The Coroner (53 page)

    She
didn't feel the boot hit her chin, only her neck snapping back like a whip as
the lights went out.

    Steve
said he found her face down on the living-room floor, a cushion under her head.
He'd driven over just after midnight and seen the window smashed, computer
leads and pieces of paper strewn across the front garden. He rode with her in
the ambulance, holding her hand while she tried to tell him through a jaw she
could barely move what had happened. He said not to worry, the police were
already at the house and could see it was a robbery.

    They
took her to Newport General and loaded her with painkillers. She drifted in and
out of consciousness as several pairs of hands lifted her this way and that
under the X-ray machine. As they wheeled her back along the corridor, she saw
Steve smile down at her with tired red eyes and say it looked like good news,
nothing broken, just knocked about. She heard a doctor tell him he couldn't
stay, there were people asleep on the ward where they were taking her. She
heard him ask where in the building he could wait out the night. A woman's
voice said the only place was the waiting room in A&E.

    Jenny
squeezed his hand. All she could manage was a whisper. 'I want to speak to
Williams.'

    The
hospital shower smelt of disinfectant but the water was hot and got into her
aching muscles. Everything she moved hurt: her legs, her torso, her left
shoulder and her jaw. The right side of her face was bruised like a boxer's and
she had a swollen lump the size of half an orange on her pubic bone. She tried
to cross her wrists on the wall and lean her head against them but she couldn't
raise her arm up. All she could do was stand upright under the jet, leaning
slightly to make the water change its course.

    In a
strange way she felt grateful for the physical pain, it seemed to bring her mental
turmoil to the surface, like a boil rising to a head. Whatever chemicals her
body churned out to create sensations of panic seemed to be fully occupied
combating her more immediate trauma. She was in physical agony, but her mind
felt almost peaceful, happy at the uncomplicated simplicity of her current
struggle.

    Steve
was waiting at her bedside when she limped slowly back into the ward. He looked
at her as if she was a terminal case. 'How are you?'

    'Alive.'

    'I
spoke to Williams. He's going to come in shortly.'

    'Thanks.
I might have to go and see him first.' She eased into a sitting position on the
bed. 'They don't waste any sympathy here, said I can go.'

    'That's
crazy.'

    'Hang
around too long in these places you catch something. Believe me, hospitals are
fatal.' She tried to reach for her clothes, folded in the nightstand. 'I might
need a hand.'

    He
glanced up and down the ward for a nurse. 'I'll go and find someone.'

    'Just
pull the curtain. It's nothing you haven't seen before.'

    He
tried not to look as he helped her into clean knickers and jeans and clipped up
her bra. She felt his anxiety and guilt but was happy to let him stew in it for
a while. He didn't ask any questions and nor did she, not till she was dressed
and brushing her hair with her good arm.

    'Does
Annie know you're here?'

    'What
happened yesterday was a mistake. There was a problem with her car. I didn't
even know she was coming over.'

    'It's
your life, Steve, you can do what you like. Just don't expect me to stand in
line.'

    'If
it makes any difference, I didn't even—'

    She
cut him off with a look.

    He
said, 'I'm going to sort it with her, tell her it's all over. For good, Jenny.'

    'I
was going to ask you to come back to my place last night.' Jesus. She couldn't
believe she could be so manipulative. What was she
doing?

    She
was looking for a reaction, that's what. She watched him agonize, regret and
shame on his face.

    'I'm
sorry.' He touched her hand. 'I mean it.'

    She
pulled away. 'I need to get to a phone. I want to call that detective.'

    They
rode back to her house in a taxi in uneasy silence, neither of them knowing how
to take the next step, no sexual charge to break the ice. When they arrived she
expected him to make his excuses and go, but he surprised her. He helped her
from the cab into the house, made her comfortable on the sofa and fetched her
breakfast while she waited for Williams to arrive. She had to admit he knew how
to behave when he had to. There was hope.

    The
intruders had taken her computer and several boxes of papers, none of which had
anything to do with Danny's or Katy's case, but they hadn't found the flash
drive, which Steve fetched from its hiding place in the door frame, nor had
they picked up the photographs of Marshall that still lay on the passenger seat
of her Golf, which was parked at the side of the house. When Williams arrived
with a young male detective in tow, he was able to fetch his police-issue
paving slab of a laptop from his car and look at Peterson's files. With Steve
hovering at the kitchen door, she talked through the events of the previous
fortnight, telling them her theory that once Harry Marshall had Peterson's second
report, UKAM had gone for him, and possibly Peterson, too. The fact that
Peterson hadn't even produced a written report on Katy's post-mortem until
weeks later suggested he'd found himself in a quandary: he hadn't wanted to
commit a misleading report to paper. If further proof were needed, the two
people who had come anywhere close to the truth, her and Tara Collins, had both
found themselves facing criminal charges. All right, Steve was smoking dope,
but a man meeting the description of one of her attackers had been at the local
pub gathering information in the days beforehand. She'd lay money on him being
Williams's informer.

