The Coroner (20 page)

    'What's
he doing now? I told them no one else was to come in.'

    Jenny
said, 'I'll go. You stay here and make sure they don't make a mess of things.'

    She
strode across the wet grass to meet the large black saloon which was pulling up
next to the undertaker's van. It was a Mercedes she'd seen before. Frank
Grantham climbed out. Jenny caught up with him before he made it on to the
grass.

    'I'm
going to have to ask you to leave, Mr Grantham. I gave strict instructions that
no one was to come in.'

    'What
do you think you're doing here, Mrs Cooper?'

    'Section
23 of the Coroner's Act—'

    Grantham
shouted over her. 'That's what I thought we hired - a coroner, not a bloody
grave robber.'

    Jenny
strained to remain calm. 'I don't have to answer to you, but this is a
legitimate and necessary investigation. I am merely doing what my predecessor
for whatever reason failed to do.'

    'I'll
tell you what it is, it's disgusting.' Jenny could smell alcohol on his breath.
'And no way is my department paying for it, so you might as well stop right
now.' He looked enraged enough to hit her.

    'I've
asked you once, now I'm telling you - you are not permitted to be here. Please
leave or I'll have to ask the police to remove you.'

    'This
is council property. I'm as entitled to be here as you.'

    'This
operation is under the jurisdiction of the Crown. Any attempt to obstruct it is
a criminal offence.'

    Grantham
sneered, the rain plastering loose strands of his dull grey hair to his forehead.
'You've lost your marbles, madam.'

    He
pushed past her and set off towards the grave. Jenny chased after him. 'How
dare you? How
dare
you? Who do you think you are? Get out.'

    'If anyone
should be packing up, it's you.' He called out to Dawes and his men, 'Stop what
you're doing.'

    Confused
faces looked up as he bore down on them. Alison stepped forward. 'Frank?'

    Jenny
grabbed hold of the sleeve of his anorak, stopping him in his tracks. She
erupted. 'Maybe you've got a problem with women in positions of authority.
Well, get used to it, I'm the coroner here and what I say goes. Get the hell
out of this cemetery or you'll be spending the night in a police cell.'

    Grantham
looked at her in dumb astonishment. 'You're unhinged.'

    'If
you're not gone within one minute, I'm filing charges of obstructing a coroner
in the course of duty and contempt. Your choice.'

    Grantham
looked at Alison, expecting her to come to his rescue.

    Jenny
said, 'See Mr Grantham out, would you?'

    Grantham
said, 'I thought you were more sensible than to get mixed up in this sort of
nonsense, Alison.'

    Quietly,
but firmly, Alison said that perhaps it would be better if he were to let the
coroner get on with her work.

    Grantham
shook his head. 'I don't believe this. I do not believe it.'

    Jenny
turned to Alison. 'He doesn't seem to have got the message. Fetch one of the
police officers.'

    Alison
hesitated for only a fraction before reaching into her pocket and bringing out
a walkie-talkie.

    'All
right,' Grantham said. 'But I'm warning you, Jenny, this is going to land you
in deep trouble. The Ministry of Justice is going to hear about this.'

    'They
certainly will.'

    He
gave her a look of utter contempt and marched back to his car, slipping several
times on the mud. It was a small, drenched, pathetic figure that climbed into
the driver's seat and reversed erratically towards the gates.

    Jenny
said, 'What did he think he was doing coming here? He's got no right to
interfere with a coroner's investigation.'

    'You'd
have to know him. He's used to being king of his own little castle. If he
doesn't like something, he thinks he can just weigh in.'

    'Did
Marshall have to put up with this?'

    With
a note of regret, Alison said, 'I'm afraid he wasn't very good at standing up
to bullies.'

    Jenny
turned back to the grave, where the men were still standing idle, waiting for
instruction. 'Who told you to stop? Come on, I want this coffin out and away
from here.'

    She
woke from a heavy, dreamless sleep at ten a.m. It was nearly two when she had
got back from the cemetery, jumpy and agitated. She had lain awake, starting at
every sound, until at nearly four she knocked herself out with two sleeping
pills. It took her a moment to realize it was the telephone that had woken her
and it was still ringing. She heaved herself out of bed and groped for her
bathrobe. More asleep than awake, she stumbled downstairs, wondering who could
be so desperate to want to reach her on a Saturday morning. She pushed through
the door into the study, and lifted the receiver.

    'Hello.'

    'Good
morning, Mrs Cooper. It's Tara Collins from the
Post.
We spoke earlier
in the week.'

    How
could she forget?

    'Sorry
to call you at home. Your number was in the book.'

    'Is
it? It shouldn't be.'

    'I'm
calling to ask if you want to make any comment on the exhumation of Katy
Taylor. I believe it happened last night.'

    'Who
told you that?'

    'I'm
afraid I'm not at liberty to say. You understand.'

    No,
she didn't, but it was foolish to think such a rare and ghoulish event could have
stayed out of the papers. Someone along the line would have picked up the phone
and sold the story for a few hundred pounds. Probably one of the grave-
diggers, perhaps even one of the policemen at the gate.

    She
knew she would have to say something to avoid idle speculation or a sensational
headline such as 'Coroner silent on reason for exhumation'. She said, 'In order
to determine the cause of death the body will be re-examined and exploratory
forensic tests carried out. I am not looking for anything in particular, merely
making sure that my investigation is thorough.'

