Angry with herself, she started off down the lane back towards the north end of Tintern. As her self-critical thoughts escalated into a torrent of rage she picked up speed. With the high hedges and verges bursting with waist-high grass and cow parsley, the chances of seeing oncoming traffic were zero. It was an old Ford tractor towing a load of freshly cut silage that met her coming around a hairpin. The tractor driver saw her first and pulled sharply into the gateway of a field. Jenny rounded the bend and was faced with an implausibly narrow gap between the hedge and the trailer. Instinct took over. She jerked the wheel sharp left, smacked her wing mirror on the trailer as she skimmed by with inches to spare and fish-tailed to a halt, her left wheels jammed in a ditch hidden by the long grass on the verge.

  She sat, dazed for a moment, aware that the car was leaning and stuck. There was a knock on the driver's window. She turned, startled, to see a ruddy-faced old farmer smiling in at her, several of his teeth missing. She lowered the window.

  'In a hurry, were you, love?'

  'I'm sorry—'

  'Lucky I saw you coming.'

  'I don't know what happened. I must have been miles away.' She felt a sudden urge to cry but fought hard against it. 'Is your trailer all right?'

  'He's fine.' The old boy glanced over her car. 'Looks like you might have got away with it, too. I've got a rope in the back - I'll tug you out.'

  'I'm so sorry . . .'

  The farmer grinned, only four brown teeth in the whole of his mouth. 'You're Mrs Cooper, aren't you? I've heard you're one to look out for. Still, you won't be doing that again, eh?'

  Fifteen minutes later and having suffered no more than a broken mirror and wounded pride, Jenny drove carefully up the track lined with silver birch leading to Ty Argel, where, the good-natured farmer had assured her, she would find Steve 'still skulking in the woods'. She rounded a bend and pulled up outside a small farmhouse. There was a dirt yard in front in which stood his elderly Land Rover, assorted tools, building materials and a handful of chickens. Jenny climbed out, glad of her boots, and was met by an exuberant sheepdog running towards her, barking loudly. Dogs were one thing Jenny wasn't frightened by. Her grandparents had owned three of them. Patting her thighs, she said, 'Come on, then. There's a good girl.' The dog, sensing a friend, jumped up and planted two dirty paws on her shirt. Jenny pushed her down and ruffled the fur on her head, making the kind of baby noises all dogs love.

  'He's a boy. Alfie.' Steve appeared from the stone barn at the far side of the yard, an axe in his hand. He dropped his roll-up and ground it underfoot as he walked over.

  'He's very friendly.'

  Alfie rolled on his back, feet in the air. A sign of complete trust.

  'Unless you're the postman. Can't stand anyone official, can you, Alf? Just like his owner.' Steve crouched down and joined Jenny in stroking the dog's belly. He was in bliss.

  Steve glanced at her boots. 'Come dressed for work, I see? I've got five ton of logs in there need splitting.'

  Jenny smiled, noticing his smell: sweat and rolling tobacco, strong but not offensive. 'I figured I owed you some overtime. The garden looks great, by the way.'

  'You should have seen it years ago when Joan Preece was still fit. It was beautiful, but sort of natural.'

  'Hopefully it will be again.'

  'The thing about gardens, they take a lot of attention. Don't touch them for weeks at a time they get resentful.'

  Jenny pulled some notes out of her jeans pocket. 'I'm sure I'll need some regular help, if you're interested.'

  'Sounds dangerously like a job to me.'

  'I'll leave it up to you.' She offered the money.

  He stood up from stroking the dog. 'If you're sure?'

  'I didn't come all the way over here and drive into a ditch to stroke your dog, nice as he is.'

  Steve smiled and stuffed the money into his hip pocket. 'Cheers.' He ran his eyes over the Golf, scratches all along the nearside. 'I can see you've been giving the hedge a trim. What happened?'

  'Nearly ran into a tractor up the lane. Luckily he was decent about it and towed me out of the ditch.'

  'Wasn't an old lad with no teeth?'

  'Could be. Said his name was Rhodri something.'

