The Redeemed

CHAPTER 5




Jenny carried her coffee out to the table on the lawn to catch the first rays of sun. The house martins were already darting out from their nests under the eaves and swooping for the insects rising up from the unkempt meadow on the far side of the garden wall. The air was filled with the hum of bees and the raucous chorus of songbirds: she envied the creatures their simple, unquestioning sense of purpose. She was loath to admit it, but her visit to the Mission Church of God had left her shaken. It wasn't the frenzy of the crowd or the sight of otherwise sane and ordinary people reduced to convulsions which had played over and over in her listless dreams, but Lennox Strong's testimony. It was only a modern retelling of the hellfire sermons of the past, she told herself, a cynical manipulation of all those members of the congregation with uneasy consciences, but it had touched her nonetheless. As Lennox described his descent into darkness she had heard her father's voice, 'You remember, Smiler. You killed her.'

It was ridiculous. Her father was senile and Lennox Strong's story, even if it were true, was merely the waking nightmare of a young man terrified of death. She had no reason to be frightened; she had progressed beyond irrational emotions. Her divorce was fading into history and she had the attention of a handsome, thoughtful man whenever she desired it. By all objective measures life was good; her only challenge was to start believing it. Once she had achieved that simple step, everything else would follow. She would be well again and her son could learn to trust her.

But simply forcing herself to look on the bright side failed to lift her mood. A persistent knot of troubling and unwanted thoughts lodged stubbornly while she washed the breakfast dishes and ran through her tasks for the day. When the phone rang it was a welcome distraction. She hurried to answer it, hoping to hear Steve.

'I haven't woken you, have I, Mrs Cooper?' It was Alison.

'I was just leaving.'

Her officer continued in a put-upon tone: 'Only I've had Mrs Jacobs calling trying to get hold of you. Apparently the police say they're not treating her husband's death as suspicious.'

'That was quick. I suppose she wants to know if we can move as swiftly.'

'Not quite.' 'Oh?'

'CID returned his computer wiped blank. They claim it's a mistake; she thinks they're hiding something from her. I tried suggesting that, if they were, it might be for the best, but she's got it into her head there was something going on at the Conway Unit they're hushing up.'

'I presume they told her about the swabs?'

'She doesn't believe it. She insists she'd have known.'

Jenny saw a long day stretching ahead. 'All right. I'll stop by and talk to her on my way in.'

'Eva Donaldson's father has been melting the answer- phone. He's furious about the post-mortem and is demanding to bury his daughter.'

'Tell him to come to the office. I'll try to explain.'

'Good luck.'

Alison rang off.

Replacing the receiver, Jenny felt a cold and unexpected draught on the back of her neck coupled with the sensation of being watched. She turned slightly and from the corner of her eye saw a flicker of movement beyond the window: the outline of an adult, a man. She spun round. There was no one there. She told herself it had been a trick of the light, but as she took a step she felt her legs shaking. Heart thumping, she forced herself forwards to the window and looked left and right, half-expecting to see the postman or the old man from the village who, when the spirit moved him, cut the grass. The garden was empty.

She took a breath and closed her eyes. 'Calm down, Jenny. Calm down.'

She turned the radio on as loud as it would go as she ran around the house getting ready to leave, but the spectre refused to leave her. She saw him in every corner and shadow; he lurked on the other side of each door. Hurrying to her car, she caught a musty trace of tobacco smoke and sawdust mingled with the jasmine and rosemary. It propelled her back through decades to a garden with a swing. Sitting apart from the family circle in the long grass at the far end, Jenny watched the man pushing it. He wore braces, his shirt clinging with perspiration to his muscular back. He was her father's brother, Jim.





Her reckless days were behind her. Jenny had checked whether it was safe to increase her dosage at times of stress and had satisfied herself it was. She pulled over into a layby to swallow the extra Xanax tablet to allow time for it to get to work before she arrived at the Jacobs' house. It was a blip. She'd had jumpy periods before and they had passed.

The key to not letting it take hold was not to panic, to remind her subconscious mind who was in control.

The double dose did the trick. She arrived on Ceri Jacobs's doorstep feeling a little woozy but not so much that it showed. Ceri came to the door dressed in black trousers and top, a small silver cross around her neck. She ushered Jenny into the house filled with flowers.

'It took people a day or two to know how to react,' Ceri said. 'They wonder if sending flowers is the right thing to do.'

