Witness clutches rail of witness box.
HJ. I found a rat in a trap, Ms Shearer. I found a starving, brainwashed woman in rags. With polished nails and a missing finger. No one would keep a dog like that. Not even a silly bitch.
MS. She didn’t want releasing, did she Ms Joyce? She wanted to wait where she was until he came back?
HJ. She didn’t seem to know what she wanted. She was terrified of him at the same time. She was paralysed.
MS. Terrified? And wanting him to come back?
HJ. Yes.
MS. The two don’t go together, do they? Isn’t it true, Ms Joyce, that you found your spoiled baby sister weeping and wailing because she had driven her boyfriend away, and it was you, not him, who finally kidnapped her? You did not do as she asked, which was look for him. You took her away and you took everything else you could find with you. You wanted to be back in control of the sister you bullied. What have you done, Ms Joyce?
Witness is silent.
MS. You knew she had to be the centre of attention, to the extent that she would injure herself to get it. She would even starve herself, she’d done that before, hadn’t she? You knew that.
HJ. No, I didn’t know that. It isn’t true.
MS. You knew she was unstable and demanding. And yet you, Ms Joyce, from the depth of your experience, condemned my client for the symptoms of your sister’s mental instability. What qualified you to judge?
Ms Shearer turns pages of witnesses’ depositions, reads from it.
You do dry cleaning, Ms Joyce, that’s your job. What does doing laundry tell you about life? Does it make you obsessive? Since when does being a dry cleaner make you God?
Witness remains silent.
His Honour Judge McDonaugh. That isn’t helpful, Ms Shearer. I think we’ll adjourn now, until tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Pray stand for Her Majesty’s Coroner.’
They stood obediently as the Coroner entered from his own side door, at the back of the raised stage which held his vast desk, ushered forward by the Coroner’s own Sergeant. HM Coroner was a thin man with a large head; he took his own seat, easily, while the Sergeant sat below, busily arranging his papers. The Coroner smiled on those assembled, adjusted his jacket, checked the position of the gavel on his desk and folded his hands in front of him, as if waiting for something to happen. The room was wood-lined and oblong, with a raised, square witness box to the left of the Coroner’s dais, so that only a witness would be at his eye level. The rest of the oblong was occupied by three rows of benches with elongated narrow desks, all surrounded by plenty of open space and a few plastic chairs at the back for spectators. Thomas Noble always found the place reminded him of a church without decoration, its very plainness speaking volumes about the anonymity of death. It was a little like the inside of a large communal coffin.
Frank Shearer sat next to him, and on his left, the photographer, Paul Bain and on the far side of him, a plain-clothes police officer. There was really no need for any of them to be there. Thomas recognised the Coroner as the new model, the type who made it his business to make light of formality and talk in plain English. Speaking for himself, he preferred pomp and distance, because at least one knew where one was. Obfuscation was usually better than straight talking. There was never any comfort in a Coroner’s Court, however much the coroner’s purpose was dressed up or dressed down and Thomas did not like it if he himself was left with nothing to explain.
‘Mr Noble?’ the Coroner said.
Thomas nodded.
‘Good. I can rely on you to explain that this is all a bit of formality. I shall open the inquest into the death of Miss Marianne Shearer, and then adjourn it, once I’ve explained what I do and why you have to listen to me, OK? Can I just check who’s here?’
He produced half glasses to look at his papers.
‘Mr Frank Shearer, brother of the deceased, Mr Bain, witness to the death of the deceased, DC Jones of the Metropolitan Police, Mr Thomas Noble, legal representative of the deceased?’
They all dipped their heads in dutiful acknowledgement, like a row of puppets.
‘And those sitting at the back?’ the Coroner asked. ‘Are these family members?’
Thomas turned to see the three sitting in the spectators’ plastic chairs. Two journalists, which was one more than normal, and a man in a heavy coat who sat with his arms crossed. Thomas could have sworn that he winked. As he looked, a small woman came in and sat at the end of the row, nearest the exit door. She was carrying a bag of many colours which she placed on her lap. Everyone looked straight ahead.
‘No, sir, not family members,’ the Coroner’s Sergeant said, gazing disapprovingly at the newest incomer.
The Coroner looked down at the front row. No signs of terrible grief, no wailing women. He could be brisk.
‘Good. No need for anyone to take the witness stand at this stage. I’ve got statements from you all. Ms Shearer jumped from a sixth floor window at eight a.m. on Jan fourth, and it’s now Jan ninth, OK? Are we agreed?’
Nods all round. He wrote it down.
‘I’m assured that this incident is not related to the death of Mrs Ward, ten days ago. Similar circumstances, very different people. I should stress that the latter case is not within my jurisdiction and is not being considered by this court, so we should dismiss it from our minds.’
There were further nods.
‘And you, Mr Bain, saw her fall, and you, DC Jones, were present when death was certified and you accompanied the body to a place where it was identified by Mr Noble in the presence of my sergeant, and you, Mr Shearer, are the next of kin? And Mr Noble’s her executor?’
Again, they all nodded.
‘Right. There is therefore no doubt that Ms Shearer is the deceased, and equally no doubt that further post-mortem enquiries have to be made. For those present, I must explain my own, very humble role in all this. To put it plainly, whenever a person dies in out-of-the-ordinary circumstances – without having received medical attention within two weeks of their death, for instance; not old, not unwell, basically, death not expected – there has to be an inquest. That means an inquiry. The Coroner’s role is to establish cause of death, nothing more nor less. Not to say why this person died, but what caused it. Not who was to blame, if anyone was, but cause. In the case of what looks like a self-inflicted death, which this certainly does, I have four possible verdicts. Accidental death, Death incurred whilst the balance of mind was disturbed, an Open Verdict, or Suicide. The last means definite evidence that the deceased was determined to make away with him- or herself and actively planned to do so and only that last verdict requires proof beyond reasonable doubt.’
There was the sound of the exit door shutting. Thomas turned. The girl with the carpet bag and the two journalists had already left, as if realising nothing more was going to happen. The Coroner frowned.
‘I’m adjourning this for two months, by which time I expect to see evidence which will make my verdict inevitable. Not blame, not analysis, evidence.’
‘Pray stand for Her Majesty’s Coroner!’
He was gone.
‘Charming,’ Frank Shearer said. ‘Why the hell were we dragged halfway across London for that? He could have written us an email or phoned.’
‘Not allowed,’ Thomas said. ‘We have to be here, present and correct, and show ourselves. The Coroner is an ancient institution begun in the days when you had to turn up to prove you existed. I think we have to go. You might like a word with Mr Bain.’