The Coroner (41 page)

    'Just
a voice, like someone calling out, something falling over . . . that was it. It
went quiet.'

    'You
said you heard more than one voice.'

    'I
know . . . I'm not sure ... I think I must have heard him doing it. It was
late, I know that.'

    'Can
you be sure you heard more than one voice?'

    '. .
. No. Sorry.'

    'Then
why did you say it?'

    'I
don't know.'

    Jenny
didn't believe him, but flogging the question any more would appear desperate.
Playing her last card, she asked, 'Were there a lot of drugs on the house
unit?'

    'Some.'

    'Where
did they come from?'

    'Stuff
gets in.' He pulled back his shoulders, defiant. 'Don't expect me to grass,
I'll go back inside first.'

    'Do
you know if Danny got hold of anything?'

    Terry
looked at her and nodded, stroking the side of his face, like she'd given him a
thought he hadn't had before. He said, 'Yeah. He was definitely chilled, you
know. Yeah. Maybe he did.'

    That
was all she got from Terry. If he knew anything more he wasn't letting on. It
was more than his life was worth to tell the world who the dealers were in
Portshead. Jenny knew enough about teenage drug culture to know he was serious
when he said he'd do more time before he informed. The law of the street,
backed up by threats of serious violence, held far more sway than anything the
police could impose.

    Hartley
cross-examined briefly and effectively, neutralizing any damage Terry's vague
testimony had done his clients. He repeated again that he couldn't be sure if
it was more than one voice he heard, or even if he'd dreamt the whole thing. He
admitted that he had no idea whether or not Danny had got hold of drugs that
night; in fact, he'd never thought about it until he'd been asked the question.

    When
he had finished, Hartley turned and smiled to his clients, letting them know
that order had been restored. Despite the jury's negative reaction to Elaine
Lewis, he knew there was no reason for them to return a verdict other than
suicide.

    Jenny
adjourned for lunch and retreated to her chambers, the energy draining from her
limbs as she crashed down from the adrenalin high. She took out the tablet she
had reserved for an hour's time, swallowed it and slumped into the chair at her
desk. She had a decision to make: whether to press on and begin summing up the
case to the jury, or to adjourn and buy herself a couple more days to root
around for evidence, maybe try to find the girls Danny spoke to in the canteen,
see if one of them was Katy. That one word,
voices,
kept repeating in
her mind. If there was another voice, whose was it? She didn't have enough
information. If she went the adjournment route she'd have to justify it; going
on a fishing trip at this stage in the proceedings risked making her look
biased. If she went straight to summing up she'd be heading for a suicide
verdict and UKAM would walk away without a stain on their corporate character.

    There
was a rap at the door. She turned to see the man she recognized as the official
from the back of the court enter before she had replied. His expression was
stern.

    'Mrs
Cooper, Simon Moreton. I look after coroners for the Ministry of Justice.'

    'I
saw your card.' She motioned him to a seat. 'Do you normally barge in without
being asked?'

    He
remained standing and ignored her question. 'There's no tactful way of saying
this, so I shan't attempt to. You were warned by the Attorney General's office
that your conduct of this inquest was to be sensitive and proportionate, but
I'm afraid your behaviour has given us serious cause for concern.'

    'Has
it? How, exactly?'

    'The
tender document is, as you know, not only commercially delicate, it is
extremely delicate politically also. It is not information in the public arena
and it is not your place to put it there. I don't know where you got hold of
it, but I'm going to ask you to hand it over now.'

    'I
thought the coroner was independent of government, Mr Moreton. Isn't that the
whole point?'

    'Making
that document public could jeopardize our prison- building programme. You know
how unpalatable the public, led by the media, finds the idea of privately run
prisons. It's not even as if a single sentence of that tender is relevant to
the death of Danny Wills.'

    'I
think, as coroner, I'm the best judge of that, don't you?'

    'Do I
have to be more explicit, Mrs Cooper? If you continue to stray beyond the
narrow issue of the when, where and how Danny Wills's death occurred you will
have proved yourself unfit for this office. And, quite frankly, your
appointment was highly questionable in the first place, particularly given your
medical history. Misrepresenting it on your application is a sin easily big enough
to see you removed, without a pension and, unfortunately, with no further
prospect of employment within the legal or any other profession. Nobody wants a
liar with bad references.'

    The
edges of the room faded. She couldn't find her voice. Moreton reached over and
picked the tender document up from the desk, where she had placed it. 'Of
course I can't take this without your consent. . .'

    She
looked at it, then up at his face, unable to focus. He waited and, when she
didn't answer, gave a slight nod.

    Jenny
watched him turn and walk out of the door. As it clicked shut the sensation
rushed at her, like unexpected death. She struggled to her feet, clung to the
corner of the desk, then slumped to the floor.

    'How
long did the attack last?'

    'About
twenty minutes ... I was palpitating so violently I didn't have the strength to
get off the ground. My officer found me.'

    'What's
happened with your inquest?'

    'It's
been adjourned until next week. The official word is I've got food poisoning.'

