For Death Comes Softly (11 page)

Freda Lewis said that although her own department's investigations had proved fruitless she had the utmost respect for the opinions of a professional like Claudia who had known and worked with Stephen for a substantial period of time. However Freda admitted that she really had nothing conclusive to offer.

Peter Mellor said that he didn't think we should take such a substantial step as taking the children into care on so little evidence, but that there was a case for keeping the two children on the At Risk register and continuing investigations.

I listened carefully to the three of them, but I had been coming to believe that we were devoting much more time to the case than we would have done had Richard Jeffries not been who he was. I knew only too well that one of the characteristics of child abusers is that they are invariably plausible. However I was beginning to feel that by giving the questionable Stephen Jeffries case such high priority Mellor and I and everybody else in Bristol CPT were in danger of neglecting other cases involving seriously disturbed children who were without question at risk. Like any other business, sooner or later in police work you have to consider your resources. I was a manager, that was my job.

‘I'm sorry,' I told them eventually. ‘But I cannot see how we have a chance of proving anything.'

I decided that I could not allow myself to be influenced by any irrational niggling doubts. After all we had been unable even to prove that there had been any abuse at all. Almost without doubt it would be more trouble than it was ever going to be worth to try to take the case much further.

‘I'm afraid there is not even enough evidence to keep the children on the At Risk register,' I went on. ‘Certainly the police investigation will have to be ended now.'

Eventually it was agreed that while Social Services would continue to take a low-level interest in the family, our Joint Investigation would be formally closed. We suggested to Claudia Smith that she should continue to keep an eye on Stephen.

‘I don't quite see the point,' she said rather huffily, which, from her point of view, could only be regarded as fair comment.

I was, however, as sure as one can ever be that we had made the right decision.

I informed Dr Jeffries personally about the results of the investigation and he shook me warmly by the hand.

‘I want to thank you, Detective Chief Inspector,' he said.

‘For what?' I asked.

‘For not allowing an emotive response to get in the way of good solid police work,' he replied. ‘And most of all for not having my children taken away from me.'

Jeffries seemed to have tears in his eyes. He was the one being emotional. In spite of myself I was impressed that a man who had faced the undoubted wreckage of his career and the destruction of his not inconsiderable social standing in one fell swoop should appear even now to think about nothing other than his children.

I studied him carefully, this plausible controlled man. Was he too controlled? Was he being too reasonable? For just an instant I reflected on my earlier doubts about him, but I at once put them out of my mind because I knew there was no logic behind them. There really had been no alternative to the decision I had encouraged, I told myself. For a start neither Stephen nor Anna Jeffries had given us any indication that they were anything other than well-loved and well-cared-for children.

I vowed not to even think about the Abri Island case again until I had to, and although I somehow couldn't quite keep that vow I did not actively interfere again.

Now that I was no longer personally heading a high priority investigation, I moved, with very mixed feelings, back to headquarters at Portishead. Two months passed, much of which I spent on a special project – compiling a report on the adverse psychological effect of Child Protection Work on police officers and how this can be combated. Titmuss, who had probably never had a genuine emotional response to anything in his entire life, had been asked to put this together following the realisation that the incidents of breakdowns and emotional collapse among CPT officers greatly exceeded any other area of policing – as I had told Julia some time ago. He deputed the task to me, which at least got me out of his hair, I suppose. I was then put on yet another management course at the Avon and Somerset's own training school at Portishead, learning even more skills which considerably exceeded what I needed to know at my rank and with my level of responsibility.

The way things were going with my career at the time I reckoned I was destined to end up the most highly qualified DCI in the country. I had always been regarded as a high flier and to have reached my present rank as young as I did was still unusual, but the relationship I currently had with my seniors in the force, particularly Chief Superintendent Titmuss, left me in little doubt that it could be a bloody long time before I made Superintendent. The courses and the special projects – I was also asked to put together a report on the extra difficulties of dealing with handicapped children in child abuse cases – were a kind of sop, I felt, to keep me occupied and make me feel I was doing something useful and constructive while at the same time effectively removing me from mainstream policing. Quite extraordinary really that an officer of my rank should be used, or rather not used, in such a way, particularly as I was still supposed to be deputy head of the CPT. But my case was in no way unique.

At least being sidelined in this way meant that I had rather more ordered working hours and considerably more spare time than had I been involved with a major case. I spent most of my free time searching for a new home. The so-called studio flat seemed to become more and more squalid by the minute.

Once I'd properly put my mind to the task I quite quickly found myself a small but smart one-bedroomed apartment in the old docks. I liked the area because it was central and stylish, and I liked the apartment because it was ultra modern, with clean uncluttered lines – which I promised myself I would not destroy with my usual level of mess – and because it had virtually no character. I was feeling pretty soulless at the time, and 6 Harbour Court effectively suited my mood.

The flat was brand new and I had nothing to sell any more. My share of the proceeds from the bungalow, the sale of which had been finalised every bit as quickly and efficiently as Simon had promised, was stashed in the bank ready and waiting, so the deal was quickly done.

I had taken none of our shared furniture from the bungalow, just a few personal things like books and paintings. As I had told Simon when we finally decided to make the break, I didn't want anything to remind me of the past. I wanted a fresh start.

When the purchase was completed at the beginning of May I took a week's leave to settle into my new place and was surprised to find how much I enjoyed it. Anyone who has ever lived in a dazed limbo after the break-up of a long-term relationship will know how easy it is to sink into uncaring squalor, how hard it is to drag yourself out of it, and what a joy it is to finally succeed in so doing. I had lived my childhood and most of my adult life in a decent well-run attractive home, even if I had usually had all too little to do with ensuring it stayed that way, and hadn't fully realised just how bad an effect several months of police section houses followed by that dreadful bedsit would have on me.

