she approached Heathrow the phone rang again. She glanced at the caller display, expecting another query from Alison designed to make her feel guilty for deserting her post, but it was a number her phone didn’t recognize.
‘Hello. Jenny Cooper.’
‘Are you the woman who left a message this morning?’ The man spoke with a thick, deep South African accent.
‘I’m the Severn Vale District Coroner. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Harry Thorn. I worked with Adam Jordan.’
‘Ah yes. I did leave a message.’ She proceeded delicately. ‘I presume you’ve heard what’s happened to him.’
‘Of course. What do you want from me?’
‘I spoke with Mrs Jordan yesterday,’ Jenny said tactfully. ‘I’ll be conducting an inquest into her husband’s death. When you’re able, I was hoping to meet with you – to get a picture of what he’d been doing recently, his state of mind, whether anything had been troubling him. Might tomorrow suit you?’
Thorn said, ‘I’ve no fucking clue why he jumped off a bridge, if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
‘I appreciate now’s not the time.’
Thorn gave a low grunt. ‘Your office said you’re in London today. Why don’t we get it over with?’
‘If you’re sure.’ Jenny felt her day darken. ‘Where will I find you?’
‘15a Quentin Mews, off Portobello Road.’
Jenny’s hazy memory of Portobello Road was of the Saturday antiques market, the narrow street crammed with stalls selling Victorian prints, cracked china and the kind of old trinkets that used to fill her grandmother’s house. But on a weekday it was almost deserted. All that remained of the market was a handful of fruit-and-vegetable stalls.
Quentin Mews was off the poorer, dirtier end of the street within yards of the Westway, the thundering flyover that carried four lanes of traffic between White City and Marylebone. Picking her way over its rough cobbles in her narrow heels, Jenny realized that the outward scruffiness was an illusion. There were no electric gates guarding the mews entrance or neatly clipped bay trees either side of the front doors, but money, even the kind that tries to hide itself, has a smell, and it leached out of the artfully soot-stained bricks.
15a was at the far end of the cul-de-sac, the house furthest from the street. She rang, and waited for some time for Harry Thorn to come to the door. Closer to fifty than forty, he stood barefoot in jeans and a crumpled linen shirt; his thick grey stubble was longer than the hair on his broad, sunburned scalp. He was tall, with square shoulders that suggested he had once been well built, but his muscles had withered onto a bony frame, and his yellowing eyes were those of a man whose lifetime of hard living was fast catching up with him.
‘Jenny, is it?’
She nodded. ‘You’re Mr Thorn?’
‘Harry.’
He turned and led the way through the short hallway into a compact sitting room with French windows that opened onto a tiny courtyard barely big enough to hold a table and two chairs. A set of louvred doors divided the room from a galley kitchen. Thorn had been smoking marijuana; Jenny could smell it on his clothes, as distinctive as leaves on an autumn bonfire. He pressed a heavily veined hand to his forehead as he surveyed the furniture: a low-slung sofa and several African floor cushions, none of it appropriate for conducting a formal discussion.
‘Guess we’d better sit outside.’
Jenny heard footsteps from the floor above, then music: a slow heavy bass rhythm that pulsed through the whole house.
‘Will you turn that damn thing off, Gabra,’ Thorn yelled. ‘I’ve got a meeting here.’
‘Fuck you, Harry,’ a relaxed female voice called back.
He waited, looking thunderous. When she had made her point, the woman upstairs lowered the volume slightly.
Thorn shook his head. ‘Sorry about her. She can be a pain in the ass.’
Jenny said nothing and followed him outside, where they sat on iron chairs at a
‘Hello. Jenny Cooper.’
‘Are you the woman who left a message this morning?’ The man spoke with a thick, deep South African accent.
‘I’m the Severn Vale District Coroner. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Harry Thorn. I worked with Adam Jordan.’
‘Ah yes. I did leave a message.’ She proceeded delicately. ‘I presume you’ve heard what’s happened to him.’
‘Of course. What do you want from me?’
‘I spoke with Mrs Jordan yesterday,’ Jenny said tactfully. ‘I’ll be conducting an inquest into her husband’s death. When you’re able, I was hoping to meet with you – to get a picture of what he’d been doing recently, his state of mind, whether anything had been troubling him. Might tomorrow suit you?’
Thorn said, ‘I’ve no fucking clue why he jumped off a bridge, if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
‘I appreciate now’s not the time.’
Thorn gave a low grunt. ‘Your office said you’re in London today. Why don’t we get it over with?’
‘If you’re sure.’ Jenny felt her day darken. ‘Where will I find you?’
‘15a Quentin Mews, off Portobello Road.’
Jenny’s hazy memory of Portobello Road was of the Saturday antiques market, the narrow street crammed with stalls selling Victorian prints, cracked china and the kind of old trinkets that used to fill her grandmother’s house. But on a weekday it was almost deserted. All that remained of the market was a handful of fruit-and-vegetable stalls.
Quentin Mews was off the poorer, dirtier end of the street within yards of the Westway, the thundering flyover that carried four lanes of traffic between White City and Marylebone. Picking her way over its rough cobbles in her narrow heels, Jenny realized that the outward scruffiness was an illusion. There were no electric gates guarding the mews entrance or neatly clipped bay trees either side of the front doors, but money, even the kind that tries to hide itself, has a smell, and it leached out of the artfully soot-stained bricks.
15a was at the far end of the cul-de-sac, the house furthest from the street. She rang, and waited for some time for Harry Thorn to come to the door. Closer to fifty than forty, he stood barefoot in jeans and a crumpled linen shirt; his thick grey stubble was longer than the hair on his broad, sunburned scalp. He was tall, with square shoulders that suggested he had once been well built, but his muscles had withered onto a bony frame, and his yellowing eyes were those of a man whose lifetime of hard living was fast catching up with him.
‘Jenny, is it?’
She nodded. ‘You’re Mr Thorn?’
‘Harry.’
He turned and led the way through the short hallway into a compact sitting room with French windows that opened onto a tiny courtyard barely big enough to hold a table and two chairs. A set of louvred doors divided the room from a galley kitchen. Thorn had been smoking marijuana; Jenny could smell it on his clothes, as distinctive as leaves on an autumn bonfire. He pressed a heavily veined hand to his forehead as he surveyed the furniture: a low-slung sofa and several African floor cushions, none of it appropriate for conducting a formal discussion.
‘Guess we’d better sit outside.’
Jenny heard footsteps from the floor above, then music: a slow heavy bass rhythm that pulsed through the whole house.
‘Will you turn that damn thing off, Gabra,’ Thorn yelled. ‘I’ve got a meeting here.’
‘Fuck you, Harry,’ a relaxed female voice called back.
He waited, looking thunderous. When she had made her point, the woman upstairs lowered the volume slightly.
Thorn shook his head. ‘Sorry about her. She can be a pain in the ass.’
Jenny said nothing and followed him outside, where they sat on iron chairs at a
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