The Coroner (31 page)

    'Very
interesting,' Crossley said. 'May I keep this for my records?'

    'Sure.'

    He
tucked it into his file. 'You do appreciate that rehearing an inquest is quite
a drastic step. The Attorney General would have to be convinced that an
alternative verdict would be highly likely to result.'

    'A
secure training centre took in a boy whose family social worker told them
needed to be seen by a psychiatrist, but they didn't do it. They didn't even
have access to a psychiatrist because of a contractual dispute. That to me
seems a clear breach of their duty of care.'

    'But
how sure can you be that seeing a psychiatrist would have made any difference?
The boy might still have killed himself.'

    'A
psychiatrist might have had him sectioned or medicated.'

    'Plenty
of people properly diagnosed as medically ill kill themselves.'

    Jenny
felt a fuse blow. 'We're talking about a children's prison operating without
access to a psychiatrist. Doesn't that concern you?'

    'It's
certainly regrettable, but I'm not altogether persuaded—'

    'Perhaps
a coroner's jury would be.'

    Crossley
eased back in his chair and knitted his fingers, the smile replaced with a
frown. 'This is what I was concerned about, Jenny, that you had become
personally involved in the case. I note your background is in family law.'

    She
could have jumped over the desk and punched him. 'What concerns me, Mr
Crossley, is that someone's sent you down here scared that I'm about to
embarrass the government by exposing gross flaws in the private prisons it's so
keen on.'

    'You're
giving every impression of partiality, I must say.'

    'The
coroner is not an impartial judge like those you are familiar with in the Crown
Court, she is an inquisitor with one overriding duty: to discover the cause of
death. My predecessor failed to call vital witnesses. If you choose not to give
me leave to ask the High Court's permission to examine this again, I really
will embarrass you - I'll seek judicial review and it'll be all over the press
that your department tried to stand in my way.'

    'You're
imputing a very disreputable motive to us, verging on the paranoid.'

    'Well,
tell me I'm wrong.'

    'In
the light of Mrs Turner's statement I can see that we might be sympathetic to
your application, but you'll understand that we're concerned that any inquest
conforms to the highest standards. You'll be under a good deal of scrutiny from
the Ministry of Justice.'

    'Their
time might be better spent scrutinizing their prisons.'

    'You're
really quite angry about this, aren't you?'

    'Danny
Wills was a sick child. Who wouldn't be?'

    Crossley
gave an uncomfortable smile. 'If you really are intent on hearing this inquest
again you can at least conduct it in dignified surroundings. Call the Ministry
- they'll find you a proper courtroom. We can't have the public thinking we're
running a third-world system.' He rose from his chair. 'I hope we understand
each other.'

    Alison
showed Crossley and his young companion out and recommended an Italian
restaurant where they'd be sure to get a table for lunch. Through the partially
open door to reception Jenny could hear her, calling him
Mr
Crossley,
and wishing him a pleasant journey back to London, doing everything she could
to repair the damage.

    Alison
appeared a few minutes later with a handful of printed emails. She gave her a
look that Jenny now recognized, the one that said she was concerned when what
she actually wanted was to give her opinion. 'I do hope they let you go ahead,
Mrs Cooper.'

    'They've
got no choice. If they refuse, I'll go straight to the High Court, seeking
judicial review.'

    That
look again. 'You seem tired.'

    'If
you've got something to say, just say it.'

    'You
did sound rather aggressive.'

    'He
was the aggressive one. I was honest.'

    'This
will be the only chance they give you, you know that.'

    'I
can't think of a better case to take it on, can you?'

    The
call came as two delivery men were manoeuvring a desk through her office door.
She was jammed up against the bookshelves, pleading with them to be careful as
they trod files underfoot and knocked lumps out of the paintwork. She snatched
the phone before one of them tripped over the wire. 'Jenny Cooper.'

    'Mrs
Cooper, it's Isabel Thomas, Ross's Head of Year.'

    'Oh,
hello.'

    'I'm
afraid we've had a situation. Ross is all right, but he's rather the worse for
wear.'

    'Oh .
. .' Her heart was bouncing off the back of her throat. 'What's happened?'

    'We're
not sure exactly. A member of staff found him at lunchtime. He's intoxicated.'

    'Drunk?'

    'No.
I think it's some kind of drugs. As you know, school policy is to inform the
police — '

    'Please
don't do that. It's completely out of character.'

    'I'll
hold off this time, but my feeling is that this has been going on for a while.'

    'No
one's said anything.'

    'It's
just an impression, that's all . . . Look, I've got him here in my office. I
tried to contact your husband—'

    
'Don't.
I'll be right there.'

    The
irony wasn't lost on her as she swallowed another pill before venturing into
the building. Schools filled her with dread at the best of times: the sense of
judgement which suffused them. Her footsteps reverberated around the scruffy
corridors. The air was stale, heavy and smelt vaguely of bleach and the lasagne
that had evidently been served for lunch. She passed classrooms, some orderly,
others bordering on riotous, in which teachers pleaded with unruly children to
be quiet. It brought back memories of her own schooldays in a precious girls'
grammar: always on edge, waiting for the sharp reproach or hurtful jibe. It had
felt like a prison. She had hoped Ross's experience would be less pressured,
but she could feel the tension in the air. Different, but no less intimidating.

