M.R. Hall - The Redeemed (Jenny Cooper 3)

The Redeemed

M.R. Hall

Firstpublished 2011 by Mantle

animprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

PanMacmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London Ni 9RR

Basingstokeand Oxford

Associatedcompanies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

Copyright M. R. Hall 2011

For my oldfriend, Stephen Goodfellow

For the Lordhimself will come down from heaven, with a

loud command,with the voice of the archangel and with

the trumpet callof God, and the dead in Christ will rise first.

After that, wewho are still alive and are left will be caught

up together withthem in the clouds to meet the Lord in the

air. And so wewill be with the Lord forever.

1 Thessalonians4:16-17

I long for sceneswhere man has never trod -

For scenes wherewoman never smiled or wept -

There to abidewith my Creator, God,

And sleep as Iin childhood sweetly slept,

Full of highthoughts, unborn. So let me lie -

The grass below;above, the vaulted sky .

John Clare

Written inNorthampton County Asylum

Table of Contents

Jenny wasdrinking cordial by the stream at the end of her overgrown garden, watching aschool of tiny brown trout flick this way and that, quick as lightning. It waslate June and the sweet-smelling breeze was warm against her bare legs. Beforethe telephone intruded she had managed to lose herself - how long for, shecouldn't say - hypnotized by the gently swaying ash trees and the buzz ofgrasshoppers in the nettles.

A moment of peace. Too good to last.

She walked back across the ankle-high lawn, hoping thatwhoever was disturbing her on a Sunday morning would give up and leave her toher daydreams. They didn't. She had counted eight rings by the time she steppedthrough the back door of the cottage onto the cool flags of the tiny kitchen,ten by the time she had lifted the iron latch to the living room, which smelledof old oak and soot from the inglenook. It was much colder inside than out. Theflesh on her arms tightened into goosebumps as she lifted the receiver.

'Oh, you're there, Mrs Cooper.' It was Alison, her officer,with a note of reproach in her voice.

'I was outside.'

'CID just called me. There's a body they think you might wantto see while it's still in situ. Looks like a suicide.'

She was a coroner again.

'Is there any particular reason why I should? I can't goevery time.'

'You asked them for closer cooperation: this is it.'

'I thought they might do something useful like email aphotograph.'

'It's progress, Mrs Cooper. Between you and me, I get theimpression that they're a little bit frightened of you.'

Jenny couldn't imagine frightening anyone. 'I suppose I'dbetter show willing. Where is it?'

'St Peter's Church, Frampton Cotterell.'

'I don't think I know it.'

'You'll like it. It's a lovely spot.'

The Severn Bridge was all but empty of traffic as Jennycrossed the mile-wide river into England. Beneath her the tide was chasing outto sea at a gallop, the best time to jump if you didn't want to be found: you'dbe halfway to Ireland before low water. That's how Alec McAvoy must have judgedit, over three months ago now. She thought of him each time she crossed,picturing his hair blowing over those moss-green eyes, too young for his face,as he said his final prayers.

A forensics van, a single squad car and an unmarked poolvehicle were parked in the quiet road outside the elaborate Gothic church. Askeleton Sunday crew. A handful of teenagers were loitering on the other sideof the road, a skinny blonde girl talking excitedly into her phone, thrilledwith the drama of it all. It wasn't even a policeman who had been posted at thechurchyard gate, but an overweight community support officer who made a mealof checking Jenny's credentials before letting her through as if he were doingher a big favour. She didn't react, the Xanax she had taken with her breakfastkeeping her calm.

The activity was in a far corner beyond the gravestones, anuntended triangle that had been left to grow wild. A plainclothes detectiveglanced up and saw her coming but made no effort to step forward to greet her,his focus switching immediately back to the body. He watched intently while twomen in white overalls, one with a camera, the other with a measuring tape,recorded every detail of the scene.

She made an effort to sound friendly. 'Good morning. JennyCooper. Severn Vale District Coroner.'

'Tony Wallace. DI.'

Somewhere in his late forties, slim and fit, he spoke withthe clipped abruptness of a man who still entertained ambition. He was wearingwhat might have been a hand- tailored suit, far smarter than most of thepolicemen she had met.

She followed his gaze to the body lying amongst the rye grassand buttercups. It was that of a naked, well-built man in his thirties. Hishead, which was facing towards them, was shaved to a tight crew cut to disguisehis balding temples. He was lying on his back, arms at forty-five degrees tohis torso. Carved into his chest and abdomen, stretching all the way down tohis groin, was the sign of the cross. By the outstretched fingers of his righthand Jenny caught the glint of a kitchen knife, the blade no more than fourinches long. His skin was waxy yellow and his stomach and face had begun tobloat; bluebottles were gathering on the eyes, lips and genitals.

'Looks like he's been here a few hours,' Jenny said, familiarenough with corpses after a year as coroner not to recoil.

'Yesterday evening at the latest, I'd say,' DI Wallacereplied.

The men in white overalls nodded their agreement, the largerof the two saying, 'Definitely twelve hours plus - you've only got to look atthe colour of his skin.'

'Any idea of the cause of death?'

'Not yet,' Wallace said. 'Apart from the cross, there's nosign of any injury.'

'Who found him?'

'Couple of kids looking for somewhere to drink their cider.We found his clothes in the bin over there.' He nodded towards the corner ofthe church.

'Do we know who he is?'

'Not for certain, but a woman who lives a couple of milesdown the road reported her husband missing this morning. Sounds like him - AlanJacobs, thirty-five, senior psychiatric nurse at the Conway Unit.'

Jenny felt a cold tightness grip her chest. The Conway Unitwas a secure psychiatric facility for the newly sectioned and acutely ill. Atthe height of her 'episode' she had once spent a single night there. Dr Travishad persuaded her it was for the best, but it was the closest thing to hell onearth she had ever known.

She looked again at the dead man. She didn't recall seeinghim at the unit, though she could imagine him as a nurse. He was big, like somany of them were, but with gentle hands and a soft face.

'What do you make of the cross?' Wallace said, his tonesoftening a little now he could sense she wasn't vying for control.

Jenny shrugged. 'I'd say God was on his mind, or what was leftof it.'

Wallace nodded, making no comment, then said, 'I've got abusy few days coming up - I persuaded the pathologist to come in and do himstraight away. Is that all right with you?'

'Fine,' Jenny said, surprised he was troubling to ask.'What's this, be nice to the coroner week?'

'You've earned yourself a reputation, Mrs Cooper,' DI Wallacesaid. 'And I'm trying to make Super'.'

'Right - hence the suit.'

He looked at her, puzzled, and pulled out his phone.

'Whatever...' She nodded at the body. 'I'll catch up withhim later at the morgue.'

Leaving Wallace to his phone call, she made her way backacross the churchyard.

She had a hectic week in store, too. There'd been a messyconstruction accident the previous Tuesday which had prompted five separate firmsof lawyers to bombard her office with demands for all manner of forensicinvestigations to which her puny budget wouldn't stretch. The inquest, when itcame, would last the best part of a month. Two workmen and a site supervisorhad been crushed to death in a crane collapse, six others injured. Comparedwith that mess, dealing with a simple suicide would be a holiday.