The Chosen Dead (Jenny Cooper 5) (22 page)

‘Contraband, weapons, money. Your man Thorn would know all about it.’

Even though Jenny hadn’t much trusted Harry Thorn, she found herself resenting the casual way in which Michael assumed he was a crook, and that by implication she was naive for not having marked him down as one.

‘He may be genuine, he may not. I don’t know until he’s put to the test.’

‘He’ll be a good liar, good enough to fool a jury. He’ll tell them about all the skinny little children he’s saved and they’ll lap it up. I would have done until I’d seen the reality with my own eyes.’

‘Or maybe he’ll tell the truth,’ Jenny said.

‘I’m telling you the truth. If he’s come from a war zone he’ll be a creature of war – you can’t avoid it.’ He tipped more wine into his glass. Their conversation was making him tense. Talking about war had stirred up unwanted memories at a moment when his defences were weakest. She could see the battle raging inside him as he fought to push them away.

‘How was Cornwall?’ Jenny said, trying to steer the conversation onto less uncomfortable ground.

Michael stared into the candle flame with unblinking eyes, as if he hadn’t heard her.

‘Michael?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Michael, I’m sorry – it was the wrong thing to talk about.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Don’t go quiet on me. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Of course.’

‘I was thinking that when we made love tonight it was the first time I’ve ever connected it with having children.’

Jenny smiled, a little bemused. ‘You’ll be glad to know there’s no danger of my getting pregnant.’

‘I’m not so sure I am glad.’

Jenny found herself lost for words.

‘Don’t you ever think about it?’ Michael asked.

‘No. I can honestly say I don’t.’

He looked disappointed.

‘Michael, I’m forty-six and worked off my feet. Even if it were physically possible, the last thing on God’s earth I need is a baby.’

‘No . . . You’re right.’ He sounded unconvinced.

They lapsed into silence again, Jenny struggling to deal with all the possible implications of what he had just announced: he wanted to be a father, to have a child with her. It was out of the question. What was he thinking?

Before she had even recovered herself, he made another announcement: ‘You know, I think you should make more time for your son.’

‘What?’

‘I think he’d give you a chance if he thought there was room in your life. I think he feels your attention’s always been tied up with work.’ He raised his eyes and met her gaze.

‘He told you that?’

‘More or less. But hearing about your parents, I can see how it happened. Your mum left home when you were twelve and that was about the age Ross was when you split from David.’

Jenny was speechless.

‘We’re always acting out our pasts. We can’t seem to help it. Look at me now.’ He shook his head. ‘Get so close to you, bare my soul, then feel a need to drop a bomb.’

‘Do you have any idea how hurtful that was? I never left Ross. David and I separated, and not before time.’

‘You did leave, Jenny, consciously or subconsciously, you chose the moment. Someone’s got to tell you or you’ll never fix it. Better it’s this asshole than some other one.’

Jenny stared at him in disbelief. ‘I did not leave my son. You have no idea what I went through in that marriage.’

‘I think he wants you to fix it, Jenny, but he doesn’t know how to ask. And this has nothing to do with David – just you and Ross.’

Jenny shoved the table hard towards him, upending glasses and sending plates clattering onto the ground.

‘Go home, Michael! And don’t even think about trying to call me. I don’t want to know.’

She marched into the kitchen, slammed the door hard and locked it, suddenly not caring if she ever saw him again.

J
ENNY LEFT THE HOUSE EARLY
in the morning without checking to see if Michael had left a message or sent an email. Screw him. She felt violated, as if he had tricked her into lowering her defences to the point that when he struck he could wound her most deeply. She had trusted him completely, and all the while he was biding his time, waiting for the moment to deliver his judgement on her inadequacies as a mother. And on top of that he had had the gall to suggest she have his baby, which doubtless he would expect her to neglect. He was having a crisis. He was confused. He had to be, there was no other explanation. Well, if he expected her to act as his emotional dumping ground, he had another think coming.