Jenny gave her the kindly but neutral smile she had cultivated during her many months of visiting the bereaved. They sat at the dining table in the kitchen area, Jenny declining the offer of a drink for fear that her hand might tremble. Ceri sat upright, composed and dignified, the bewilderment of sudden grief replaced with an air of quiet determination to soldier on.

'How's your daughter?' Jenny asked.

'I took her back to nursery this morning. There's no point disrupting her routine.'

'No,' Jenny said. Small talk eluding her, she fetched a notebook from her briefcase. 'My officer said the police have called off their investigation.'

'So they tell me. I don't appear to have any say in the matter.'

'It's a question of resources. If everything points to someone having taken their own life they tend to hand over to the coroner fairly swiftly.'

'Do they usually wipe people's computers when they examine them?' Ceri nodded to a laptop sitting on the kitchen counter.

'I understand you were told it was an accident?'

'A technician accidentally formatted the hard drive, they said. Apparently they take the drive out and put it in another machine.'

'I'm not familiar with the technicalities, but I can make enquiries.'

Ceri shook her head. 'I don't know why I'm surprised. Why would I expect the police to be honest?'

'What were you expecting them to find?' Jenny said.

Ceri glanced down at her hands, making a conscious effort to keep her emotion at bay. 'Not even his good friends really knew Alan, not like I did. He was a big, good-natured man, just the sort you'd want looking after you - we've got a drawer full of letters upstairs from ex-patients. But what you saw on the outside wasn't the whole story.' She paused and collected herself. 'He was sensitive. He cared deeply about the kids in the unit, but he didn't always agree with the methods used to treat them.'

'In what way?'

'The constant drugs for one thing. The fact they'd be so short-staffed they'd have to knock the difficult ones out just so they could cope. Sometimes he'd come home in tears, saying that instead of helping them get better he was turning them into zombies.'

'How does this connect with what you think may have been on his computer?' Jenny asked.

'I know he used it for work. And sometimes he'd look things up, try to work out if a patient was being given the right treatment. Like last month . . . there was a girl diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, but Alan thought it was a reaction to her anti-psychotics. The doctor wouldn't listen—' Ceri paused, in two minds whether to continue.

'I'd like to hear,' Jenny said.

'Al took it upon himself to change this girl's pills. She was getting better, she really was. Dr Pearce found out and changed the prescription back again. He was threatening to have Alan suspended, but the girl hanged herself in the night.' Struggling with the painful memory, Ceri said, 'He was involved with each one of them, he couldn't help it.'

'You think that incident might have something to do with his death?'

Ceri's eyes clouded as she relived the memory. 'All I know is that he went through three very black days when he thought his career might be in danger. I'd never seen him like that.'

'Did you tell any of this to the police?'

Ceri nodded. 'They said they'd spoken to his superior and she insisted there had been no complaints lodged against him.'

'Is it possible something else was happening which might have led to a complaint?' Jenny asked. 'Another case perhaps?'

'I've no idea. But why this business with his computer? It's more likely he'd found out about other mistakes. He was the kind of man who had to tell the truth. It just wasn't in him to lie or cover anything up.'

'So your theory is that he had uncovered some incident or malpractice . . . then what, exactly?'

Ceri shook her head, the possibilities in her mind too dreadful to articulate.

Jenny gently changed tack to a line of questioning she felt was probably more relevant to the manner of Alan Jacobs's end. 'Would you say that your husband was a secretive man?'

'No. Not at all. We told each other everything.'

'When did he tell you about the girl and her misdiagnosis, for example?'

'He couldn't tell me about it at the time,' Ceri said defensively. 'It was difficult enough ethically without asking me to compromise my morality too.'

'In what sense?'

'You could say he was acting unprofessionally. He knows I would never have approved of him being dishonest.'

'So he was giving her one type of medication but entering another into her records.'

'Yes.'

'When did he tell you?'

'It all came out after she died. There was an inquest. No action was taken against him.'

Jenny made a note, putting off asking her next question. The silence crackled. They both knew what was coming.

Jenny approached the subject obliquely. 'I've seen enough suicides now to be able to tell you that even husbands and wives sometimes have no clue as to the depth of their partner's depression, or what's caused it.'

She waited, hoping the widow would search her memory and start to put together telltale pieces.

Ceri's expression hardened. 'I know what you're trying to say, Mrs Cooper. You think Alan was gay, and probably involved in some sordid scandal with a patient.'

'We certainly have to deal with the forensic evidence.' Jenny braced herself. 'Your husband did have sex with a man in the hours before his death, Mrs Jacobs.'

'I don't believe it.'