Conversely I had not been prepared for the almost instant lift in spirits which my smart new apartment gave me. The kitchen was all stainless steel, and had a dining area reminiscent of an American diner, more stainless steel, a built-in glass-topped table, and shiny dark red tiles. The bedroom and living room, which was the biggest room and really quite well-proportioned, had the kind of polished wooden floors I had always lusted after, which were common to so many of these dockland flats.

I bought a big squashy sofa for the living room, covered in a wonderfully impractical cream fabric, and a leather swivel-based chair which doubled as an office chair and stood before the smart black ash-finished desk which effectively hid my computer when not in use. The only other furnishings in the room were some bookshelves and a chunky oblong coffee table made of Cornish granite. The bedroom held just a simple double divan bed piled high with cushions and two bedside tables in addition to the mirror-fronted fitted wardrobe ranged along the entire stretch of one wall which easily housed all my clothes.

After almost four days spent shopping and arranging everything to my liking, I sat one evening with my feet up enjoying a gin and tonic, feeling reasonably content for the first time in ages. I told myself that surely even I could manage to keep this place fit for human habitation, and my general sense of well-being was further enhanced when I switched on my newly purchased state-of-the-art TV, the remote control for which I had finally mastered, and learned courtesy of the local HTV news that the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary's investigations into the death of Natasha Felks had been dropped.

I was relieved, chiefly because of my own involvement – senior police officers like being caught up in a suspicious death even less than anybody else – but I also have to admit that Robin Davey did enter my thoughts.

I didn't contact Todd Mallett again, keeping my resolution to become no further involved with the case than was absolutely necessary. But I knew that wasn't the end of the matter, unfortunately. There would still be the inquest. And indeed, soon after returning to the shop after my week's leave I got a note from the coroner's officer at Barnstaple telling me that the inquest on Natasha Felks would take place on the 1st of June at the Castle Centre, Castle Street, Barnstaple, and I would be required to attend personally to give evidence. I wasn't surprised, although I had vaguely hoped that the coroner might accept my evidence being read in my absence, but I could have done without it – not least because the whole silly saga of my Abri Island adventure would now become public knowledge.

The 1st of June turned out to be a bright sunny day and very hot. It seemed that everything connected with this case, Natasha's fatal excursion to the Pencil, and my own ill-judged trip, happened in remarkably good weather. It's extraordinary to think of the difference one casual action can make to our lives. If I had turned down Jason's offer of a boat-ride I would not have been about to appear as witness in a coroner's court, and I may even have left Abri Island without ever having met Robin Davey.

I reflected on this as I headed down the M5 in perfect driving conditions except for the apparently obligatory contraflow – a moveable feast along this stretch of almost permanently under-repair motorway. On this occasion each lane slowed virtually to a stand-still somewhere around the turn-off to my old home town of Weston-super-Mare. Thanks to this, a certain amount of seasonal traffic already, and an accident on the treacherous three-laned North Devon link road out of Tiverton, the journey from Bristol to Barnstaple took me just over two and a half hours, considerably longer than my February trip to see Todd Mallett. Fortunately, for once in my life I had allowed plenty of time.

I parked in the police station car park and walked the couple of hundred yards or so along the busy main road which led to the Castle Centre, which was, as is common practice for inquests, merely a room hired for the occasion. An alleyway led into the Centre which I knew to be more usually the home of various evening classes and community groups. I entered through its slightly awkward double doors and was glad that I was early. There were only a handful of people already there but I was still paranoid enough to think they were all staring at me as I walked in. Inside I quickly found myself a wooden chair at one end of the back row. The floor was covered with incongruously bright pink linoleum tiles and notice boards on the walls carried the assorted announcements pinned to them by the Centre's other users.

I had been warned about the North Devon coroner, a solicitor called Martin Storey OBE. He insisted that the OBE be used at all times, I had been told – not actually when you addressed him in court but almost – and he was a man who never missed the opportunity of making the most of his position. He was a lay preacher, and apparently his addresses from the coroner's bench were inclined to turn into sermons. He used his office to make statements on all manner of things he thought were amiss in the world, often linked only spuriously with the case in hand – something that is actually against regulations and which most coroners frown upon – and if he were about to hold forth on a topic dear to his heart he would often tip off the press in advance.

He had only recently taken over from a well-respected and long-serving coroner in North Devon, who had once gone on record as saying that it was his ambition to conclude his tenure without ever gracing the pages of the
News of the World
– quite unlike his successor whose almost weekly aim seemed to be to do just that. I had been told it was generally believed that Martin Storey OBE would not last long. However he remained the man currently in control and that was just my luck because he was particularly hot on police incompetence, apparently – even though traditionally coroners work very closely with the police and indeed in North Devon the coroner's office is actually in Barnstaple nick and the coroner's officer, not unusually, is a former police officer. I gathered that even Storey, if he had something particularly scathing to say, would at least let any police officers know if he intended to tear a strip off them. I had had no such warning.

However, nothing I heard about Mr Martin Storey, a grey world-weary looking man who didn't look as if he smiled much, filled me with any optimism about how he might be expected to react to my behaviour. He did, however, grant my request to sit through the proceedings – I was a witness but not one considered crucial to the outcome.

A jury is obligatory in an unexplained death like Natasha's, but the coroner himself remains very much in control. It is the coroner who questions witnesses and gives the final summing up, often directing the jury as to what their verdict should be.