Her fury turned to steel in her blood; she was ready to knock down anyone who dared stand in her way. It brought a strange sense of freedom: the guilt at all her unattended cases fell away. Today belonged to Adam Jordan: she was going to London to interview his colleagues at the AFAD offices. No one ever wanted to admit their small part in events leading to an untimely death, but she would offer them no choice: they would answer her honestly or have the truth dragged out of them in court.

All along the motorway her angry thoughts jumped between the answers she was going to demand from Jordan’s colleagues, and the unwelcome memories stirred by Michael’s accusation. Like images from a nightmare, she was assailed by half-forgotten details of the weeks and months leading up to the moment when she left David. Again and again her mind replayed her lowest and cruellest moments; she was haunted by an image of Ross’s uncomprehending face as he came to the car window as she prepared to drive away from the house for the last time. Her leaving home had been like her death to him, a taunting voice told her Michael was right; you knew full well what it was that you would have to kill in order to survive.

Only the rush and confusion of London streets forced the accusing ghosts from her mind. She parked underground near Marble Arch and made her way on foot across the West End towards D’Arblay Street in Soho. The people she passed were freaks, weirdos, thieves; there was no compassion in her today; every face belonged to an enemy. She arrived at her destination: a doorway sandwiched between a cafe and a shop selling leather gear and instruments of bedroom torture.
Calm down, Jenny. It’s just work. Breathe.

The voice of a young African man came over the intercom. Jenny heard him consult with Eda Hincks before he admitted her and told her to make her way to the third floor.

She climbed six steep flights of stairs and arrived on a narrow landing at the top of the unloved building. A tall, serious woman in her late twenties with scraped-back blonde hair came out to meet her.

‘Mrs Cooper. I am Eda Hincks. How may I help you?’

‘I’d like to come in and talk, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Now is not convenient.’

‘I was being polite,’ Jenny said, heading off further explanation. ‘I need to ask some questions about Adam Jordan.’

‘We have a meeting shortly—’ Eda began, in another attempt to head her off.

‘We’ll be quick, then. Shall we get started?’

Refused a choice, Eda reluctantly led Jenny into the small but tidy open-plan offices beneath the sloping mansard roof. There were four desks, only two of which were occupied – one by Eda, the other by a slim young African man with trusting brown eyes. Eda introduced him as Toby Ormondi.

‘Toby arrived from Nairobi two days ago,’ she explained. ‘He never knew Adam.’

Toby looked up from his computer and gave a cautious smile.

‘Is this all of you?’ Jenny asked.

‘There’s Mr Thorn, his partner, Gabra Giorgis, and now and then we’re joined by staff from our African offices.’

‘Do you have many?’

‘Two – Nairobi and Addis Ababa. But you have to understand, it’s a very lean operation. When we need staff, we hire them in.’ Eda gestured Jenny to a chair and carefully flicked off her monitor as she sat.

Jenny had imagined the aid agency’s offices would be larger, busier, and filled with purpose. The room in which she found herself felt like a lonely outpost with little connection to the people it served.

‘Have you ever worked out in the field?’ Jenny asked.

‘Yes,’ Eda answered without embellishment. ‘But I prefer to run the office.’

Jenny imagined the Africans preferred it that way, too. Eda didn’t possess a personality that promised to bring joy to the needy. She took a notebook from her bag. ‘I’m trying to build a picture of Mr Jordan’s state of mind at the end of his life. I’d like to know precisely what he was doing in South Sudan.’

Eda reached across her desk and picked up a file. ‘The project portfolio. Take a look for yourself.’ She handed it to her.

Jenny turned through the pages. There was technical information describing how water from a single well could be rationed to grow acres of crops using buried pipes to bring life back to arid soil, then a selection of before-and-after photographs of the site, together with pictures showing Adam Jordan and Harry Thorn hard at work with a team of locals, digging trenches with hand tools. Sure enough, dried-up scrub was transformed into an oasis. The final pictures showed Adam and several smiling, bone-thin men in sweat-stained T-shirts standing amidst neck-high maize plants.

