Ultimately the jury recorded the only possible verdict, an open one, which was what the coroner indeed directed, even though coroners traditionally hate open verdicts because they reckon it looks as if they are incapable of coming to a proper decision. However I had begun to think that if Coroner Storey had had it in his power to get me landed with a murder wrap then he may well have done so. As the proceedings closed I glowered into his one good eye and wondered if I could persuade Traffic to follow him around for a few days in the hope of finding the sanctimonious so-and-so a pint or two over the limit. Even getting him for going through an amber light would be something.
I could sense that Robin Davey was looking at me, a mite apologetically it seemed, however I was in such a bad mood by the end of the case that I just wanted to get out of the courtroom, into my car, and be on my own.
I was pretty sure that I heard Davey call my name as I rushed for the exit, but I didn’t turn round. At that moment I genuinely wanted nothing more to do with him or his bloody island for as long as I lived. I had quite enough problems of my own to deal with.
Mercifully my homeward journey was considerably swifter and easier than my outward one had been that morning. I went straight to my flat rather than into my office as I would normally have done, even though it was gone five o’clock when I passed the Portishead turning off the M5. I reckoned that any further misery could wait until the next day, and I could all too clearly picture the newspaper headlines I would have to face in the morning following the ribbing I’d been given. I could also imagine vividly the response of the blessed Titmuss, and I was not to be disappointed on either count.
My local daily dropped through the letter box and fell on to the door mat just before seven the next day with exactly the same plop as it always did — giving no indication whatsoever of how serious its content might prove to be for more than one of us concerned with the case.
‘Top woman cop “grossly negligent” — court told how she failed to report near death incident. Coroner hits out,’ screamed the Bristol-based paper.
Extraordinary how it managed not to mention that I was the one who faced the ‘near death incident’ until quite low down in the piece.
I forced myself to read on, not daring to imagine what the national tabloids, undoubtedly tipped off by regional agencies, might have made of the inquest. The local paper also reported how the coroner had recommended that because of his illness Jason Tucker should not face a manslaughter charge, which may have been a possibility.
I was drowning my sorrows in lip-burningly hot tea, bitterly strong and dark enough to leave a distinct stain on the mug as its level subsided, when Todd Mallett unexpectedly called.
‘Just wanted you to know I don’t reckon you deserved that hard a ride,’ he told me gruffly.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and I meant it. I was grateful for any kind of solace.
There was an uncomfortable pause. I found myself asking him about Jason Tucker.
‘We’ve got a police psychiatrist on the case,’ said Todd. ‘He’ll be sectioned under the Mental Health Act, then sent to a secure hospital, I reckon. Frustrating, of course, because it means we don’t get a trial...’
His voice trailed off just as I was thinking how strange it was that even at that moment I had the time and energy to once more feel a bit sorry for Jason. But I did. It had to be accepted that he was a danger to have around but he had seemed to be such a free soul. I could even sympathise a little with Robin Davey for not wanting to banish him from Abri, a place the lad so patently adored, even though the consequence of Davey’s sentimental paternalism had apparently been so dire.
Somewhere in the distance I could here that Todd was still talking.
‘Watch your step, Rose, won’t you,’ he advised. ‘I’m afraid your ride is going to stay rough for a bit...’
He was dead right too. When I arrived at Portishead an hour or so later I had no more opportunity to worry about anyone’s plight other than my own. Titmuss the Terrible bollocked me rotten.
‘Not only did you behave with total irresponsibility when you were on the island, right until now you have completely failed to fully inform your senior officers of the seriousness of your involvement.’
‘You knew I was giving evidence at the inquest, sir,’ I interjected lamely.
‘Yes, Rose,’ he roared. ‘And that’s about all I did know. Todd Mallett knew exactly where you stood on this, apparently, exactly the bother you could be in, and he’s not even in this force. Nobody saw fit to let me in on it, did they?’
‘Well, it was Superintendent Mallett’s case,’ I suggested. Another mistake.
‘And you are under my command, Rose,’ he bellowed. ‘Unfortunately for both of us.’
That was about as close as he had ever got to expressing what I had always known to be his true feelings about my being his deputy.
He hadn’t finished either. ‘I have bosses, too, Rose, or had you forgotten that we do have a chain of command in the force? You could face official disciplinary action, do you realise that?’
I did, of course, although I also realised it was against Titmuss’s interests almost as much as mine to let it get that far if he could possibly avoid it. I was not, however, altogether surprised the next day to be sent on another management training course.
About three weeks later I received a letter from Robin Davey.
‘I would just like to sincerely apologise for having dragged you into this terrible mess,’ he wrote. ‘I would have contacted you again earlier but was afraid of merely making things worse. I thought the coroner was completely out of order to attach so much blame to you.
‘If anyone was to blame for Natasha’s death it was me — not even poor Jason, and certainly not you. This is something I somehow have to live with.
‘I hope you will not be angry with me for writing. You quite rightly objected to me telephoning you so soon after Natasha’s death. It was crass and thoughtless to approach you at such a time in such a manner. I trust a letter now will be deemed more appropriate. I just had to say how sorry I am about everything.
‘And if it’s not pushing my luck I wondered if I could perhaps take you to dinner in Bristol one night? I’m often there for business. Maybe it could help both of us to get together and talk. If I don’t hear from you I shall not contact you again. But I do hope that you will call me.’
In spite of myself my cheeks flushed as I read the letter. I still had some kind of adolescent crush on the bloke, it appeared. Meeting him had not done my already flagging career a lot of good, but that made little difference. My undimmed attraction for him combined with curiosity left me with little choice.
It didn’t take me long to wrestle with my common sense or my conscience, which were always going to be on the losing side in this one. I may have had a pretty unpleasant time of it but the coroner’s court had recorded an open verdict and the whole thing was in the past — all that remained for me really being the scars from the public mauling I had received. I told myself they would heal in time, that they were of my own making not Robin Davey’s, and that the situation had changed totally from when he had made that rather misguided phone call to me. The man was no longer involved in a police investigation into a suspicious death. The case of Natasha Felks was closed — her death just one of the many truly bizarre accidents that happen every year. And, of course, her loss did mean that Robin Davey was unattached, I reflected shamelessly, as what little conscience I had retained melted into the atmosphere.