Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

Jeremy Hall was swamped with pointless, unresolvable frustration. At once – objectively, reminding himself of what he was trying to achieve – he suppressed the distraction, as he would have suppressed a flicker of anger in a court. The coroner’s remarks had done more than sum up the inquest: indeed, the concluding words had thrown up in neon-bright clarity the entire formularized direction of the inquest. Sadly bereaved – there were three photographs of a darkly-bespectacled, black-suited, head-bent Lomax hurrying from court – charity supporting pillar of the local community robbed of an adored, medically afflicted wife through a combination of small but fatal misjudgements by a past-his-prime country doctor who himself had died six months later and an occasionally wilfully-challenging woman prone to disregarding her illness. All the statements read and filleted beforehand. A verdict determined (‘Sorry, Gerry: accidental or misadventure just wouldn’t have been right,’) in advance to get the legally required but painful official business over and out of the way in the shortest acceptable time.

In his eagerness he was making the mistake of examining the inquest evidence as he would have done in a far more rigidly structured Court of Law. But the inquest hadn’t done that. Inquests rarely did. Nine times out of ten – maybe slightly less – they were occasions of commiseration. Which is what Jane Lomax’s had been. Her death had been investigated and decided upon in the familiar, non-adversarial surroundings of a village hall, with flower show and horticultural exhibition flyers on a tattered notice board and fold-away chairs stacked at the back amidst smells of paraffin and dust and chalk.

He had to come from the totally opposite direction, the criminally minded, suspicious, believe-nothing direction. The way of John Bentley and Malcolm Rodgers, thinking the worst of everybody and every situation until proven wrong: sometimes not even then.

Jeremy Hall determined upon a middle course, refusing the easy criticism of a country inquest but rejecting, too, a guilty-until-proven innocent approach. As he picked his way with methodical care through the written statements he had consciously to keep that determination in mind, so easy would it have been to veer wildly across both self-imposed guidelines. When he finished he had seven closely handwritten pages of reminders, believed anomalies, seeming contradictions and outright inconsistencies. It had taken most of the day and occupied a further hour separating his own uncertainties into a list of positive requests to Humphrey Perry. They still occupied four pages and after telephoning to ensure the man would be at the receiving end, preventing anyone else identifying the source, Hall faxed them for convenience and to ensure there was no verbal misunderstanding between himself and the solicitor.

Hall allowed a further hour for Perry to read everything before he telephoned London for the second time.

‘You sure you want all this?’ demanded the solicitor, at once.

‘I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t been.’

‘I’ve read the same file, as closely as you have. It was a scarcely adequate inquest but then a lot of inquests are scarcely adequate. None of the statements – not even of witnesses who weren’t called – incriminate Lomax in any way whatsoever. And it doesn’t take you one step further to what you’re trying to prove: Jennifer isn’t involved at all.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to prove?’

‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,’ said Perry, irritably.

‘There were a lot of questions that should have been asked but weren’t.’

‘Six years ago!’

‘That’s when Jane died. The time we’re talking about.’

‘The time you’re talking about.’

‘I’d like the answers as soon as possible.’

‘Bert called me. He wants to know where you are.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘I promised you’d call.’

‘I will,’ agreed Hall.

‘I’ve got five more offers, all for books. Three are repeats, upping their first offers.’

‘Hold them.’

‘Have you discussed any with her yet?’

‘That’s way down the list.’

‘We’ve got a bill for police time. And for damage to equipment. Twenty-three thousand.’

‘Ignore it. If they issue a writ, file a necessity defence under the Public Order Act. Anything else?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Not for the moment.’

Colin Dawson perfectly suited the opulence and ambience of his surroundings, a white-haired, pink-faced avuncular gentleman priest of independent means who had never believed his genuine religious piety needed to be reinforced by secular hardship. He rode to hounds on one of his two hunters, favoured burgundy over claret in a wine cellar the envy of the county and donated his entire church salary to Save the Children. His cassocks were tailored.

He came curiously but sincerely concerned into Jennifer’s suite, made totally unafraid of encountering a woman possessed by a murderous ghost not just by his belief in the protection of God but by never having known a life without a financial armour through which no harm or ill had ever penetrated.

‘ The Jesus jockey,’ Jane greeted.

The man had been well briefed by Julian Mason. He said, ‘It doesn’t matter what she makes you do or say. She can’t frighten or shock me. I’m stronger than she is, because I have God and she is evil, the Devil incarnate. Let her fight me. I’ll fight her back and I will win.’

‘ The fuck he will.’

Jennifer had found it easier – a relief even – simply to be the conduit between Jane and Jeremy Hall and she did it now with Dawson, too exhausted, too apathetic, any longer to censor the words.

Dawson laughed at the obscenity. ‘And St Matthew said “The blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men”.’

‘ And Exodus teaches “Life for life. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe. ”’

He laughed again. ‘And the Prayers say “Keep thy tongue from evil: and thy lips, that they speak no guile. Eschew evil and do good: seek peace and ensure it.” Which is what I’ll do, if you help me, Jennifer. I’ll eschew the evil that possesses you and give you peace.’

‘If only you could,’ said Jennifer.

‘ Verse 8. Romans. ’

‘Ah!’ said the priest. ‘Interesting!’

‘ Forgotten it? ’

The man shook his head. ‘“Let us do evil, that good may come.” So you know your Bible, Jane? Therefore you must believe? Or did believe, once. Philippians, 26?’

‘ Be ye angry and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath ,’ Jane recognized, immediately.

‘All right,’ accepted Dawson. ‘So I have a formidable adversary.’

‘ You’d better believe it. I can out-argue you creed for creed, ritual for ritual.’

‘When did you lose your way, Jane?’

‘ When I lost my fucking life! ’

‘Become a catechumen again, Jane,’ said the priest, urgently. ‘Be my pupil. Learn to believe again. To love again. And leave this child whose mind you occupy and whom you want to destroy.’

‘ This “child” conspired to kill me! Took part in it…’

‘Then hers will be the punishment on the terrible day of judgement.’ He was sweating, his face pinker than usual.

‘ No way, pops. I’d rather do it myself. My way.’

The psychiatrist’s briefing had been total. Dawson said, ‘You’ve chosen judgement without proof.’

‘ Been talking to people, haven’t you? ’

‘Will you listen to me?’

‘ Until I get bored.’

‘Will you listen to the lawyer who’s trying to prove you wrong?’