The Redeemed

by M. R. Hall

  'How long did it last?'

  'He stayed well, at least until Eva was killed. It was me who went down. I was happy for him, of course I was, but this God stuff ... I couldn't stomach it. He wanted me to have what he'd got, but I just never . . .' She tossed her cigarette butt into the sink. 'It wasn't me. It wasn't for me.'

  'What happened when Eva died?'

  'The bad dreams and voices came back. I tried to make him see the doctor, but he wouldn't. He kept saying people would pray for him to make him better.'

  'Anyone in particular?'

  'I don't know. I didn't really want to know.'

  'Was Alan Jacobs one of them? Did Freddy mention him?'

  'Maybe once or twice. I . . .' Another rush of tears. Eileen pressed her eyes into the crook of her elbow. 'I should have done more, I know I should have. I was no good for him.'

  Jenny said, 'Eva died at the beginning of May. But before that, was he OK? You didn't see any change in him before then?'

  'Maybe he started to change a bit before,' Eileen said uncertainly. 'He'd get impatient with me, but you know -' she gestured to the mess around the sink - 'why wouldn't he, when all he got was promises?'

  'Eileen, was Freddy getting ill again before May?'

  She thought about it for a moment. 'I suppose he might have been.'

  'When did it start? What month?'

  She shook her head vaguely. 'March, April . . . But it was definitely worse when she died. We were both in here the morning the news came on the radio. The way he reacted, you'd have thought she was family.'

  'Did the police talk to him at all?'

  'Only to see where he'd been when she was killed. They checked all that out. He was helping out at church, in a prayer team or something.'

  Jenny said, 'I want you to think carefully about last week, the days before he died. Did anything happen to Freddy?

  Did he say anything? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?'

  'What do you mean?' Eileen said, alarmed.

  Jenny hesitated, realizing that the wall she had mentally erected between Freddy's and Eva's deaths had come tumbling down. The return of his illness coinciding with Eva's apparent waning faith, and Alan Jacobs's involvement with people he shouldn't have were coincidences too far. 'I wasn't going to mention this until all the lab tests come back, but the post-mortem showed that Freddy had marks on his wrists, almost as if they'd been caused by rope or handcuffs. They were quite fresh. He'd covered them with concealer.'

  'Handcuffs? Are you saying he was arrested?'

  'It's one explanation.'

  'He can't have been. He was still a juvenile. I would've been told, wouldn't I?'

  'You'd have thought so,' Jenny said, but nothing seemed impossible any more.

  Jenny was grateful for the mania that had gripped her since her meeting with Eileen Reardon. It pushed out her fear and banished her ghosts. The message from Steve on her answer- phone had gone unanswered. The desk in her study was strewn with papers which she had covered with notes and diagrams exploring every possible connection between the spinning fragments of evidence.

  She had yet to find the missing piece that linked Eva's death with those of Freddy and Jacobs, but she felt that at last she was drawing close to its essence. In life, as in nature, there were two types of attraction: the healthy sort born of affection and generosity, and the compulsive craving of the kind that had killed the moths whose burnt remains lay beneath her anglepoise lamp. Watching their death throes, she was reminded of the outstretched arms and convulsing bodies of the worshippers at the Mission Church. They had found a light, too, and it wasn't the sun.

  Chapter 20

  Jenny woke to the sound of the telephone. It wasn't six a.m. but the day was already as bright as noon. Blinking against the sharp light, she hurried downstairs and retrieved the receiver from beneath a mess of papers on her desk. She expected to hear Alison with news of some spectacular motorway collision, or perhaps a contrite Steve wanting to invite himself for breakfast and a little more, but it was a gruff, though polite Northern Irish voice which greeted her.

  'Mrs Cooper? Sorry to trouble you so early. DI Sean Coughlin. I'm a friend of Father Starr's.'

  'Oh—' was all Jenny could find to say.

  'It's probably wise not to talk on the phone. Would it suit you to meet briefly, in say an hour's time? I'll be outside Tintern Abbey.'

