‘Jones,’ I said. ‘Henry Jones.’
‘Any ID? Driving licence or a utility bill? Something with your address?’
‘Not on me,’ I said, patting my pockets.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, smiling. ‘No one will ever know.’
He typed Henry Jones into a computer without question.
‘Address?’
‘It’s 262 West Street, Coventry, CV1 7QT.’
He typed that in too without checking, which was just as well because I’d also made it up. I had no idea if there even was a West Street in Coventry and that wouldn’t have been the postcode even if there were. It seemed easier than telling him that I was William Gordon-Russell, notorious accused husband of the woman recently murdered down the road in Hanwell village.
‘How much data do you want?’ the young man asked.
‘How much do I need?’
‘Depends what you intend doing. Downloading films and videos takes the most. That and streaming live TV, or internet gaming.’
I shook my head. ‘Just enough for my emails and some Google searches.’
‘Five gigs should be plenty for that,’ he said. ‘You can always top up if you need more.’
He showed me how to add email accounts and I paid for the phone with cash, to avoid giving him a bank card with a different name on it than Henry Jones.
Hence I became, once again, a fully fledged member of the human race.
I walked on to the station but I didn’t catch a train to London.
Instead, I took one to Oxford, and, contrary to Douglas’s advice, I went to the opening of Amelia’s inquest.
16
My presence in the Coroner’s Court caused quite a flurry of excitement and not just among the assembled media. Not that I had intended it to, but circumstances overcame me.
The hearing was scheduled for two o’clock and I had caught the train from Banbury at just after midday, arriving into Oxford station at half past. Hence, I had been early at the court and had slipped into the public area unseen, partly by wearing my tweed cap, and with my Barbour jacket collar turned up. I chose to sit on the back row of benches.
As the time drew near, the court began to fill up; due, no doubt, to the extensive media coverage and the public’s love of anything morbid, and especially of violent death. I shuffled along the bench until I was tight against the wall in the far corner from the door, still with my cap pulled down to my eyebrows.
‘All rise,’ announced the court usher, and the coroner came in and took his place behind his bench. He sat down and we did too.
The court itself was a very fine affair, having been built in 1841 with magnificent tall arched windows and an extremely high ceiling. It had originally been the city’s Assizes and Quarter Sessions court, and later served as the Crown Court before the construction of the new Oxford Combined Court building in St Aldates in the mid-1980s. It was now part of Oxfordshire County Council offices and access was gained, rather ignominiously for such a grand setting, through the staff canteen.
The interior had changed very little since its time as a Crown Court, with extensive grey-painted wooden divisions separating the different areas. In the centre of the court, with a high solid back to prevent access for the defendant to and from the public, was the old dock with its steep flight of wooden steps leading up from the holding cells beneath, still connected in turn via a subterranean passage to the nearby Oxford Prison, itself now converted into a luxury hotel.
The dock served no purpose in the current usage, other than to block the floor of the court from my view, but it was here in July 1976 that the infamous Donald Neilson, nicknamed the Black Panther, had stood trial for the kidnap, ransom and subsequent murder of seventeen-year-old heiress Lesley Whittle.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the coroner began. ‘We are here today to open and then adjourn the inquest into the death of Amelia Jane Gordon-Russell. As I am sure you are all aware, this death is subject to police inquiries and, as such, a date for the full hearing will not be set at this time.
‘The purpose of an inquest is to establish the who, where, when and how of an individual’s demise. Who was the deceased? Where did they die? When did they die? And how did they die? It is not the purpose of a Coroner’s Court to apportion blame to any specific individual or organisation. That is the role of the criminal courts.
‘Today we will be mainly concerned with evidence of identification of the deceased, and the time and place of death, plus we will hear brief updates on the medical circumstances and the police investigation.’
He shuffled his papers.
‘Do we have the investigating officer present?’
‘Here, sir,’ came a voice from behind the old dock, out of my sight.
A man I knew well appeared in view and went to stand in the witness box to the left of the coroner as we looked. He was sworn in by the usher.
‘Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell,’ said the man. ‘Thames Valley Police, based at Banbury Police Station. I am one of the investigating officers in this case. The senior investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Priestly, sends his apologies. He is detained elsewhere.’
The coroner nodded in understanding as he wrote down the details on a pad in front of him. Clearly the presence of a DCI at an inquest opening was not expected or required.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said the coroner. ‘Can you please briefly outline the circumstances of the death?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The detective referred to his pocket notebook. ‘The police emergency line received a call at ten-seventeen last Wednesday morning informing us that a woman’s body had been found in the kitchen of a house in the village of Hanwell, near Banbury.’
‘Do we know who made the call?’ the coroner asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the DS. ‘It was made from the premises by the deceased’s brother, Mr Joseph Bradbury. It was he who had discovered the body and it was also he who provided the official identification of the remains as those of Mrs Amelia Gordon-Russell.’
The coroner looked up from his note-taking.
‘Is Mr Bradbury in court?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said another voice from out of sight behind a wooden division.
‘Good,’ said the coroner. ‘Sergeant, will you step down a moment but remain within the court as I will require you again shortly.’
DS Dowdeswell exited the witness box.
‘Mr Bradbury, if you please.’ The coroner waved a hand towards the now-empty space.
I watched with gritted teeth as Joe Bradbury made his way into the box. He was handed a Bible and he read from a card: ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
He handed the Bible and card back to the usher.
This will be interesting, I thought. I hadn’t heard him say much that had been even the slightest bit true for a very long time.
‘Please state your full name and occupation for the record.’
‘Joseph Reginald Bradbury. I work as a High Court enforcement officer.’
So far, so good. I knew that bit was true even if, as Douglas had said, it was just a fancy way of saying he was a debt collector.
‘Thank you, Mr Bradbury,’ said the coroner. ‘Can you please tell the court what happened on the morning of Wednesday last?’
‘I arrived at my sister’s house about ten o’clock. There was no answer at the front door so I walked round to the back. That was also locked so I looked through the kitchen window. My sister was lying face down on the floor. She didn’t respond to me knocking on the glass so I kicked the lock off the door and forced my way in.’