    Isabel
Thomas, a brisk, impersonal woman in her early thirties, was hovering in the
corridor outside her office, talking into her phone. When Jenny approached she
rang off and glanced at her watch as if to say,
what took you?

    'Mrs
Thomas?'

    'He's
in here, but I just wanted a quick word.' She ushered her several yards along
the corridor out of earshot. 'Ross won't say anything, but I'm pretty sure he's
been smoking cannabis. Another member of staff found some roaches and he had
papers and tobacco in his pockets.'

    Jenny
felt a wave of relief. 'At least it wasn't anything worse.'

    'Some
of his teachers have noticed that he's been a bit vague in lessons recently. I
see from the register that he's had a large number of absences this year.'

    'Really?
I'd no idea.'

    'So
he's not been staying at home?'

    'I
don't think so . . . Actually, he lives with his father most of the time.'

    'You
separated earlier this year, didn't you? It's often a crisis point for
teenagers.'

    'We
will deal with it. I'm sure it's just a phase.'

    'I'd
recommend you get him some professional help if you can. Normally this sort of
thing would result in immediate expulsion.'

    'You
can't. We don't even know what happened.'

    'I've
had to tell the Head. It's her decision, but in Ross's case I think she might
be persuadable.'

    'So
what's his status?'

    'She'll
call you, but you can presume he's suspended until further notice.'

    'He's
still got exams to sit.'

    'He'll
be allowed to sit them, just not to remain on school premises.'

    'This
is such an overreaction.'

    'I'm
sorry it was your son, Mrs Cooper, but it can happen to anyone.' She gave her a
look of faux sympathy. 'You'd better take him now.'

    Ross
lay back in the passenger seat, his eyes half closed, as Jenny climbed into the
driver's seat. He looked peaceful, not at all rattled by the events of the
afternoon. She looked at him: he was profoundly stoned, probably feeling on
cloud nine.

    'Where
do you want to go - home or my place?'

    'Wherever.
You decide.' The words drifted out of him.

    She
considered the alternatives. Whichever she chose, the day would end in an ugly
confrontation with David blaming her for ruining their only son. It made sense
to take Ross back to his own house, where he could sleep off the dope, but it
would send a message to his father that she couldn't cope. And if there was to
be a showdown she would prefer to be on her turf and not have Deborah as an
audience.

    Ross
dozed as she drove away from the city and headed out on the motorway towards
the Severn Bridge. She called Alison and told her he had been taken ill and she
wouldn't be back in the office until the morning. More than happy to be proved
indispensable, Alison promised to hold the fort and fax any vital paperwork to
her at home. By the time they reached Chepstow, Ross was in a deep sleep. When
they pulled up outside Melin Bach Jenny tried to shake him awake, but he
wouldn't stir. So she pulled further up the cart track and left him in the car.

    It
was nearly six o'clock when he woke from his torpor and staggered out on to the
cart track. Jenny came out of the kitchen with her second pot of coffee and saw
him leaning against the bonnet, light-headed and trying to figure out where he
was.

    'How
are you feeling?'

    He
scratched his head. 'Rough.'

    'Come
and sit down. I'll get you a cup.'

    He
sloped over to the table rubbing his eyes, avoiding her gaze. She went back
into the kitchen to fetch a mug and some biscuits. Coming down from that big a
high, he'd be ravenous.

    She
let him sit in peace while she pulled weeds out from around the herbs and
nipped the dead heads off the semi-wild roses. She wanted to let him know he
wasn't being judged, that she wasn't an ogre like his father. Neither said a
word for more than ten minutes, but she could feel him gradually lift out of
the deep trough he'd woken in. She would never have said it, but she felt she
understood his mood, better than he did. Like her, he was sensitive and
self-conscious. If he felt under attack he'd retaliate and say things he didn't
mean. If he felt accepted he'd open up and let her in.

    He
broke the silence first with a muttered, 'Sorry.'

    Jenny
straightened up from her weeding and turned with a smile. 'It's OK.' She came
over to the table, wiping her muddy hands on the jeans she had changed into
while he was sleeping. 'Feeling any better?'

    He
nodded, his face set in a tired frown.

    'What
do you think of the place?'

    He
looked up from the table and glanced around, screwing his eyes up against the
bright, early-evening light. 'Different.'

    'Like
it?'

    'Yeah.
It's cool.'

    They
sat in silence for another moment, then Jenny reached out and touched his hand.
'You're not feeling ill?'

    'I'm
fine.' He pulled his hand away. 'Have you spoken to Dad?'

    'I
left a message for him.'

    'Does
he know?'

    'Mrs
Thomas got to his secretary first. I told him you were with me and we'd call
him later.'

    'Shit.
. . Am I suspended?'