'It may be difficult, but there is no other rational explanation.'

'He could have been murdered,' Ceri said coldly. 'Drugged and molested. It's happened to others. There were marks on his arms, the police showed me the report. He must have been attacked.'

'Those lesions weren't very deep. They weren't necessarily caused in a struggle.'

'If he was drugged he would hardly have been able to put up a fight. The knife they found next to him wasn't even one of ours.'

'I'm not sure that's proof of very much.'

Ceri's conviction wouldn't be shaken. 'Alan went to church every week to learn about the Catholic faith. He wanted us to be able to share that part of our lives. We were happily married, Mrs Cooper.'

'I can see that,' Jenny said, deciding there was nothing to be gained from pursuing the subject. 'Just one more thing while I remember. Did he have any connection with the church where he was found?'

'We've never even been there. Our church is St Xavier's, in town.'

Jenny wrote the name down. She'd instruct Alison to talk to the priest.

'I refuse to believe he killed himself, Mrs Cooper. He loved his family too much. We were everything to him.'

Jenny gave an understanding smile. The ones left behind always said that.





Kenneth Donaldson had been waiting in reception for over an hour and was in no mood to be fobbed off. Somewhere in Eva's file Jenny had seen him named as her only family. His occupation was listed as company director, and he gave every impression of being a man used to getting his own way and at a time of his choosing. He brushed Alison's attempted introduction aside and collared Jenny the moment she walked through the door of the reception area.

'Kenneth Donaldson, Eva's father. Would you please explain why you haven't released my daughter's body? It's bad enough that you made us wait until the killer pleaded guilty.'

'Pleased to meet you, Mr Donaldson. Would you like to come this way?'

'I'd like an answer. Now, preferably.'

'That's what I'm offering you.' Jenny stepped past him and into her office.

Donaldson sighed sharply and followed.

'Please, take a seat,' Jenny said.

'Now listen,' Donaldson said, refusing the offer, 'I've already taken the advice of several very senior lawyers, who assure me that this is completely irregular.'

'It's unusual, certainly,' Jenny said calmly, 'but from what I've seen so far I'm not satisfied the police have investigated the circumstances of your daughter's death to an extent that I consider satisfactory.'

'The man confessed. What the hell are you expecting to find?'

'Please, do sit down.'

'Do you have any idea what it's like waiting nearly two months to bury your child?'

'No. I'm sorry.'

'Well try, Mrs Cooper. You might begin to understand why if you don't release her immediately I'll be lodging a formal complaint.'

Jenny managed to remain impassive in the face of his anger. 'I'm requesting one further post-mortem examination - it could happen as early as this afternoon. If nothing significant arises I will release your daughter's body at once.'

'The cause of death was established beyond all doubt. There was no dispute about it whatsoever.'

'From a forensic perspective all we know for certain is that she was killed by a single stab wound. I'd like to know a little more - whether there is any trace of third-party DNA, whether there are physical signs of a struggle, whether there is any possibility that the wound was self-inflicted.'

'That's absurd. Her killer is behind bars. I'm told that it's virtually unheard of for a coroner to continue fishing for evidence at this stage.'

'With respect, Mr Donaldson, many coroners do as little as they can get away with. I prefer to cover every possibility.'

'No matter how futile or traumatic to the family?'

'Wouldn't you like to think no stone had been left unturned?'

Donaldson placed his fingers to his temples, a look of pain contorting his face. He sank into the chair, fury giving way to exasperation.

'I went through all this with the police. Of course you'd think there are potentially thousands of men who might have preyed on her, but there was simply no evidence for it. Since she'd become synonymous with the Decency campaign all that sort of unwanted attention had petered out.'

'But before that she was harassed?'

'I couldn't say how bad it was. Eva didn't communicate very much once she'd embarked on her . . .' He faltered. 'Since she left home. The detectives just assumed that would be the case.'

'Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?'

He shook his head.

'Do you have any idea what Eva was planning to do with her life after the Decency campaign? Did she have any long- term plans?'

He thought for a moment. 'I really couldn't say. I assume she may have harboured a maternal instinct somewhere.'

'Do you have any insight into her mental state in the months before she died? I know she had money problems—'

'I'm afraid we didn't often talk.' He glanced away guiltily. 'She lost her mother when she was fourteen. I'm afraid I never succeeded in filling the gap my late wife left.'

'That must have been a source of sadness to you.'

