believed what he was about to say. 'Mrs Jamal's body is giving off radiation. Whatever the source is, it's pushing out nearly fifty milliSieverts an hour.'
Jenny felt as if the room had been suddenly shaken by an unexpected tremor. Radiation? She was baffled.
'I don't understand the measurements,' she said, 'What does it mean?'
'Put it this way,' Andy Kerr said, 'background radiation is two milliSieverts per year. Five hundred milliSieverts is usually considered very bad for your health. We're not talking sudden death, but we are talking dangerous levels.'
'Where could it have come from?'
'No idea. I've got someone from radiology on the way. I'm hoping she might come up with some answers. I thought you might want to be here.'
'Have you told the police?'
'Shouldn't we get the facts straight first?'
'I'll be right down.'
Jenny promised she'd only be an hour or two, but Ross said wearily that he'd learned to multiply her time estima
tes by three. Forget going out, he'd rather be dropped in Bristol, where he could meet up with friends.
He told her to let him out near Bristol docks. She watched him saunter off towards the coffee shops and bars where she suspected he and his friends liked to mingle. Seventy-five weekends until he was gone. How many of those would they spend together? A handful if she was lucky.
She tried McAvoy's mobile number twice during the fifteen-minute drive to the Vale hospital. Each time she reached his answerphone, and each time she froze when it came to leaving a message. She could no longer deny that in a deeply confusing and incomplete way she was attracted to him, but it wasn't shyness that stopped her, it was a vague and unsettling sense that whatever awaited her would be complicated enough without his unpredictable presence. And, if she were brutally honest with herself, she remained suspicious. There was still something about him, the bit that by his own admission remained wholly unredeemed, that she didn't trust.
A stiff female figure swaddled in an anorak and gloves was waiting outside the mortuary entrance. It was Alison. Jenny could sense her mood of martyred disapproval at twenty yards.
'Good morning, Alison.'
'On your own, are you, Mrs Cooper?' she replied sharply.
'Yes.'
'I was half-expecting you to be with Mr McAvoy - as you and he seem to have become so friendly.'
'I know you've got a history, but I think he may have helped me make a breakthrough. I tracked down the man who was driving the Toyota, the one who paid Madog a visit. Have you managed to take his statement yet?'
'Yes,' Alison said curtly. 'But helpful or not, I've known you long enough to say this, Mrs Cooper - that man's using his charm to get the better of you. He's got mischief in mind, I know it.'
Jenny could have pointed out that Alison was hardly objective when it came to her good-looking former boss or her confidant and baptismal sponsor, DI Dave Pironi, but her more humane instincts told her to hold back. This was her officer's way of saying that she was concerned, and Jenny appreciated it. Now didn't feel like a good time to have to manage without her.