  'Hold on a moment—'

  Her protest was futile. Coughlin had already rung off.

  Her hair was still wet, there had been no time to put on make-up, and three cups of strong coffee had left her feeling jumpy. The early-morning sun was blindingly bright as she reached the bottom of her lane and dog-legged across the main road towards the abbey ruins. There was only one other vehicle in the visitors' parking area, a dark blue BMW cabriolet with the roof up, not a car that looked like it belonged to a policeman. Jenny pulled up and saw that it was empty. Maybe she had misheard? Her exhausted yet heightened state made her feel as if she were in a waking dream, not quite certain of anything. She turned off the engine and climbed out to get some air. It was cool and fresh against her skin. A halo of mist hung in graceful suspension over the river, tracing its serpentine path through the steep sides of the wooded valley. The abbey, a vast stone skeleton that once would have been as gilded and opulent as an Italian cathedral, was a dark, commanding shadow against the brilliant sky.

  She heard the sound of solid, even footsteps. A male figure appeared around the corner.

  'Mrs Cooper?'

  'Yes.'

  He was a man of uncertain age, somewhere between forty and fifty, tall and wiry with close-cropped greying hair.

  'Sean Coughlin. Pleased to meet you.' He extended his hand.

  Jenny shook it, noticing the inlaid silver crosses on his cufflinks.

  'Inspiring, isn't it?' he said of the abbey. 'You live in a beautiful part of the world.'

  'And you, Mr Coughlin?'

  'London. I'm with the Met.' He seemed anxious to change the subject. 'Fancy a stroll down to the river?'

  'Don't you think I should have a little more proof of who I'm talking to?'

  Coughlin reached into his pocket and handed her his wallet. She opened it to find his Metropolitan Police ID, driving licence and credit cards. In the photo pouch there was a picture of the Virgin and Child.

  Satisfied, she handed it back and decided to give him a hearing.

  They wandered across the empty tarmac and turned right down the lane to the water's edge.

  Jenny said, 'How do you know Father Starr?'

  'We met through the Catholic Police Guild.'

  'That sounds very clandestine.'

  'Oh, we're thick as thieves on our side of the Tiber,' Coughlin said good-naturedly. 'I suppose some officers might use it for advantage, but I'm more on the pastoral side.'

  'You're not a priest?'

  'I did get most of the way through seminary when I was younger. Refused at the last fence.' The joke was offered in a way that invited her not to venture any further in that direction. He was still in conflict, she sensed, and doubted there was a Mrs Coughlin.

  The tide was at its lowest point and the water rushed noisily over rocks on which a heron stood, statue-still and inscrutable. Coughlin filled his lungs and took in the view: the mist rising over an enchanted landscape.

  'Beats the Caledonian Road, that's for sure.' He glanced back the way they had come. There was no sign of life except for a ginger tomcat that had wandered into the path and stretched out to bathe in a pool of sunlight. He turned to Jenny. 'I don't know if this is of any interest to you, Mrs Cooper, but I can call on certain resources to look into matters that require it.'

  'I thought you were going to offer me a revelation.'

  'I've read about the case and spoken to Father Starr about the evidence, that's all. I can see that local detectives wouldn't be inclined to reopen a matter they've already put to bed and, quite frankly, I wouldn't be inclined to in their shoes.
'

  'How does your Super' feel about you going freelance?'

  Ignoring her note of sarcasm, Coughlin said, 'I've dealt with enough sexual psychopaths to know they don't tend to stick in a knife and run. If Craven was the killer he would have done more than relieve himself on the doorstep. As far as I can tell, he didn't even rifle through her possessions or look over the house. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a kill and run is either an execution or an accident.'

  'What do you think it was?' Jenny said.

  'I wouldn't put my money on it having been an accident.'

  'All right, let's say we follow your logic. Who's got a motive to kill Eva?'

  'The obvious answer would be someone from her old business, but then there are the two suicides - if that's what you think they were.'

