The Chosen Dead (Jenny Cooper 5) (21 page)

Jenny read on. Sonia Blake’s father, Roy Emmett Hudson, was a pioneering geneticist who had gone missing in March 1982 from Scottsdale, Arizona. He was last seen watching a baseball game at his daughter’s elementary school. Many theories had been advanced during the intervening years to explain his disappearance, including the allegation that he had defected to the Soviet bloc. But a quarter of a century later, hikers had discovered his skeletal remains in mountains some thirty miles from his home. He had been shot once through the base of the skull. His daughter and several former colleagues at Genix Inc., the major global company whose fortunes had been made on the back of his research, had called on the Arizona State Police to launch a murder inquiry. The local police chief, Mr Jackson Slater, was quoted as saying that ‘with no witnesses or DNA it would be easier finding bear tracks in a dust storm’. Sonia Blake maintained that the most likely explanation was that her father had been murdered by rivals in a cut-throat race for patents in the early years of the biotech industry. ‘Most of those people are still around,’ Sonia had told the newspaper. ‘Someone knows who ordered my father’s killing and I urge the State to offer immunity to any witness who’ll testify.’

Jenny keyed in ‘Roy Emmett Hudson’ and beyond the article she had just read, found nothing. Not one single mention.

I
T WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON
when Alison appeared in the doorway and made the surprising announcement that Jenny’s ex-husband was in reception asking if he could see her. As far as Jenny could recall, David had never once set foot inside her office, preferring to meet on neutral ground. For a man whose territorial instinct and sense of pride were deeply bound together, entering her professional domain meant a large step down. She had to assume he was desperate.

‘Jenny. Sorry to intrude.’

He closed the door behind him, checked it was firmly shut, and cast a furtive glance around the room as he edged into a seat. She had seldom seen him so jumpy.

‘It’s not Ross—?’

‘No. He’s fine. Well, I assume he is. He seems to be out most of the time. Wouldn’t that be nice—’ He stopped himself extemporizing on the theme. Jenny allowed herself an inward smile: his four short words told her that Debbie’s oppressive domesticity was at last beginning to grate.

‘This is an early finish for you, isn’t it?’ Jenny ventured.

‘I had to reschedule some of the list – there’s a team of microbiologists going over the theatres. That’s why I’m here.’ He ran a nervous hand over his temple. ‘These people aren’t HPA – I know all their staff – but no one seems prepared to tell us who they are or what the hell it is they’re looking for. Word’s got out of course – I’m already getting panicked calls from the cardiologists who refer my private patients.’

‘Sounds like a sensible precaution,’ Jenny said.

‘By whom?’ David demanded. ‘And why the secrecy?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jenny answered truthfully.

‘Ed Freeman tells me there’s been another meningitis death – a prostitute.’

‘That’s right. So far it’s the only other case I’m aware of.’

‘Had she been in the hospital? Is that what this is about? Are they looking for a carrier in the Vale?’

Jenny said, ‘I’d like to know as much as you would.’

‘Come on, Jenny – you must have some idea. I have patients whose lives are at risk from the slightest infection. What am I meant to tell them?’

Jenny thought of what Dr Kerr had told her during their most recent meeting. It was tempting to feed the rumour in amongst the senior medical staff, but she had given him her word.

‘I adjourned my inquest because I was only getting half the truth. It sounds to me as if your bosses have brought in an expensive private company to sweep the hospital. They want to be able to look squarely into the news cameras and say hand-on-heart they did everything they could. It’s the only way they can appear competent.’

‘And pass the blame on to Ed.’

‘He’s tested negative.’

‘Maybe, but is that conclusive? And even if it is, do you honestly think that’s the story they’re going to tell? The man’s already at breaking point. And his wife’s hardly the most understanding when it comes to that sort of thing.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jenny asked.

David agonized for a moment, perhaps fearing that he had already said too much. ‘Between ourselves, he has been known to stray. But from what he’s confided in me, Fiona more or less abandoned interest in that side of things after their youngest was born, so she can hardly lay all the blame at his door.’

Jenny interrupted him. ‘You think he might have visited this girl?’

‘It’s not impossible. But I’d hate to see him blamed . . .’

Jenny tried to unscramble David’s confused messages. ‘Who are you here for, David – you or Ed?’

‘I can’t deny a degree of self-interest, but mostly for Ed of course. I’m frightened for him, Jenny. He’s too good a man to be able to live with the thought that . . . You know what I’m saying.’

‘He’s suicidal?’

‘Getting there. But for God’s sake, don’t repeat that. He’ll never work again.’

‘David, I think I trust you, and hard as it might be, you’re going to have to trust me. If there’s something to be found, I’ll find it.’

David said, ‘You’ll be lied to, Jenny. Remember – no one knows how to bend the truth like a doctor.’

It was Fiona Freeman who answered the phone. She was quiet, but able to talk, unlike her husband, evidently. It took only a brief exchange to detect that all was not well between them. Jenny told her the adjournment would continue for a few more days while Elena Lujan’s case and possible sources of infection were being investigated.

Feeling the need to offer some small words of comfort, Jenny said, ‘I know Miss Lujan’s case must have alarmed you, but all the tests so far show no obvious connections between her and your daughter.’

‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ She was clearly not about to find her husband innocent any time soon.

Adam Jordan’s bank statements arrived by email late in the afternoon, bringing another story of suspected marital infidelity into sharp focus. Amidst the routine household payments were weekly cash withdrawals, nine in total, each of £120. All had taken place at cashpoints in central Bristol on Wednesday mornings between 10 and 11 a.m. The preciseness of the amount certainly suggested a regular habit of some sort. Jenny recalled glimpsing a tariff in the reception of the Recife: a thirty minute ‘massage’ was £50. The other fact that caught Jenny’s attention was that there was £28,000 in the account. There was a monthly transfer from Adam Jordan’s employers of a little over £2,000, but sums of several thousand pounds were being transferred in at odd intervals from another account in Adam’s name. Of all the problems they might have had, money wasn’t one of them.