  'Glendower. That's him. Keep your doors shut tonight - he's got a real thing for the ladies.'

  'I could hardly contain myself.'

  'Since his wife died he's had most of the women up this valley. Promises them all half his farm.' He smiled. 'Let me get you a beer. I'll show you round.'

  He fetched two bottles from the pantry - he didn't have a fridge, he said - and gave her a tour of the homestead. It comprised twelve acres of mostly coppiced woodland in which he cut logs and grew a variety of trees which he sold to a commercial nursery. At the back of the house was a vegetable garden where he raised produce which he supplied to local shops. He didn't offer to show Jenny inside, saying he was still working on the house, but from the glimpses she caught through the downstairs windows she saw a tidy but stark interior: solid floors and wooden furniture he might have made himself.

  Leading her between the rows of produce, he rolled another cigarette - somewhat guiltily, she noticed, hiding from her whatever he had in his tobacco tin - and told her about some of the local characters. There was Dick Howell, an alcoholic accountant who lost his job, his wife, then took to living in the back of his estate car while he drank what was left of the money he had stolen from his clients. He'd camped out in Steve's barn for a while, then went to live with a woman old enough to be his mother. And there was Andy the carpenter, a young guy who went to do a job for a couple who had just moved down from London and never left; two years later the three of them were still sharing the same house. Some nights they'd all come to the pub together.

  Listening to him talk, she found herself weighing him like a lawyer would a witness, thinking, was his calmness genuine or did it come from what he smoked?

  She said, 'So what's your story?'

  Steve stopped by the crooked wooden gate leading from the vegetable garden to the yard and took a slow pull on his beer. 'It's not the life I planned, that's for sure.'

  Jenny leaned back against the fence. 'And what was that?'

  'I was at architectural college in Bristol. Bought this place in my fourth year with money my dad left me. Had big plans for it. Then I met a girl . . .' He set his bottle on the gatepost and started to roll a third cigarette, a pained expression on his face. 'She was an art student. Talented, but mad. We fell in love, moved out here and fought like hell.' He broke off to strike a match and took a deep draw. 'Couple of years of that and I'd sort of let the studying go. She got high and threw herself in the river a couple of times, then took off with some bloke she met in rehab in Cardiff. Last I heard she was out in Thailand or somewhere.'

  'What was her name?'

  'Sarah Jane. Sounds innocent, doesn't it? He tugged his T-shirt down across his left shoulder revealing a jagged scar that ran almost to his neck. 'Did that with the kitchen knife. Could've killed me. Had the best sex ever the next day.'

  Jenny tried to hide her embarrassment. 'How long were you with her?'

  'Five years. And I've had another five here on my own since. Quiet sometimes, but at least there's no one trying to kill me.' He spotted Alfie stalking a chicken in the yard and called out to him to leave it alone. The sheepdog scuttled away. 'You got me sounding sorry for myself, now - it's not like that. Life's good.'

  'You'd be the envy of a lot of people.' She swallowed the last of her beer. 'Thanks for the drink. If you fancy more work you know where I am.'

  He lifted the gate, sagging on its hinge, and let her through into the yard. As she headed back to her car, feeling lightheaded from the beer and wondering whether she was safe to drive, he called after her, 'I'll see you next Tuesday.'

  Jenny got to the office the next morning with the aid of only one temazepam, determined to put her relationship with Alison on a professional footing. Having slept on it, she could see two distinct explanations for Marshall's failure to hold an inquest for Katy Taylor and his lack of passion in conducting the inquest into Danny Wills's death. Either improper pressure had been brought to bear on him, which like all conspiracy theories, was unlikely, or else there was a far more human and personal reason. Having suffered the ravages of a minor emotional collapse, she had an all too vivid insight into what a major one might be like. Marshall's behaviour during his final few weeks bore all the hallmarks. A man struggling with depression would be moody and listless; the Danny Wills investigation might have caused him to rally briefly, only for the clouds to gather again once he realized the futility of his task. By the time Katy Taylor's file landed on his desk he had probably lost all will. Slumped in despair after twenty years of processing the dead, there would have seemed little point in mounting yet another inquest in which the outcome - accidental death - was a foregone conclusion.