  'I think we can assume that. And I think we can assume neither Freddy Reardon nor Alan Jacobs killed Eva. For one thing they were both at church at the time, and for another I don't believe either of them was capable of it.'

  'I'd agree with you. It sounds to me like there could have been something else going on, something bigger than all of them.'

  'Bristol CID don't seem to think so.'

  'Police forces don't spend money on disproving confessions.'

  Jenny studied him for a moment, trying to decide what it was that was making her listen to him.

  'Why exactly are you here, Mr Coughlin?' she asked. 'And please don't tell me God told you to come.'

  'I've a lot of time for Father Starr,' Coughlin said with no hint of apology. 'You've got to admire a man who truly acts on his faith. But there is a little more to it than that. I had a colleague in Bristol check out the crime desk logs. It turned up something you ought to know. On the evening of Monday, 15 March this year, a woman by the name of Eva Donaldson phoned up with a rambling complaint about someone - we believe it was a male - harassing her. She wouldn't mention any names and the officer taking the call noted that she sounded drunk and incoherent. He checked the action log and saw that a follow-up call was made exactly a week later. The log says "caller denies all knowledge of having made the complaint".'

  'Have you got a copy of this log?'

  'It's been faxed to your office. I'm afraid the colleague who turned it up can't be named.'

  'Is he a member of the Guild?'

  'That would be a reasonable assumption.'

  'Have you got anything else?'

  'Not yet, but from what Father Starr has told me I'm inclined to have a look at Alan Jacobs. I understand he'd had sexual relations with a man on the evening he died.'

  'Who told you that? I know, let me guess - Father Dermody?'

  'I don't know Dermody personally,' he said, avoiding the question, 'but I thought you might like to know who Jacobs was with, whether he told him anything that could be useful to you.'

  'Of course, but I might need a little time to think this through. No offence intended, but I suddenly feel as if I've got involved with the mafia.'

  Coughlin said, 'We may behave like a family, but I can assure you that's where the similarity ends. Any favours I do Father Starr are strictly within the law.'

  'A good Samaritan, hey?'

  'We all need one of those every now and then.'

  After a moment, Jenny said, 'Fine. I'm not sure why, but I think I'll trust you.'

  'Wise decision. I'll be in touch, Mrs Cooper.'

  He shook her hand once more and turned to make his own way back. Jenny watched from a distance as he climbed into the BMW, flicked the switch that folded back the soft top and took off down the valley at high speed. There was definitely no Mrs Coughlin, she decided, or anyone closer to him than his priest.

  It was only a few minutes after eight when Jenny arrived in the empty office clutching a coffee and croissant. She dumped the mail on Alison's desk without checking it and went straight to the elderly fax machine. As Coughlin had promised, there was a single page copy of the crime desk log, Eva's call marked with an asterisk: Caller at times incoherent, possibly intoxicated. Refuses to name male harassing her. In the right-hand column was the follow-up note: Caller denies all knowledge of complaint. Jenny took it through to her room. She would have to fetch out all of Eva's papers to search for any clue as to what was happening in her life around 15 March.

  She unloaded the document box that she had ferried to and from the inquest and reached for the bundle of papers dealing with her various engagements. There was a printout of an email dated 11 March giving details of three local radio interviews Eva was scheduled to conduct on Friday the 12th, but no hint as to what was in her schedule for Monday. Turning to the bundle of correspondence, she flicked through letters to and from her bank and mortgage company for dates in January and February. They showed that she was struggling with arrears - that much Jenny already knew - but a phrase leaped out of a letter dated 18 February that she hadn't accorded any significance to before. An executive from her mortgage company had written:

  In the light of representations received via your solicitors concerning your anticipated income in the second half of this year, I have decided to grant your request for a five- month period of interest-only payments. Arrears to date will be rolled over into the principal sum.

