"It was common knowledge amongst the other students."
"Were you aware of any ill feeling between them?"
"On the contrary. They seemed to live in each other's pockets."
"On the day in question, the coach trip to the rally in Whitehall, you were on the coach, I understand?"
"Yes. We'd heard that the rally might get violent, and we feared that the students would become embroiled, and so we begged them not to go."
"Did they listen?"
"Only half a dozen."
"You said 'we'?"
"Rupert Dauncey was with me, representing the Rashid Educational Trust. They fund Act of Class Warfare, the group I belong to."
"A curious name. What does it signify?"
"A dislike of capitalism. We aim to re-educate people, change their thinking."
"You mean, catch them young," the Coroner said dryly. There was laughter in the Court. "You may go."
The Clerk called Rupert Dauncey, who moved to the stand. He looked imposing in an excellent navy blue flannel suit. The Coroner didn't keep him long.
"I've read the list the corporation sent over of the charities supported by your Trust, Mr. Dauncey. All very laudable, I'm sure."
"The Countess of Loch Dhu and Rashid Investments have spent millions worldwide on these enterprises."
"But you weren't happy about the trip to London?"
"Not at all. When I heard that the United Anarchist Front was behind it, I was horrified. I went to Oxford to back Professor Percy in asking the students not to go."
"And you saw Helen Quinn and Alan Grant there?"
"I sat next to them. I'd been introduced to her on a previous visit by Professor Percy. I urged her in the strongest terms not to go. Grant told me they were spending the weekend in London at his brother's house, so I suppose that was a reason for them to go anyway. However, I deeply regret my failure to persuade Helen to listen."
"You had no personal responsibility, Mr. Dauncey."
"Yes, but it was an organization backed by Rashid that ended up at that rally and she went along for the ride. If she hadn't been in London, things might have turned out differently."
"I doubt that, sir, but your self-questioning does you credit. Stand down."
Rupert returned to his seat, having obviously made an excellent impression, and Professor George Langley was called.
The Coroner said, "I have before me autopsy reports on both the deceased. You performed them yourself?"
"Yes."
The Clerk of the Court was passing copies to the jury. The Coroner said, "I suggest a quick look, ladies and gentlemen, to familiarize yourselves. I'll give you five minutes."
"That's good of him," Dillon murmured.
"Behave yourself," Hannah told him.
"Don't I always?" He turned to Quinn. "Are you all right?"
"So far."
They waited while the Coroner examined more papers and looked up. "We'll proceed. Professor Langley, what are the essential facts here?"
"That Helen Quinn drank a sizable amount of vodka and took an Ecstasy tablet at a later stage."
"Not first?"
"Oh, no, the chemical breakdown would have been different if she'd taken it before the vodka."
"You don't say alcohol, you specify vodka."
"Yes. We can differentiate. We can even ascertain the brand, the type."
"And is that important in this case?"
"Absolutely. It links Helen Quinn to Alan Grant."
"So, let us come to him. Once again, what are the essential facts?"
"That Alan Grant had drunk a very great deal of the same vodka consumed by Helen Quinn. I identified the brand, and, at my urging, the police searched the house at Ten Canal Street and found an almost empty bottle."
"And the Ecstasy?"
"A small paper bag was discovered in Grant's left-hand jacket pocket containing two chocolates, each containing an Ecstasy tablet. I had a lab analysis done."
"And?"
"They were the same batch as the one taken by Helen Quinn. No question."
"Now let us come to the manner of his death."
"By drowning. There was no suggestion of foul play, no bruising. I visited the scene and examined the wharf."
"And what was your conclusion?"
"There is no rail at the end of the wharf. If there had been, and it was broken, one might have suspected a drunken accident. It could still have been an accident, a man as drunk as Grant could easily have lurched over that open edge. Or..." He shrugged.
"Or what, Professor?"
"Or he could have stepped off deliberately, drunk, and perhaps guilt-ridden by the death of the girl."
"But that, of course, is conjecture on your part, Professor, and this Court must only concern itself with facts. You may stand down."
"As you say, sir."
Langley did as he was told and the Coroner turned to address the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a tragic matter indeed, two young people on the threshold of life, members of an ancient and honorable university, their lives snuffed out. However, we must, as I've just reminded Professor Langley, stick to known facts, not supposition. So, let me remind you of what seem to be the salient facts."
He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and there was silence as everyone waited.
"That both drank large amounts of the same vodka is beyond dispute. That Alan Grant, to be frank, dumped the dying girl at St. Mark's Hospital is beyond dispute. As to the Ecstasy, there are questions you must ask yourselves. Why didn't he take one? Why only the girl? You may conjecture that hiding an Ecstasy tablet in a chocolate was a device to dupe the girl, but I must warn you there is no proof of this. Perhaps the girl obtained the tablets and concealed them in the chocolates for safety reasons. It is perfectly reasonable to argue that his action in running away was panic, even if the girl had taken the tablet of her own free will."
He looked at the ceiling, fingertips pressed together. "As to the matter of Grant's death, it was death by drowning, we know that, but whether caused by himself because of fear or guilt, we shall never know, and this makes a verdict of death by misadventure inadmissible.
"A final point in this whole sorry matter. Mr. Dauncey, on behalf of the Rashid organization, seemed to feel some guilt in the matter, because the students were actually in London for the rally in Whitehall. My own opinion is rather different. Vodka can as easily be consumed in Oxford, and certainly this also applies to Ecstasy. I fail to see that the coach trip had any bearing on events. However, Mr. Dauncey's concern does him credit."