  Clipping up to the front door in a new pair of heels, this straightforward conclusion felt liberating. She would hold an inquest into Katy's death and properly explore the possibility of suicide or homicide, politely but firmly calling on the relevant police officers to account for their actions. Meanwhile, she would review the evidence in Danny Wills's case and come to a conclusion as to whether the drastic step of seeking leave from the High Court to conduct a fresh inquest was justified. Both courses of action were entirely proper, uncontroversial and exactly what the Ministry of Justice would expect of a diligent new coroner. She filed all paranoid thoughts of dark forces away and went to work feeling a good deal saner.

  She entered reception to find Alison hovering by her desk. Jenny glanced at her watch. It was only eight-thirty.

  'Good morning, Alison. You're early.'

  Alison's eyes flicked apprehensively towards Jenny's office. 'Mr Grantham's here to see you. I told him to wait inside. It's still a bit of a mess out here.'

  'Grantham?'

  'From the local authority. Head of legal services.'

  'Oh, OK.' She vaguely recalled the name from one of her interviews and wondered what he could want. All meaningful control over the coroner's office, and there was not a lot of it, was exercised by the Ministry of Justice. 'Are we expecting him?'

  Before her officer could answer, a stocky man somewhere in upper middle age emerged from the inner office. He was dressed in a blazer and grey flannels and wore what Jenny assumed was a golf club tie. He hoisted his heavy cheeks into an insincere smile.

  'Mrs Cooper, good to see you again.' He extended a plump hand, which she felt obliged to shake. 'Thank you, Alison.'

  Turning to Jenny, Grantham said, 'I won't keep you a moment. I know how busy you must be.'

  'Yes,' Jenny said, doing a bad job of hiding her irritation.

  'Shall we?' He gestured towards her office as if it were his own.

  Jenny turned to Alison. 'Bring me through any overnight reports, would you?'

  'Will do, Mrs Cooper.'

  Taking her time, Jenny stepped into the room ahead of Grantham and gestured him to one of the two visitor's chairs while she stood behind her desk and proceeded to unload papers from her briefcase.

  'What can I do for you, Mr Grantham?'

  'A good job, I hope. I was on your interview panel.' He remained standing, still vying for dominance.

  'I remember.'

  'It was a close-run thing. Several very good candidates.'

  Not reacting, she calmly placed her briefcase on the floor, sat down in her much bigger chair and looked up at her unwelcome guest with a professional smile.

  Grantham tugged the thighs of his trousers up an inch and took a seat, his eyes travelling around the room. They settled on a vase of dahlias Alison had placed on the windowsill. 'I can see the woman's touch.' He seemed to find the thought of a female coroner amusing. 'And you're making yourself very busy already, I hear.'

  'That's what I promised to do.'

  'Of course. But, how shall I put this? . . . I'm sure none of us would want this office to get a reputation for upsetting people unnecessarily.'

  She looked at him quizzically. 'What are you referring to, exactly?'

  'I know you're only just getting your feet under the table, but we do try to keep the various public services in our district working in harmony.'

  'I'm afraid I'm not following.'

  'I hear you've been talking to Dr Peterson at the Vale.'

  'Yes.'

  'Like I said, Mrs Cooper, in Severn Vale all our public services are encouraged to support each other. That's our ethos, and it works very well.'

  'It certainly wasn't working for this office. My predecessor was routinely waiting three or four weeks for post-mortem reports. Obviously death certificates couldn't wait that long to be signed, so he was forced to act improperly, in a way, in fact, which could result in a coroner being summarily removed from office.'

  She observed Grantham suck in his cheeks a little, resenting being lectured but without a ready response.

  'Coroners are under so much pressure to investigate every unnatural death thoroughly, we simply can't afford to cut corners.' She went in for the kill. 'But quite frankly, I can't see that my discussions with the pathology department at the Vale are any of your concern.'