  Jenny leafed back, looking for any sign of the solicitors' letters being copied to Eva but none had made it to the file. The several letters that followed were dry, administrative pro formas confirming the adjusted payment schedule, but the last in the sheaf was the letter headed Reed Falkirk & Co. that Jenny recalled seeing the previous week. Since her meeting with Coughlin its date now held more significance: 13 March. She re-read its three paragraphs carefully:

  Dear Ms Donaldson,

  Further to your instructions we have reviewed your contracts with GlamourX Ltd and as agreed have sought counsel's advice. Simeon Hargreaves QC has confirmed that clause 3.2 of the contract dated 23 September 200j clearly entitles you to 4.6 per cent of sales revenue generated by Latex Lesbians Parts 1 to 4 and all six films in the Lil' Miss series. As we anticipated, he advised that all films in the Whorehouse Vixens series are subject to the buy-out agreement between you and GlamourX dated 2 November 20o5 and that no royalties are owing.

  In the light of GlamourX's failure to respond to correspondence to date, we advise that there is little prospect of reaching a settlement, and that High Court proceedings should be commenced forthwith. We would, however, remind you that our invoice dated 26 February in the sum of £14,675 remains outstanding and that no further action can be taken in this matter until payment is received. In accordance with standard practice, we will require the sum of £10,000 to be paid on account of fees that will be incurred in the preparation and issuing of proceedings.

  We await your instructions. Yours sincerely,

  Damien Lynd

  A glance in Chambers and Partners Directory confirmed that Lynd was one of four partners in the firm of Reed Falkirk & Co. His specialisms were listed as media and corporate law.

  There was no subsequent correspondence from Mr Lynd or his firm. Extrapolating from what she had read, Jenny assumed that the bill for £14,675 had been incurred in fending off Eva's mortgage company with the promise of unpaid royalties and commissioning an opinion from Queen's Counsel. But why hadn't Eva pursued this before? Out of distaste, Jenny presumed, but her circumstances had become too straitened for such scruples. The March letter left her with the tantalizing prospect of money from GlamourX, but as lawyers do, Reed Falkirk had demanded payment on account that she couldn't afford.

  One other thing struck her. Eva had negotiated five months' grace with the mortgage company. That would have taken her to the end of July. There was no significance in the date that Jenny could think of other than the fact that, if everything went to plan, the Decency Bill would have passed the major parliamentary hurdles by then, leaving her free to take up the acting career she had discussed with Cassidy. But the prospect of a TV show was far from money in the bank. It was likely that Eva felt that she couldn't b
e seen to sue GlamourX for personal gain until the Decency campaign was at an end, in which case might she have asked Turnbull for money? Perhaps, but Jenny was doubtful. And might the person 'harassing' her have been her lawyer, holding a gun to her head in his demand for fees in advance?

  There was too much missing from the paper trail to get beyond speculation, but it raised a lot of questions. One was how Eva had racked up a lawyer's bill of nearly £15,000 for simple written advice from counsel and a handful of letters. Returning the documents to their box, Jenny thought about calling one of Eva's executors to give evidence about the state of her personal affairs, guessing her father was likely to be one of them. She racked her memory for the rules of executor confidentiality, a subject she hadn't touched on since law school. They refused to come, but by some mysterious process of association, another forgotten phrase floated to the surface: a lien on the papers. In Eva's case it meant that as long as her bill remained unpaid, her solicitors would have the legal right to retain her files and therefore all documents relating to her claim against GlamourX. They would eventually be paid out of her estate, but a grant of probate took months, sometimes as long as a year.

  Jenny needed to speak to Damien Lynd.

  She grabbed the phone and fetched out the March letter to find Reed Falkirk's number. Her call was answered by a machine. She was ready to leave a message when it occurred to her that Ed Prince and Annabelle Stern were likely to have made contact with Lynd already. Putting him on notice of her interest would only give him the opportunity to let them know. Far better to surprise him. She checked the time: eight-twenty. If the traffic was kind she could call past their offices in Queen Square and still make it to the inquest for ten.

  She grabbed her briefcase and the box of documents and hurried out. As she clattered through the door and into the hallway she bumped into Alison.