‘How long did this all take?’ Jenny asked.

‘A little over six months,’ Eda replied. ‘Unfortunately we were forced to suspend the education and maintenance programme when fighting broke out. This village, Anakbouri, was close to the border with the north. Even post-partition, there’s still violence. Have you heard of the Janjaweed?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘They’re Arab fighters, mostly nomadic. They’ve a long history of conflict with the settled population over land use. There’s also a religious element. Just another of Africa’s problems,’ she added with a trace of sarcasm that Jenny assumed was the closest she came to humour.

‘Was Adam Jordan depressed by that?’ Jenny asked.

‘We all were disappointed. We heard reports our system was destroyed.’

‘What about the people? He must have made a lot of friends. Were many hurt or killed?’

‘Of course he made friends. And more than likely some became casualties in the fighting. Until we have our own reports, we don’t yet know who.’

Jenny tried for more detail, but Eda persisted with her studiedly bland answers that delivered no new insight into Adam Jordan. And all the while Toby appeared to take no notice of their conversation as he tapped quietly on his computer. Jenny decided to up the pressure.

‘Do you know the two main reasons people kill themselves, Miss Hincks?’

She seemed thrown by the question. ‘Depression, and . . .’ She shrugged.

‘Shame,’ Jenny said. ‘Was Mr Jordan depressed, to your knowledge?’

She shook her head.

‘Did he have anything to be ashamed of?’

Eda’s eyes darted involuntarily to Toby.

‘He completed his project precisely as planned. He had no reason for regret.’

Her answer rang as hollow as a pebble hitting the floor of a dry well.

‘Somehow I struggle to believe that. It wouldn’t be human.’

‘What wouldn’t be human?’ A voice bellowed from across the room.

Jenny swung round to see Harry Thorn stepping through the door, thrusting his phone into the pocket of his threadbare jeans. He glanced at Toby, who started up from his desk and headed out. Harry clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, as if in thanks. The penny dropped – the gesture was for tipping him off. Toby had been transcribing their conversation and relaying it straight to Harry’s phone by email.

‘Turning up unannounced is your signature, isn’t it, Mrs Cooper?’ Harry looked ruffled and hung-over, and even from several paces smelt sourly of stale smoke. ‘You think we’ve got something to hide? Do your worst, turn the place over. See if I fucking care.’

Jolted by the violence of his outburst, Jenny tried to remain composed. ‘If you prefer, we can leave all this to court.’

He was standing close by now, looking down at her in a way that suggested he might just grab her by the lapels and toss her out of the door. ‘Why don’t you piss off, Mrs Cooper, and leave us to get on with our work?’

‘I would have liked to spare Mrs Jordan the ordeal of a lengthy inquest.’

‘I’ve spoken to Karen. She’s heard all there is to know.’

Jenny felt her frustration turn to anger. ‘There are aspects of Mr Jordan’s work in Africa I would appreciate your help in understanding,’ she said coolly.

‘How’s this? Don’t listen to the cock-sucking spooks who think we must be terrorists because we refuse to work for them.’ He smiled at her surprise. ‘You think they haven’t knocked on my door, too?’ He laughed, a short dismissive burst like gunfire. ‘You know squat about Africa. Take some good advice and leave it to those that do.’

‘Why did Adam Jordan take his life, Mr Thorn?’

Harry looked at her with narrow, reptilian eyes. ‘The problem with Adam was he took it all to heart. Me, I’ve learned to keep the sluices open. In it comes, then washes right out again. That’s the only way to survive in this business – keep the sluices open.’ He looked at Eda Hincks, who since his arrival had displayed neither shock nor embarrassment. She seemed to admire his bravado. ‘Show Mrs Cooper out, Eda.’