He shuffled his papers into an orderly pile and swiveled in his chair to face the jury fully.
"So, how may I advise you in such a case and with no witnesses? Did Alan Grant slip the girl the Ecstasy tablet by subterfuge or did she take it herself? We don't know and never shall. Did he fall off the wharf in a drunken state or, in despair, take his own life? Again, we don't know and never shall. In the circumstances, I can suggest an open verdict, which is both legal and proper. You may, of course, retire to consider your verdict."
But they didn't bother. Everyone leaned together, there was a ripple of conversation, and they sat up. The foreman stood. "The open verdict seems sensible to us."
"Thank you," said the Coroner. "Let it be so entered." He turned to the Court. "I now come to the question of the next of kin. If Fergus Grant is in Court, please stand." Grant did so, looking bemused. "I will now issue you with a burial order, as Alan Grant's brother. You may retrieve your brother's body at your convenience. You have my sympathy."
"Thank you, sir." Grant sat down.
"Senator Daniel Quinn." Quinn stood. "I will issue you with a burial order. You also have my sympathy."
"Thank you," Quinn said.
The Clerk cried, "The Court will rise for Her Majesty's Coroner."
And it was over, the jury moving and the Court clearing. As Rupert Dauncey passed, he nodded and said to Quinn, "You have my sympathy, too, Senator."
Hannah had gone to the Clerk of the Court's desk, where Grant was standing. The Clerk gave them each a burial order. Grant walked down the aisle with her and Quinn stopped them.
"Listen, I'm truly sorry. What the Coroner said was true. We'll never know the truth. We can't go back, so let's go forward."
Grant was close to tears and half embraced him. "God help me."
"Maybe he will."
They watched Grant go and moved out through the foyer to the pavement. Ferguson said to Quinn, "Now what?"
"Well, if you could give me the address of a crematorium, that would be good. I'd like to take her ashes home. If you've any influence in that area, General, I'd appreciate it."
"Superintendent?" Ferguson asked.
"Leave it with me, Senator."
"Why don't you join me in my car, Superintendent, and we can get started. I'm not looking for a funeral--I'll arrange that back home--but a Catholic priest would be appreciated."
"Consider it done," Hannah said.
"I'll come with you, too." Dillon turned to Ferguson. "We'll see you later."
"Running things now, are you?" Ferguson asked.
"Don't I always?"
T
hey drove to Park Place, Hannah huddled in the corner, making one call after another. She was still at it when they arrived. Mary opened the door and Quinn led the way into the drawing room.
"Coffee, Mary."
"And tea for me," Dillon said.
She went out and Quinn said to Dillon, "He was good, friend Dauncey, very good."
"Yes," Dillon said. "But he'll trip up yet. There's something there. We just have to find it."
Hannah clicked off. "I've arranged for an undertaking firm we use to pick up your daughter. The ceremony will be at North Hill Crematorium at two o'clock. A Father Cohan will meet you there."
"Meet us there," Dillon said. "I'm going with you."
"Then I'll come, too," Hannah said. "If that's all right with you."
"Of course it is," Quinn told her. "I'm very grateful."
"That's what friends are for, Daniel," said Dillon.
F
ather Cohan was a London Irishman and the only good thing about North Hill Crematorium. The whole thing was a bad experience, and the taped celestial choir in the background didn't help, but Cohan was as robust and sincere as anyone could want.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
I wonder, thought Quinn. A total waste of a young life and to what end, to what purpose? No, I can't believe, not any longer. Let those who will do so, but not me. And yet, for some strange reason, he thought of Sister Sarah Palmer and Bo Din all those years ago in Vietnam.
Father Cohan sprinkled the coffin, it moved on the conveyor belt into the darkness beyond, and it was over.
One of the undertakers said, "We'll deliver the ashes this evening, Senator. Park Place, I understand?"
"Number eight." Quinn shook hands. "I'm grateful."
They moved outside and Father Cohan went with them. "You have a car, Father?" Hannah asked.
"Yes, I'll be fine." He grasped Quinn's hand. "Give it time, Senator. There's always a reason. You'll find it one day."
They moved to the Mercedes, where Luke waited. "That's it, then," Dillon said.
Quinn shook his head. "No, there's one more thing I want to do before I leave. I'm going to drive up to Oxford and retrieve Helen's things from her room at St. Hugh's. I'll drop you two off."
"Her room?" Dillon lit a cigarette and thought. "You know, I never looked at her room, or Grant's. You don't mind if I come, too, do you?"
T
hey made Oxford in an hour and a half. Quinn gave Luke directions, and they turned in through the gates at St. Hugh's and paused at the lodge. The porter emerged. "Can I help?"
"You may remember me, Daniel Quinn? I'm here to collect my daughter's things."
The porter stopped smiling. "Of course, sir. May I say how sorry I am. She was a lovely girl. I'll phone the principal to let him know you're here."
"That's good of you."
They drove on and Luke dropped them at the entrance. Quinn led the way into the entrance hall. "We'll check in with the principal and then get on with it. His office is this way, just beyond the Junior Common Room. That's where the kids hang out."
By the entrance there were rows of pigeonholes. Each one had a slot with the student's name, in alphabetical order. They paused and Quinn found his daughter's. There were three letters. He examined them and sighed, holding one up. "My last letter to her from Kosovo."
Dillon ran a finger along the names and found Alan Grant's pigeonhole. There was no mail in it, but the box wasn't empty. Dillon reached in and pulled out a pen. He looked at it curiously, then dropped it in his pocket. There was something about it...