His expression turned to one of mistrust. 'If you're angling for some profound psychological insight, I'm afraid I can't give you one. She had a perfectly happy childhood. She went to excellent schools and even seemed to weather her mother's death far better than I could have hoped for, but the moment she went to college she became completely wild. What more can I say?'

Quietly, Jenny said, 'I think you know what I'm asking.'

'She didn't kill herself, Mrs Cooper,' Donaldson said sharply. 'God knows, nothing would have surprised me, but if she had the knife would have still been at the scene.'

'There are other scenarios. Craven could have entered the house and found her already dead.'

Donaldson's gaze travelled around her untidy office as he seemed to be weighing her motives. 'I don't suppose a woman in your position has many opportunities to step into the limelight. I presume it's a case of grabbing it when you can.'

'Believe me, Mr Donaldson, this isn't for my benefit.'

He fixed Jenny with a look that was more knowing than accusing. 'I'm afraid I don't believe you. You could make a formal finding of unlawful killing today. But you won't because you want a piece of the action. She's too hot a property for you simply to let her go. And you know what that makes you? No better than those parasites who made their filthy fortunes from her. Why can't you let her rest in peace, for God's sake? Leave her with some tiny shred of dignity intact.'

Jenny wavered. For a brief moment she believed he was right.

'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll ask the pathologist to complete his examination today. That way you can have Eva's body tomorrow, and I give you my word I'll deal with this matter as swiftly and discreetly as I can.'

'Before the Decency Bill has its first reading?'

'If at all possible.'

She guessed he had been speaking to Turnbull; they were men who would understand each other.

Donaldson held her in a steady, evaluating gaze. 'You understand my cynicism, Mrs Cooper. This industry my daughter was working to shut down isn't a sideshow, it's a powerful force. Its interests are secretively owned by many hugely successful legitimate businesses. These are people who would stop at nothing, baulk at corrupting no one, to protect their revenue.'

'If anyone offers me a brown envelope you'll be the first to know. Meanwhile, can I assume you'll allow me a day before making a complaint?'

'No. You're a bloody fool and deserve whatever's coming to you.' Donaldson rose from his chair. 'If I were you, Mrs Cooper, I'd be wary of far more than brown envelopes.'

'I don't know why you're bothering,' Alison said after Donaldson had stormed out. 'Haven't we got enough to deal with?'

Jenny looked at her accumulating mountain of files. Heaped up on the floor was a newly delivered stack of document boxes marked R v. Paul Craven. They contained all the papers from Craven's trial and would take at least a day to digest. She was tempted to give Donaldson what he wanted: quick and easy closure and a smooth path for Turnbull to deliver Eva's legacy. A few strokes of the pen and the case would be disposed of. What was stopping her? Images of Father Starr and Paul Craven jostled with a picture, now scored on her memory, of Lennox Strong's haunted expression as he described his brush with death; and behind them all the smiling face of Alec McAvoy as he turned to her with a wise, mischievous smile on the day they first met: 'I could kneel all night in prayer, to heal your many ills, My Dark Rosaleen.'

Jenny said, 'Call Dr Kerr and tell him I want her body autopsied this afternoon.'

Alison protested, 'But Mrs Cooper—'

'Then start making arrangements for the Jacobs inquest. I want it out of the way by the end of the week.'





It took another pill to propel Jenny through the door of the mortuary. The evening was hot and the Vale's creaking air- conditioning battled to keep the temperature to anything less than mildly suffocating. The still air was heavy with the smell of disinfectant and human decay. An outbreak of summer flu had claimed the lives of tens of elderly patients in the space of two days, overwhelming the refrigerators. Gurneys loaded with bodies awaiting collection by overstretched undertakers were parked two abreast in the corridor. Sidestepping around them, Jenny wondered why she found the sight of twenty corpses less alarming than being intimately confronted with one. Perhaps being in the presence of so many bodies at once could make one feel a grim sense of biological triumph at having so far escaped the winnowing.

She grabbed a mask, gloves and surgical gown from the station outside the slap doors to the autopsy room, braced herself, then stepped inside to find Andy Kerr stooped over an array of internal organs at the steel counter to the side of the table. She barely recognized the body as the one she had seen in the photographs. The flesh was a waxy yellow and seemed to have dehydrated and shrunk. The cheek and jaw bones jutted through tightly drawn skin, the hands were clawed and shrivelled. Avoiding looking directly at the face, Jenny came alongside Andy as he peered at a section of tissue through a magnifying glass.

'Do I get a gold star?' he asked. 'I had my first date in weeks lined up for tonight.'

