There was mail to sort, food to cook, messages on the machine including a plaintive request from Steve for her to call, saying there was something he needed to say, but she could think of nothing except McAvoy. He'd gone with a promise to return, but left a deep sense of incompleteness behind him. It was as if he'd come to make a confession and stalled. The atmosphere in the cottage hung heavy with it: there was something Alec McAvoy had yet to tell her, and it was weighing on his conscience. She could tell.
Jenny woke, palpitating, as abruptly as if she'd been kicked in the ribs. There was no dream lingering, just a sense of having been disturbed by a threatening sound. She imagined footsteps on the flags outside, a man's breath. She lay still and alert for more than twenty minutes, flinching at every faint creak and groan of the old house. But whatever phantom it was that had disturbed her had retreated to its hiding place. Nothing stirred except the breeze. As her eyelids grew heavy she thought of Ross, and of David sleeping soundly next to his happy, pregnant girlfriend, and wondered what she had done to be driven out onto such a lonely limb. 'I think you'd do almost anything to avoid causing pain,' Dr Allen had said to her, and on the same day that she'd picked up a pen - the irony - and thrust it into McAvoy's shoulder . . . McAvoy. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror and seeing her dark shadow looking back. That was it, that was the thrilclass="underline" the sense that in knowing him she might truly know herself.
Chapter 21
Jenny climbed out of bed before six with a pressing sense of urgency. The inquest was due to resume in twenty- four hours and there were vital decisions to be made. Hurrying a shower, she felt a pang of guilt at the almost intimate moment she'd shared with McAvoy and the fact that thinking about him was crowding out thoughts of her son. What kind of mother was she? Recognizing the signs of rising anxiety - tingling fingertips and a pounding heart - she rushed down to the freezing kitchen wrapped in a towel and swallowed her two jelly beans with the dregs of a week-old carton of orange juice. She felt like an addict forcing down the vinegary liquid. The new pills were like magic: by the time she had dried and dressed she was at the helm. Mrs Jenny Cooper, coroner, with important business to attend to.
She ate a breakfast of stale cereal at her desk in the study while she searched for Maitland's website. She found it in the online Yellow Pages and clicked through to a largely anonymous yet somehow exclusive-feeling site which presented the minimum of information. The registered office was a Hereford address, which accorded with what McAvoy had told her. The MD was listed as Colonel Marcus Maitland. The company's chief areas of expertise were listed as 'foreign and domestic close protection, operational assessments and security planning, and strategic security services'.
The explanation was limited and the jargon dense and oblique: it could have been describing an investment consultancy. There was no mention of former special servicemen or mercenaries.
Only McAvoy's word connected the company to Tathum, but even if the link were fictitious, even if Madog's story about the black Toyota was a fantasy or a red herring, she felt obliged to call Colonel Maitland as a witness, if only to disprove the allegations once and for all.
Jenny printed off a pro-forma witness summons and completed it by hand, requesting Maitland to attend her inquest on Wednesday, 10 February. It was unreasonably short notice, but it would flush him out and make him pay attention if nothing else. Rather than trust a courier to collect a signature on delivery she decided it was safer to take it herself. Reluctant witnesses were apt to claim the summons had never arrived. She wanted no arguments: if Maitland or Tathum refused to comply she would have them committed to prison for contempt. There weren't many perks to being a coroner, but the power to bring to heel those who normally thought themselves above the law was one of them.
It was shortly after eight and barely light when she drove into Hereford and parked in a quiet street a short distance from Maitland's office in the city centre. There was no reply when she rang the buzzer to the first-floor suite and no sign of lights in the window. Faced with a choice between killing time in the coffee shop four doors along or the cathedral opposite, Jenny turned up her coat collar and crossed the road.
The choir was rehearsing in the vast, resonant interior. It smelt of incense, cold stone and polished oak. Great iron coke stoves gave out an inadequate but welcome heat. She drifted along the nave, past the transepts and into the Lady Chapel and sat, for no conscious reason, in one of the rows of chairs facing the altar, at the side of which, guarding the sacrament, an eternal flame flickered.
In the stillness, an image of Mrs Jamal returned to her; the pain in her face as she talked of her missing son. Jenny imagined her final thoughts being of reuniting with him, of seeing him again wherever souls go. It was a comforting notion, but not one she could sustain. The building in which she sat was built as much through fear of hell and damnation as it was out of the love of God. She seldom prayed except in desperation or self-pity, but something moved her. Words sprang from nowhere.
She pleaded for the souls of Amira and Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan. 'Please God, don't let them be lost.'
The reception area was sleek and expensively furnished with tasteful original art and cream leather sofas. It belonged in central London, not a rural backwater. The receptionist was no more than twenty-five, pretty, and spoke with a crisp, educated voice without a trace of local accent.
'How can I help you?' she asked.
Despite being dressed in her best suit and coat Jenny felt clumsy and inelegant next to the girl. She handed over one of her business cards. 'Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. Is Colonel Maitland in? I'd like to speak to him.'
'No,' the girl said, sensing danger. 'He's out of the office today, I'm afraid.'
'Tomorrow?'
'I think he may be back.' The second lie was less assured than the first.
Jenny reached into her coat pocket and brought out the envelope containing the summons and a form of receipt.
'This is what's called "personal service". This is a witness summons for him to attend my inquest tomorrow. I've even included the taxi fare - it's a legal requirement. If he really can't attend he can contact my office today to make further arrangements. If I could just ask you to sign the receipt?'
'Well, I—'
Jenny pre-empted her evasion. 'If you don't, you'll become a witness to the fact that I've served the document -' Jenny checked her watch - 'at eight forty-two a.m. on Tuesday, 9 February, and you'll be coming to court with or without him.'
She passed the girl a pen. She looked at it for a moment, then took it and hurriedly scribbled her signature on the receipt. It was illegible.
'If you could print it as well.'
She did as she was told, reddening with either anger or embarrassment, Jenny couldn't tell. As she completed the task, Jenny said, 'One last thing, I just need to confirm the up-to-date address for your employee, Mr Christopher Tathum.'
The girl's eyes flicked uncertainly to her computer.
'You're going to tell me you can't give out private addresses, right?'
'Yes,' the girl stammered.
'Technically I could force you, but let's do it this way - I'll tell you what it is, you tell me if I'm wrong.'
Jenny repeated Tathum's address. The girl hesitated for a moment, then tapped on her keyboard. Sideways on, Jenny saw a list of addresses scroll up.
'Anything to say?' Jenny said.
She shook her head.
'Good. You'll make sure Colonel Maitland gets his letter this morning, won't you?'