  'My department pays for the coroner. It's everything to do with me.'

  'I think you'll find the law is against you on that.'

  'I'm trying to be polite, Mrs Cooper, but the fact is each department relies on the cooperation of every other. If you have a problem I will happily help guide you to the appropriate channels. That's what I'm here for.'

  'If you can help get post-mortem reports to me on time I would be more than grateful.'

  'I'll have a word.'

  'Thank you.'

  'There is just one other matter—'

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Alison came in with a sheaf of overnight reports, placed them on the desk and retreated. Jenny picked them up and skimmed through, giving Grantham only half her attention.

  'I understand from Alison that you're planning to hold an inquest into the death of that young addict?'

  'Katy Taylor . . . Yes. There should have been one a month ago.'

  'I'm not here to tell you how to do your job, but really, is this strictly necessary? From what I heard, the family aren't asking for it, and you know what a meal the press make of these things.'

  'It's absolutely necessary. Why else would I be doing it?'

  Grantham sighed and knitted his fingers together. 'Then I'll leave you with something to think about. Harry Marshall was a good friend of mine, a very good friend. He never held an inquest when he didn't have to. And in all the years he ran this office we never had a single complaint.'

  He heaved himself up from his chair, wished her good day and let himself out. She heard him saying a friendly goodbye to Alison and her replying with a, 'Goodbye, Frank.' Jenny waited until he had exited into the hall, then went out to confront her.

  'Did you know he was coming?'

  'He phoned me last night and said he would be.'

  'And you didn't call me?'

  'It was after nine.'

  'How did the Katy Taylor inquest come up in conversation?'

  'He asked me about it. He must have picked up the gossip from the station.'

  'And you didn't think to clear it with me before telling him my business?'

  'He is the boss.'

  Jenny took a deep breath. 'Wrong. We answer to the Ministry of Justice, not to him. Understood?'

  Alison gave an uncertain nod.

  'And while we're on the subject, maybe you can tell me about this informal network of public servants who seem to be trying to make each other's lives as easy as possible.'

  'It's just that everyone knows everyone. And Frank Grantham's very well connected. He's on a lot of committees.'

  'Masons, Rotary .. .'

  'That sort of thing.'

  'And he's frightened of me upsetting his friends in the police by holding an inquest which might show them up?'

  'I wouldn't know.'

  'Alison,' Jenny said, 'when you said that Detective Superintendent Swainton might have been sat on, who were you thinking of?'

  'No one in particular . .. just someone more senior.'

  'Are you and Grantham friends?'

  'Not particularly ... I know his wife, though. We play golf sometimes.'

  'And where does Dr Peterson fit into the social scene?'

  'I think he and Harry might have been on the same charity committee, raising money for cancer research. I know Frank does a lot of that sort of thing, too.'

  It was all becoming clear. Severn Vale District might take in a large slice of north Bristol, but it ran like a small country town. Doctors, policemen, civil servants, the coroner all woven into the same fabric. Very useful if your face fitted, but also adept at covering up friends' mistakes. Jenny felt the certainty with which she entered the office twenty minutes earlier slipping away. Suddenly anything seemed possible, no scenario too far-fetched. It wasn't implausible to conceive of Katy Taylor being hired for sex by a local Establishment man, or Marshall being leaned on to save the reputation of Portshead Farm Secure Training Centre. Jenny wanted no part of it; more than that, if such a sleazy system existed, she wanted it exposed and dealt with.

  'OK. I'm going to open the Katy Taylor inquest tomorrow morning.'

  'Tomorrow?' Alison sounded shocked.

  'Before our witnesses have a chance to get their stories straight. I want summonses issued this morning to Dr Peterson, the investigating officers and whoever was handling her parole at the Youth Offending Team.'

  'What about the family? Shouldn't we give them more notice?'

  'I'll deal with them.' Jenny marched towards her office.

  'Mrs Cooper?'

  She wheeled round. 'Yes?'

  'Where are you planning to hold it?'

 

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