    The
Welsh detective listened impassively, taking careful notes and asking few
questions. When he looked at the photographs of Harry and the boy, he lowered
his eyes and shook his head, genuinely appalled.

    'I
take it Mr Marshall's wife doesn't know about these?'

    'No.'

    'We'll
do our best to keep it that way, shall we?'

    Jenny
found herself nodding, infected by his moral certainty.

    He
read back through his notes, getting the sequence cemented in his mind. He
turned and spoke to his young colleague in whispered Welsh, conferring with him
for some time before turning back to her.

    'Obviously
what you've told us, Mrs Cooper, could mean a very serious and involved
criminal investigation. You're alleging a far-reaching conspiracy - a
many-headed hydra, you could say.'

    'It
all goes back to the same source.'

    He
nodded, rubbing a finger along his carefully trimmed moustache. 'You see, what
concerns me is the jurisdictional issue. Obviously, for some reason best known
to themselves, our colleagues in England haven't chosen to investigate the
death of Miss Taylor with what you might call appropriate rigour—'

    'I'd
guess that was a political rather than a police issue. We're talking millions
of pounds' worth of prison-building contracts.'

    'Very
few of them in Wales, I'm sure.' He smiled, inviting her trust. 'What I'm thinking
is that if for the time being you were to make a statement relating purely to
the assault and break-in you suffered last night, we can start our wider
inquiry under the radar, if you like.'

    'I'm
not sure I follow.'

    Williams
tilted his head, patient. 'Which police force investigates what crime can be a
thorny issue. If what you're telling me is true, I'm sure both of us would like
to avoid the situation where the Bristol police are charged with investigating
all these matters. Not that I'm in any way a racist, you understand, but I
wouldn't trust those English bastards further than I could pee.'

    'You
want to go after UKAM alone?'

    He
smiled with his eyes. 'It's been a slow couple of years to tell you the truth,
Mrs Cooper. I could do with the excitement.'

    'Mr
Williams, I could do with having my job back.'

    The
detective nodded, as if he'd already given this some thought. 'My colleagues in
the CPS might be persuaded.' Then, turning to Steve, his face reddening, 'But
I'll tell you this, Mr Painter - another whiff of that filth on my patch and
I'll have your bloody head.'

    Steve,
catching Jenny's eye, said, 'Point taken.'

    After
the detectives had gone, Steve came and sat on the arm of the chair opposite,
his movements edgy, as if he wasn't sure that he was still welcome. Jenny,
focused on a sharp new pain that was piercing her shoulder, ignored him while
she clumsily popped another dose of painkillers out of the foil strip the
hospital had given her.

    Trying
to make conversation, he said, 'Did you see how angry he got there, in like
half a second? I've only seen the Welsh do that. . . and maybe Italians.'

    Jenny
said, 'That's probably where it comes from. There's lots of Italians in Wales.
They came in the nineteenth century, when the place was booming.'

    'Yeah?
I didn't know that.'

    He
watched her swallow her pills with the cold dregs of her tea.

    She
coughed and, between swearing at the pain it caused her, said, 'Don't feel you
have to hang around. I can move enough to take care of my bodily functions.'

    'I
don't think you should be alone.'

    'You
want to sit here all day?'

    'Look,
I meant what I said about what happened yesterday . . .'

    'Why
not admit that when she came looking you couldn't say no?'

    'I'm
going to. From now on. That's what I want you to know.'

    'Good
for you.' She lifted her legs up on to the cushions, trying to get comfortable.

    'Won't
you give me a chance?'

    She
glanced over him, unimpressed. 'At what?'

    'Whatever
you want. . .'

    She
shrugged. 'I don't want anything.' Whether she meant it or not, it felt like
the right thing to say. 'I'll be honest with you, I'm not interested in love,
commitment or talking about the future. It's all bullshit.'

    'You
turned my kitchen over because I was upstairs with another woman.'

    'I'm
neurotic. I've been seeing a psychiatrist for two years.'

    'You're
really doing a good sell.'

    'What
I'm saying, Steve, is I'm not interested in your self- control problems or any
other kind, I've got enough of my own.'

    He
nodded, hurt. 'So what's the deal, are we still sleeping with each other?'

    'Have
you seen where I got kicked?'

    He
got up from the chair and reached down for her dirty teacup. 'Why don't you try
to get some rest?'

    He
woke her from a restless doze and offered her the phone - Williams was asking
to speak to her. She groaned, as every joint and muscle had stiffened during
her fitful sleep. Steve told her not to move and held the phone to her ear.

    Williams
said, 'I've had a word with the local CPS and they've reviewed the situation.'

    'What
does that mean?'

    'They've
decided not to proceed against you as the case isn't the strongest, but they're
rather expecting a guilty plea from Mr Painter for possession.'

    She
glanced at Steve. 'I'm sure that'll be fine.'

    'Excellent.
I'll pass it on.'

    'Could
you ask them to put it in writing? I need to get a copy to the Ministry of
Justice. I've got an inquest due to restart Monday morning.'

    'Certainly.
And if there's anything I can do to assist. . .?'