    Dr
Allen gave her a look of genuine sympathy. He'd driven fifty miles from his
clinic in Cardiff to see her after hours in the consulting room at Chepstow. On
the positive side she was up, walking and talking; she'd even driven back from
Bristol. But she could no longer pretend the problem was under control. She'd
had her first full-blown panic attack in months and it was as violent as any
she'd had when she'd been at her lowest.

    'You've
been under a lot of stress?'

    'Yes.'

    'I did
warn you—'

    'I
know. But I can't stop now. I'm right in the middle of two important cases.'

    He
gave a patient smile. 'I'm sure you know, but this generalized anxiety disorder
from which you suffer falls into roughly three categories. Sometimes it occurs
when a person is simply overloaded, and when that load is diminished and with
rest, it gradually gets better. But sometimes it's a symptom caused by
post-traumatic stress, and sometimes there's no discernible reason for it at
all. I've reviewed your notes from Dr Travis thoroughly and I think he and I
are of one mind. The immediate cause of these attacks was general unhappiness
and overload, but we both feel there is probably an underlying cause. The
year-long gap in your childhood memory .. .'

    His
words triggered a feeling of fast-approaching doom. She tried unsuccessfully to
push it away. Dr Allen saw her discomfort.

    'If
there was a trauma that you were unable to process, it may have oversensitized
your fight or flight response. So in situations where a healthy person might
feel mild distress, you might be overcome by, quite literally, paralysing
fear.'

    'I've
been through all this with Dr Travis. I can't tell you how many times he tried
to regress me.'

    'I
know how frightened you must be feeling now, Jenny, but sometimes when you're
at your rawest, you're at your closest to the root cause of your problem. The
pathway between the two is shorter, if you like. If you can get to it, you can
deal with it. I really would like to do an exercise with you now . . . What
have you got to lose?'

    She
didn't have the will or the strength to fight. She stretched out on his couch
and went through the motions of relaxing her body until she felt as if she were
sinking into the floor. It was a routine that had become second nature.

    Dr
Allen said, 'Good. Now, if you can stand it, I want you to summon up that
feeling of fear that comes over you.'

    It
wasn't difficult.

    'I
want you to hold on to it and go back to the age of four. You're a young child
... I want you to tell me what image comes to mind.'

    It
was always the same one. 'I'm in my bedroom. The walls are yellow. There's an
eggshell-blue rug on the floor. I'm sitting on it, playing with a Sindy doll .
. . She's got bobbed hair and a black and white checked miniskirt.'

    'Are
you happy?'

    'Yes.
Very.'

    'What
else is going on around you?'

    'It's
winter. I think it might even be snowing outside, but my room's warm. I feel
cosy.'

    'Then
what?'

    'I
don't know .. . Maybe some raised voices downstairs. My parents argued a lot.'
This was as far as she ever got. She told Dr Allen she remembered the doll, the
rug, the gurgle of the radiator, her white ankle socks, the smell of cooking
food drifting up the stairs, but never what happened next. If she tried to push
it, she simply detached and lost touch.

    Dr
Allen said, 'Can you hear the voices?'

    'My
mother, calling down the hall from the kitchen, my father calling back, I think
he's in the sitting room, I can hear the TV, then—' She jolted, a brief,
violent seizure through her whole body.

    'What
is it?'

    Jenny
snatched at her breath, the image gone, back in the consulting room with a
dazed feeling like she'd touched a bare wire. She opened her eyes and shook her
head. 'A noise . . . like a pounding.'

    'On
what, a door?'

    'I
think so.'

    'The
front door?'

    'Could
be . . .'

    'Can
we go back there?'

    She
shook her head. 'It's like a shutter coming down, I can't get through it.'

    'Have
you heard this noise before?'

    'No.'

    Dr
Allen smiled, delighted. 'See what I mean? We've got somewhere.' He started
excitedly to make notes on his pad. 'This is really something. Maybe your
parents could help. Are they still alive?'

    'My
father is, but he's in a home. He has Alzheimer's. You don't get a lot out of
him these days.'

    'Any
brothers or sisters?'

    'No.
Just me.'

    'Your
parents never talked about any incident?'

    'They
separated when I was seven or eight. My mother married again. I never saw much
of my father after that.'

    'What
was the problem between them?'

    'They
just weren't right together. He was a down to earth type, ran a garage
business. My mother always complained there was no glamour in her life, so she
ran off with an estate agent. Figure that one out.'

    'At
least we've made some progress. If we keep at it I wouldn't be surprised if you
unlocked it yourself over the next few weeks.'

    'What
am I meant to do in the meantime?'

    'Ideally
you'd take a few weeks off.'

    'I
can't...'

    'Then
I'll have to prescribe you antidepressants and beta blockers to try to prevent
any further attacks, but you'll have to promise me not to mix them with
anything else. You won't be able to pop tranquillizers when you feel like it
and you'll have no tolerance to alcohol.'

    'Will
I be able to work?'

    'At
about eighty-five per cent.'