‘Dissection and removal of the larynx, with the tongue attached, showed that the hyoid bone was fractured and that there was evidence of contusion haemorrhage in both the superficial and deep musculature of the neck, all positive indications of strangulation, and something that was in keeping with the deceased having been found with a ligature still in place around the neck. In addition there were several abrasions on the neck consistent with damage due to finger and thumbnails and, from the angle of the wounds, they were most likely the nails of the victim fighting to remove the ligature. Skin found under the nails matched that of the deceased.’
The coroner paused and took a drink of water and I realised what Douglas had meant about the body being considered as an ‘it’ rather than a ‘she’. The post-mortem examination of Amelia was not something that was easy for me to think about.
‘I conclude that, subject to the results of various toxicology tests yet to be received, the deceased died from asphyxia as a consequence of being strangled by pressure to the neck. This pressure created an obstruction of the jugular veins, causing a backup of venous blood in the head that would, within a minute or two, have resulted in passive congestion within the vessels of the brain. This, in turn, would have cut off the supply of oxygen to the surrounding tissues, leading to unconsciousness, depressed respiration and, eventually, to death.’
The coroner laid the piece of paper down on his desk and looked out at the courtroom.
‘There will be an opportunity to ask questions of Dr Brewster at the full hearing, but does anyone have any comments to make at this time?’
Nobody did.
I was trying to come to terms with the knowledge that it had taken ‘a minute or two’ for Amelia to become unconscious and how she had been so desperate that she had dug her own fingernails into her neck while fighting for her life.
How awful that must have been for her.
‘At this point,’ said the coroner, ‘I will adjourn these proceedings until the full inquest, to be heard at a date after the conclusion of any criminal proceedings.’
As he spoke the last part, he looked directly at me.
‘All rise,’ shouted the usher.
17
I tried to slip away from the inquest as quietly as I’d arrived by employing the pull-my-cap-down-over-my-eyes-and-keep-walking-regardless game, but it didn’t work, and the assembled media weren’t playing by the same rules.
‘Did you kill your wife?’ shouted one particularly belligerent journalist who stepped straight into my path.
It was a stupid question. I was hardly going to say ‘yes’ even if I had.
I ignored him, remembering what Simon Bassett had said about having one’s words distorted by the press, but the man had caused me to stop and now all the others gathered around me like a cackle of hyenas at a zebra carcass.
They all shouted questions at the same time.
I didn’t answer any of them but took tight hold of my suitcase and pushed my way through the rabble, only to come face to face with Joe Bradbury, which was certainly not on my planned agenda.
‘You’re a fucking disgrace,’ he shouted at me from a distance of about twelve inches, ensuring that all the media could hear. ‘You killed my sister and I can’t believe it that you’re not locked up.’
‘You’re the one they should lock up,’ I replied rather more quietly. ‘You killed her and you know it.’
‘Look in the mirror, loser. It was you that was arrested.’
He looked around to ensure the waiting press were all listening before pressing on with his vitriol.
‘You’re a hateful, hateful man that’s like a plague in our family. You made my sister mentally ill and now you’re driving me crazy too.’
‘What nonsense,’ I said, although I was quite hoping that I was indeed driving him crazy. It was no more than he deserved after the horrendous way he had treated his sister.
‘And now you’ve totally destroyed any chance of happiness for my mother during the last few precious months of her life.’
‘What’s that about your mother?’ asked one of the journalists, his notebook at the ready.
‘My elderly mother is dying of cancer and that beastly man...’ he pointed at me, ‘... has made her life hell for years and now he’s robbed her of her daughter at the most vulnerable time of her life. Prison’s too good for him. He should be strung up. Anyone got a rope?’
I wasn’t about to wait and see if he could recruit a lynch mob. I pulled my suitcase through the throng and walked out of the building and off down New Road in the direction of the railway station. A couple of photographers chased me for a bit until they were happy they had enough snaps and then they, too, peeled away.
I was seething.
Once again I felt like it had been me on the defensive when I was the one who had done nothing wrong.
‘That bloody man,’ I said angrily out loud, and received a very strange look from someone walking the other way.
I’d calmed down a bit by the time I reached the station.
Now where to?
I still had the key to Douglas’s Chester Square house in my pocket, so I bought a ticket to London and caught the next train to Paddington.
‘You were right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have gone.’
‘So when are you going to start taking some notice of your big brother?’
I sensed that Douglas was quite cross with me.
‘Don’t you start,’ I said. ‘I have enough trouble as it is.’
‘Much of it of your own making.’
I was quite taken aback. ‘What do you mean by that?’
We were in Douglas’s kitchen watching the television evening news, which covered the gory details of the inquest opening at Oxford Coroner’s Court together with some unfortunate footage of the fracas outside afterwards. There was also an interview with Joe Bradbury, clearly conducted after I’d left the scene. Needless to say, he was not very complimentary about me, and that was putting it very mildly.
‘I just can’t understand why the police allow this wicked man to roam the streets. None of us are safe with this killer on the loose. I have been accused of being involved but that’s total nonsense. I loved my darling elder sister. I am just the unfortunate individual who found her dead after her husband had done his worst. And now I’m accused by him of lying. It’s an outrage that he’s not locked up.’
It was close to slanderous — maybe even over the line. Perhaps I should sue both him and the television company, but first I had to prove my innocence.
The TV picture dwelt on Joe’s self-righteous face for a fraction too long before returning to the studio.
‘Why on earth did you go?’ Douglas said again with irritation, now for the third time.
‘I don’t know,’ I said miserably. ‘Perhaps I thought it would somehow make me feel closer to Amelia.’
‘And did it?’
‘No. And now I have images in my head of how she died that I would rather not have.’
‘I told you so,’ Douglas said, throwing his hands up in frustration.
‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have listened. Can we now please drop the subject?’
We sat in awkward silence for a few minutes while Douglas emptied the dishwasher.
‘I could do with a G and T,’ he said. ‘Want one?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Make mine a double.’
He clinked ice into two freshly washed glasses and added generous portions of gin with a little tonic and slices of lime. He pushed one of them across the counter to me and we both drank deeply.