The Widow

Chapter 52

Thursday, 1 July 2010

The Reporter

THE CORONER WAS well known to the press. A small, neat solicitor who favoured highly coloured silk bow ties and kept a meticulously trimmed silver moustache. Hugh Holden liked to think of himself as a Character, an occasional thorn in the side of the authorities, unafraid to reach controversial verdicts.

Normally, Kate enjoyed his inquests and his quirky line in questioning and verbal flourishes, but she wasn’t in the mood today. She feared this was likely to be Jean Taylor’s last public appearance. There’d be no need for her to show her face again and she could disappear behind her front door for ever.

Outside the court, Mick was milling around with the other photographers waiting for the arrival shots. ‘Hi, Kate,’ he called over the heads. ‘See you after.’

She filed in with the rest of the reporters and the curious, managing to get one of the last press seats at the front, facing the witness box. Her thoughts were all on Jean and she watched the door for her entrance. She missed Zara Salmond slipping into the back of the court with some of the Met officers who’d be called to give evidence. Sparkes had sent her in his place. ‘You go, Salmond. I need your eyes and analysis on her performance. I can’t see anything straight at the moment.’

She’d only just arrived in time when the grind of the door hinges announced the arrival of the widow. Jean Taylor looked dignified and in control, in the same dress she’d worn for Glen’s funeral.

She walked slowly through the court with her lawyer to her seat in the front row. That weasel, Tom Payne, Kate thought, nodding affably to him and mouthing, ‘Good morning, Tom.’ He raised his hand in greeting and Jean looked to see who he was waving to. Their eyes met and Kate thought for a moment that she was going to acknowledge her. She tried a small smile but Jean turned away, uninterested.

The other witnesses took their time to settle, shaking hands and hugging each other in the aisles, but finally everyone took their places and stood to attention as the coroner entered.

The coroner’s officer stepped up to tell the court that the deceased’s father had identified the body as that of Glen George Taylor, and then the pathologist gave his evidence of the post-mortem examination. Kate kept her eyes on Jean, registering her reaction to the details of the dissection of her husband. He’d had a good last breakfast, anyway, Kate thought as the pathologist ran through the contents of his stomach in a desultory fashion. No sign of disease. Contusions and lacerations to arms and thighs consistent with the fall and collision with the vehicle. The fatal injury was to the head. Skull fracture caused by impact with bus and road surface, traumatic brain injury. Death pretty much instantaneous.

Jean pulled her handbag on to her knee and undid a small packet of tissues ostentatiously, unfolding one to wipe an eye. She’s not crying, Kate thought. She’s faking.

The bus driver was next. His tears were real as he told of the flash of a man falling in front of his cab window. ‘I never saw him so there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly. I braked, but it was too late.’

He was helped from the box by an usher, and then Jean was called.

Her performance was polished – too polished. To Kate’s ear, every word sounded as if it had been practised in front of the mirror. The shopping trip was walked through, step by step: around the aisles, out of the automatic doors and into the High Street. The discussion about cereal and Glen Taylor’s stumble into the path of the bus. All told in a low, serious voice.

Kate wrote it all down and glanced up to capture the expressions and any emotions.

‘Mrs Taylor, can you tell us why your husband stumbled? The police examined the pavement and could find nothing to make him lose his footing,’ the coroner asked kindly.

‘I don’t know, Sir. He fell under the bus right there, in front of me. I didn’t even have time to call out. He was gone,’ she answered.

She’s got this off pat now, Kate thought. She’s using identical phrases.

‘Was he holding your hand or your arm? I know I do with my partner when we’re out together,’ the coroner persisted.

‘No. Well, perhaps. I can’t remember,’ she said, less sure of herself now.

‘Was your husband distracted that day? Was he himself?’

‘Distracted? What do you mean?’

‘Not concentrating on what he was doing, Mrs Taylor.’

‘He’d a lot on his mind,’ Jean Taylor said and looked at the press benches. ‘But I’m sure you know that.’

‘Quite,’ the coroner said, pleased with himself for winkling out some new information. ‘So, what was his mood that morning?’

‘His mood?’

This was not going the way Jean had planned, Kate thought. Repeating questions back to the questioner was a sure sign of stress. You did it to buy time. The reporter leaned forward to make sure she didn’t miss a word.

‘Yes, his mood, Mrs Taylor?’

Jean Taylor closed her eyes and seemed to sway in the witness box. Tom Payne and the coroner’s officer leapt up to catch her and lower her into a chair as the court hummed with concern.

‘It’s a line, I suppose,’ the reporter behind Kate muttered to a colleague. “Widow of Bella suspect collapses.” Better than nothing.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ she hissed over her shoulder.

Jean gripped a glass of water and stared at the coroner.

‘Better now, Mrs Taylor?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you. Sorry about that. I didn’t eat anything this morning and…’

‘That’s perfectly all right. No need to explain. Now shall we get back to my question?’

Jean took a deep breath. ‘He hadn’t been sleeping properly, not for ages, and he’d been getting bad headaches.’

‘And had he been treated for his insomnia and headaches?’

She shook her head. ‘He said he wasn’t well but he wouldn’t go to the doctor’s. He didn’t want to talk about it, I think.’

‘I see. Why not, Mrs Taylor?’

She looked at her lap for a moment, then raised her head. ‘Because he said he kept dreaming about Bella Elliott.’

Hugh Holden held her gaze and the room stilled as he nodded to her to continue.

‘She was there when he closed his eyes, he said. It was making him ill. And he wanted to be with me all the time. Following me around the house. I didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t well.’

The coroner noted it all down carefully as the reporters scribbled furiously to his left.

‘Given his state of mind, Mrs Taylor, is there a possibility that your husband stepped in front of the bus on purpose?’ the coroner asked.

Tom Payne rose to challenge the question, but Jean waved him away.

‘I don’t know, Sir. He never said anything about taking his own life. But he wasn’t well.’

The coroner thanked her for her evidence, gave her his condolences and recorded a verdict of Accidental Death.

‘I’ll be on the news tonight,’ he told the court usher gleefully as the press filed out.