    'I
understand she died five days after being released from Portshead Farm.'

    'That's
when she went missing.'

    'It
doesn't strike you as any sort of coincidence?'

    'I
deal in factual evidence.'

    'You
do know Danny Wills and Katy knew each other? They'd both been to drug
awareness classes with the Youth Offending Team. Justin Bennett dealt with them
both.'

    Jenny
tried to maintain the professional front, but a disturbing sensation was moving
through her. 'As I said, I'm not in the business of speculating.'

    'Off
the record for a moment,' Tara said, striking a conspiratorial tone, 'don't you
think it's a connection worth looking into? I'd go in there and try and find
kids who knew them both if I could, but I've no access. You have.'

    Even
half awake she wasn't going to fall for the off-the- record routine. 'You'll
appreciate that my investigation will proceed a step at a time. I can't say any
more than that.'

    'Hear
that?' Jenny heard a faint click. 'That's my tape recorder switched off, swear
to God. None of this is going into print. Look, I appreciate you've got a
problem reopening the Danny Wills case when there's already been an inquest,
but what you're doing now is a way into it. Believe me, I've spoken to kids
who've been in Portshead - there's drugs, sex, the place is rotten. You think
street gangs are bad, in there there's no escaping them. No one comes out
better. Anything could have happened to her inside. We're talking about a
drop-dead-gorgeous fifteen-year-old prostitute with a drugs problem - talk
about easy meat.'

    The
crawling sensation worked its way up Jenny's spine and over her head. What Tara
was telling her made perfect sense, of course. She'd spent most of her career
despairing at the parlous state of the institutions that were meant to look
after vulnerable kids, but the prospect of taking them on and digging that deep
filled her with dread: it was precisely the mire she'd hoped becoming a coroner
would drag her out of. Andy Taylor had hit it on the head out at the building
site when he said the system couldn't tell right from wrong. There was
something almost demonic about criminal teenagers; they were compelling,
frightening and unpredictable. It took an iron will and a ferocious moral sense
to deal with them, but rarely had she met a man or woman in the field who
possessed those qualities.

    Jenny
said, 'Last time we spoke, Ms Collins, you threatened me. I appreciate these
are emotive cases, but I won't be told what to do by you or anyone else. I will
do my job as best I can. No proper line of enquiry will remain unexplored. Now,
if you'll excuse me, I need to have some breakfast.'

    'Just
one more question—'

    Jenny
put down the receiver. She expected the journalist to ring straight back, but
the phone remained silent. She walked through to the kitchen with her head
already full of possible connections between Katy and Danny Wills, none of them
pleasant. Tara Collins's call had certainly woken her up.

    Halfway
through her second cup of strong coffee and after she had scribbled pages of
questions in a notebook, she remembered her lunch date with David and Ross . .
. and Deborah. She had spoken only briefly to Ross on the phone last night as
she was on her way to oversee the exhumation and he was heading out with
friends, allegedly to a bowling alley. He'd been monosyllabic on the subject of
his exams and even more taciturn about today's lunch. Who could blame him?
David had probably issued grave warnings about a 'family conference' and a
'serious chat', some of the stock phrases he would utter in the same doom-laden
tones he must use on his poor patients about to undergo bypass surgery. She
pictured the scene around the dining-room table and cringed.

    A
third cup of coffee and half a temazepam only cancelled each other out. She
threw on some old clothes and went out into the garden to see if it would make
her feel any better.

    In
only three days the grass had already grown several inches and the weeds on the
cart track were doing even better.

    Either
she would have to find the energy and the inclination to mow and slash every
week of the summer or it was going to cost her a small fortune in labour. She
breathed in the mild, damp air. Everything was still wet with last night's rain
and now the sun had finally made it out clouds of steam were rising. It was as
humid as a rainforest; the garden felt heavy and oppressive, every leaf and
blade of grass seemed to bend under a burden. She wandered over to the ruined
mill building, leaned back against the cold stones and watched the brook. The
water was a good six inches higher than usual and full of dirty brown silt. It
had swollen from a harmless paddling stream to a minor torrent capable of
drowning a child.

    It
infuriated her that David could make her so frightened. He was only a few years
older than she was yet had always managed to feel like her father, far worse
than her father, in fact, who was now a frail old man in a Weston-super-Mare
nursing home. In all their years of marriage she had never managed to attain an
equal footing; she was always the junior partner, always in the wrong. Only on
the issue of Ross's education did she get her own way. She was adamant that he
would go to the local comprehensive and grow up among children who didn't take
wealth and advantage for granted. She had to admit it hadn't been an
unqualified success and the school's failings provided David with a stick he
never missed an opportunity to beat her with, but at least Ross hadn't become
arrogant or removed. Exams could always be taken again.

    She
retreated back indoors, took a shower and spent the best part of an hour trying
to put together an outfit that would let her hold her own against the
inevitably attractive Deborah without making it look as if she had tried too
hard. She ended up in a pair of smart, close-fitting jeans and a black top that
showed just a hint of cleavage. She put on a plain silver necklace - one she'd
bought for herself since the divorce - and matching earrings. With a little
skilful make-up she looked ten years younger and quite sexy, the kind of woman
who'd eat a twenty-five-year-old floozy for breakfast. She slipped on a pair of
plain black heels that gave her an extra three inches; she'd stand almost eye
to eye with David.