Deciding against disturbing Karen Jordan in her hospital bed, Jenny called her home number and got through to her mother. Dealing with her crying grandson, Claire King was in no mood to talk, but Jenny pressed for an answer to one question: had Karen ever asked Adam to explain why he was withdrawing cash from their account.

‘Several times,’ she responded tersely. ‘He said it was getting-by money. He was lying. It’s as simple as that. And please don’t trouble Karen until she’s out of hospital. I don’t think she could take much more.’

She put down the phone.

Jenny’s final act before leaving the office for the evening was to call Sonia Blake in the hope that, having absorbed the reality of Jordan’s death, she might have remembered some small but telling detail that would unlock the reason for Adam Jordan’s secrecy, but she was met with an answer-phone message saying Sonia was away in Brussels until the following day. Jenny asked herself whether now wasn’t the moment to let him rest. All she could offer his family, it seemed, was shame heaped on top of grief.

The humid air that had sat oppressively over the city throughout the afternoon had been banished by an Atlantic breeze that swept in a clear and balmy evening. Jenny drove north over the Severn Bridge beneath an unbroken blue sky. Leaving the sweeping panorama of the estuary behind, she headed into the deep green of the valley and experienced a different kind of elation: the forest seemed to absorb her into its heart, a single, vast, living, breathing entity. Making the final switchback turns into the village of Tintern, the signal returned to her phone and a message alert sounded. She had voicemail. Michael had called to say he had arrived early from a round-trip to Cornwall and was on his way over. The news was like an unexpected gift.

It was too beautiful an evening to stay at home. As soon as Michael arrived, Jenny insisted they go for a walk. She took him along a narrow footpath that skirted the oak woods on the hill behind her cottage then struck out across sloping, sheep-dotted meadows. After a steep climb they arrived on a ridge above a small raised valley untouched by the passing centuries. Stone walls, some a thousand years old, were the only human marks on the landscape. This was the place, Jenny said, to which she would often come to remind herself where she lay in the grand scheme of things. You could feel small here, but also part of something: the continuum of life.

‘Like flying,’ Michael said. ‘Leaving the world behind.’

‘No, it’s not about escaping,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s about finding where you fit in.’

‘You think I’m trying to escape?’ Michael said.

‘When I met you, you were.’ Jenny looked at him. ‘Not any more.’

He smiled and reached for her hand. They touched fingertips. ‘I think you’re right,’ was all he said, and kissed her.

They tumbled through the door of Melin Bach, laughing and breathless from running down the hill, and, as naturally as breathing, made love. Then, spent and drowsy, they sat outside to eat, the air still enough for candles to stay alight. Having drawn so close together, their conversation drifted naturally back to their young lives as they filled in the many spaces in the incomplete stories they had constructed for each other. Jenny had heard almost nothing of the brutal boarding school to which Michael had been abandoned while his father was moved from country to country working for an oil company. Nor did she know that he had joined the RAF along with his oldest and closest friend, who was killed when his training jet malfunctioned and exploded in a fireball: Michael had landed the same plane only thirty minutes before. Michael knew about the dark incident in Jenny’s young childhood, but she had never told him what it had felt like when she was older to watch her mother fall out of love with her father and leave them both for life with another man, or how for every day of the six years in which she and her father had lived alone together, she had felt his loss far more keenly than her own.

‘Between us I think we’ve covered every shade of guilt,’ Michael joked.

‘Do you think we could ever let it go?’ Jenny said. ‘Move on, be free?’

‘Mmm.’ He sipped his wine and looked at her in the flickering light, giving it some serious thought. ‘I always used to think not – if I thought about it at all. But now I think there might be a chance.’

‘Because of me?’ Jenny said with mock surprise.

‘You’ve come through more than I have and survived pretty well.’

Jenny was strangely touched and felt herself blush.

‘Why are you embarrassed?’ Michael asked.

‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d got so used to always being the one with problems.’

Michael said, ‘Is that how you see me?’

‘No—’

‘Hey, I’m kidding.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ve both caught a lot of flak along the way. That’s fine – we understand each other. Why don’t we talk about something else. Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on? Your life’s so much more interesting than mine.’

She wanted more from him, but he had opened up to her more in the past week than he had in the previous year; to expect anything further tonight would be greedy. So she told him about the strange death of Adam Jordan, and how she suspected he had gone in search of answers in Africa only to find even deeper dilemmas, and damaged souls like Harry Thorn. Michael’s expression grew serious as she described the dope-smoking aid worker whose stunningly beautiful girlfriend cooked naked in front of strangers with no hint of embarrassment.

‘That’s what happened,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t think she was stoned, she just seemed perfectly matter-of-fact, as if it’s what everyone does.’

‘Perhaps she’s with him for the money, wherever it comes from. Houses in Notting Hill aren’t cheap.’

‘He could have inherited.’

‘He certainly won’t have earned it honestly, not in his profession.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘He might have found himself a sideline. A Red Cross guy I met in Afghanistan said after ten years in the field an aid worker was either certifiable, on the make, or a genuine saint, and there aren’t many of those.’

‘Maybe you only met the cynics?’

‘There’s a lot to be cynical about in that business. Even if all you’re trying to do is give stuff away, you’ve still got to trade your way in, then find a means of keeping useful. Even starving people know how to work an angle, perhaps better than most.’

‘What kind?’