'I'm sorry. I had to promise her father I'd release the body tomorrow.'

'Life as a porn star doesn't do much for young arteries, that's for sure. I've seen sixty-year-olds in better nick.'

'Alcohol?'

'And cigarettes. She may have found God but he didn't curb her bad habits. I'd say she got through forty a day. There was even a small clot forming on the left lung - could have caused her a lot of problems.'

'I didn't see that in the first p-m report.'

'The Home Office pathologist was looking for the immediate cause of death, that's what he found.' Andy put down the section of what Jenny recognized as heart muscle. 'Having said that, there's one thing about the stab wound I've noticed that he didn't comment on - it comes in almost horizontally.'

'Meaning what?'

He picked up a scalpel to demonstrate. 'If you're going to stab someone, the most natural way is either to come downwards with the blade coming out of the bottom of your fist, or upwards. To get it in horizontally requires a less natural motion.' He tried several variations, each requiring the wrist to be awkwardly bent.

Unconvinced, Jenny said, 'I can imagine holding it that way.'

'My tutor at King's wrote the textbook on stab wounds - it's not the norm, believe me.'

Jenny glanced back at the body. 'Are there any marks, signs of a struggle?'

'Nothing obvious. There may have been some minor contusions I might not be able to pick up this long after.'

'Any chance the first p-m might have missed any third- party DNA?'

Andy shook his head. 'All the nails were scraped; the lab tests came back negative. I don't think there was a struggle. She didn't even have any blood on her hands.'

Jenny tried to picture Craven arriving at Eva's front door. From what she'd read about the layout of the house it was more than twenty-five feet from the doorstep to where Eva's body was found.

'Could she have walked backwards into the kitchen after she'd been stabbed?'

Andy picked up another section of heart. 'Look.' He pointed a gloved finger. 'There's an inch-and-a-half gash in the aorta. Blood would have been shooting out of there at full pressure the moment the knife was pulled out.'

'So if she was stabbed by the front door, you'd expect to see blood there, right?'

'Almost definitely.'

Perhaps if Craven hadn't produced the knife immediately, Eva might have backed away from the door and into the kitchen, tried to talk to him, calm him down. But surely there would have been more signs of struggle? She recalled the police photographs: a heavy glass measuring jug on the counter right next to Eva's body. Why didn't she pick it up and smash it in his face?

'We're sure there was no sexual assault?'

'I'm guided by the findings of the original examination. She was menstruating. Tampon and ST were still in place.'

So what? Jenny thought. If a man was sufficiently psychotic to seek out a porn star and execute her, surely he wasn't going to leave without an attempt to get what he came for. Craven's first murder had been a frenzied attack; Eva's killer struck once and ran.

Jenny said, 'Can you think of any reason I shouldn't release the body? I don't want to be told in a week's time there are other tests we should have run.'

'I've got all the tissues samples I need. Do you want any more photographs?'

'If you like. I don't suppose they'll add much.'

'There is one thing that didn't show up on the ones that were taken the first time.' He turned to the autopsy table. 'What do you make of this?' He pointed to a small tattoo on the left-hand side of her bikini-waxed crotch, just below where her pubic hairline would have been. Written in copperplate script, Jenny couldn't make it out without looking closer than she wanted to.

'What does it say?'

Andy smiled at her over his mask. 'Uh, uh. This is one you've got to see for yourself.'

Jenny steeled herself and leaned in for a closer look. The tattoo said: Daddy's girl.

'That's something for the old man to be proud of,' Andy said. 'Maybe the decent thing would be to let it go un- mentioned.'

Jenny looked at it again.

'It's real,' Andy said. 'I checked. She's got another one at the base of her spine, a little butterfly.'

The two words were small enough for you to miss them at a fleeting glance, but once you'd noticed they were all you could see. The pictures Jenny had seen of Eva on the internet flashed before her eyes, most of them featuring her in close-up gynaecological detail. Surely she would have noticed the tattoo?

Jenny said, 'How recent would you say it was?'

'Hmm. I don't know if there's any way of telling. It takes a number of years for the ink to start spreading.' He reached for a magnifying glass and studied it for a long moment. 'Actually, you know what, there's been some recent scabbing, I can see where the skin's been abraded. I think there's a chance she had it done not long before she died.'

'Months, weeks?'

'If that was scabbing from the tattoo, I'd say within her last month. Interesting choice for a devout Christian, don't you think?'

Jenny looked away, feeling suddenly queasy. 'Do me a favour - don't mention this in your report. Some things are better left for court.'