Eckersley paused in mid sentence. He was a small, neat, attentive man with bright eyes behind rimless glasses and a carefully tended moustache. A lawyer by training, he'd left a profitable Birmingham practice after a couple of years as Deputy for the city's Coroner. The world of sudden death, he'd once confessed to Eadie, had put him back in touch with real life. Not as just an inquisitor, trying to establish the truth about a particular set of circumstances, but as a human being, doing his best to ease the grief of those left behind.
'I read the file this morning,' he said. 'Such as it is. One of my blokes talked to a DC first thing. How much do we know about the lad?'
The 'we? put a smile on Eadie's face. She'd known from their first meeting that she represented something new and slightly exotic in this man's life.
'He was bright, very bright. Older than your average student and pretty much alone.'
She told him about Kelly's background, the wreckage of his parents' marriage, the way he'd rafted around the world on a fat monthly allowance, a bewildered loner looking for some sense of direction.
'Or purpose.'
'Quite.'
'And the drugs?'
'Supplied that purpose.'
'You're serious?'
'I am. You should listen to him, Martin. A couple of tapes are on their way to you. A nice detective seized them this morning. Kept asking me about supply of Class A drugs. Made me feel like a criminal.'
'You were there,' Eckersley pointed out. 'In fact you were probably the last person to see him alive. That makes you a witness.'
'That's what he said but that doesn't mean I killed him, does it? The key word here is 'witness'. I played the recording angel. Got it all down on tape, the whole story.'
'Good stuff? Effective?'
'Unbelievable. You can judge for yourself but, believe me, the guy's amazing. What he says is pretty controversial and it might not be our take on hard drugs but that doesn't make it any less valid. More to the point, he sounds authentic. He's been there. He is there. Any kid watching will know that, sense that, and at the end of the day some of them just might listen. Here.' Eadie rummaged in her day sack and produced a hastily folded photocopy. 'I know you've got the world's best memory but I thought this might help.'
Eckersley studied the photocopy. Three months ago, he'd been part of the review process, helping to check out Eadie's submission to the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership for match-funding on her video project.
Their first encounter had taken place in the Coroner's Office at Highland Road police station, a meeting of minds fuelled by appalling coffee. Eadie had deliberately left room for last-minute adjustments in the twenty-four- page submission document believing that heavyweight support could only strengthen her case and within a week, after further exchanges on the phone, she and Eckersley had agreed the single paragraph that seemed to sum up the thrust of Eadie's video.
Eadie waited until Eckersley had finished. Then she retrieved the photocopy, looking him in the eye, and began to read the paragraph aloud.
' 'The documentary maker has a duty to level the ground between the audience at risk and the real nature of the offending behaviour. The emphasis should be on reality… on real people, real causes, real consequences. There should be no need for homilies, for finger-wagging, for lists of do's and don'ts. The case for not using drugs should make itself.' '
She glanced up. 'The important word is 'consequences', Martin. Like I said, the interview is knockout, but if you want the truth there's only so much that words can do. What we need now are pictures, the rest of the story, what actually happens in a case like this.'
'You mean the post-mortem.'
'Sure. And the funeral. And the father. And maybe you. All of that.'
'You don't think that's intrusive?'
'Intrusive? Dear God, of course it's intrusive. But that's precisely the issue because drugs themselves are intrusive. In fact they're so bloody intrusive they kill you. And even if that doesn't happen, even if you limp on, more or less intact, they still take your life away. If that wasn't the truth, we wouldn't be talking like this. Nor would I be spending half my life running round after bloody junkies.' She beckoned him closer, aware of listening ears at nearby tables. 'My point is simple, Martin. It's consequences again. Just ask yourself a question. How many kids are going to be shooting up if they're thinking about bodies on slabs? About Daniel Kelly getting himself sliced up? Emptied? Weighed? Whatever else happens in the mortuary?
Is all that such a great advert for hard drugs?'
'Have you ever seen a post-mortem?'
'Never.'
'They're horrible.'
'Good.' Eadie held his gaze for a moment. 'Because that's the whole point.'
The waitress arrived. After some thought, Eckersley settled for a ham salad. Then he folded his newspaper and slipped it into the briefcase beside his chair.
'There's something else we ought to take on board,' he said finally.
'And that's the effect on your co-sponsors.'
'They've all signed up,' Eadie said at once. 'I've been totally frank from the start. I've told them exactly what to expect and there's absolutely nothing in this video that should take them by surprise. In fact, if anything I thought we'd have the opposite problem.'
'Meaning what?'
'Meaning I couldn't deliver what I promised. Meaning I'd end up with a mishmash of talking heads and millions of kids in thousands of classrooms all half asleep. Thanks to Dan, that isn't going to happen.'
'You're assuming I'm going to let you into the PM?'
'I'm assuming we share the same ambitions for the end result.'
'That's not necessarily the same thing.'
'Martin, I think deep down you know it is. You've got a problem here.
I understand that. It's your jurisdiction, your call. Jesus, as far as I understand it, Daniel Kelly actually belongs to you until you deliver a verdict at the inquest. But let's just take the bigger picture. I can get permission from Kelly's father faxed to you this afternoon. That might relieve some of the pressure. Then there's the shoot itself. I have one-hundred-per-cent confidence in what I'm doing, in the need for all this stuff. I know how it will play on the screen. I know the difference it will make. It's a tricky thing to do, I know it is, but all I'm asking is an act of faith. Believe in me, Martin. And believe in what we're trying to do.'
'I'm still concerned about your co-sponsors.'
'Don't be.'
'The Police Authority? You really think they'll be up for this?'
'They'll love it. They spend half their lives trying to give people a shake.'
'The city council?'
'They might well be queasy. But does that make them right?'
'Maybe not, but you'll have to be ready for all that. And how about your private sponsors? There'll be enormous publicity, headlines in the press, letters… Have they really signed up for this kind of controversy?'
'Most of them are in for a couple of hundred quid each. If they want to take their names off the project, they'll be more than welcome.'
'And your Mr. Hughes? 7000, wasn't it?'
Eadie nodded, surprised at his grasp of the figures. Doug Hughes was Eadie's first husband, a successful independent accountant with a small clientele of local businessmen. He and Eadie had been divorced now for nearly six years but had stayed good friends. Both her flat and Ambrym's office premises were rented from her ex- husband's company, and he'd supported the video project from the start.
'The 7000 isn't his. He's simply acting as a middle man. The real donor wants to stay out of it.'
'Anonymous?'
'Absolutely. Even I haven't got a clue where the seven grand comes from.' She paused, watching the waitress approach an adjoining table with a big bowl of pasta. 'Either way, he's not going to be making any kind of
