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?'

  She stalled for a moment. The question was obvious, yet it hadn't occurred to her. Severn Vale was one of the majority of coronial districts which didn't have a dedicated courtroom; coroners had to book venues when needed. Some of her colleagues were still forced to hold court in the function rooms of leisure centres and church halls, slotting in between kids' birthday parties and quiz nights. The only legal restriction was an ancient prohibition on holding inquests in public houses.

  'Where did Marshall hold his inquests?'

  'Usually in the old county court, but it's just been sold for flats.'

  'What do you suggest?'

  'We used Ternbury village hall occasionally. It's cheap.'

  'A village hall? Is that the best we can do?'

  'At a day's notice? There's an upstairs room in my local Indian.'

  It took Jenny a moment to realize that Alison was being sarcastic. 'Fine. We'll go with the village hall.'

  The rest of the morning was spent dealing with the overnight death reports. A Polish lorry driver had crashed into a bridge on the M4, having apparently fallen asleep at the wheel. It took an hour to track down and inform the appropriate authorities in Gdansk, and shortly afterwards Jenny received a call from a hysterical woman she presumed to be the widow who couldn't speak a word of English. She wept incoherently on the line for more than fifteen minutes while Alison tried and failed to locate a translator. Next was a four-year-old girl who had died at home from advanced leukaemia. The GP was prepared to sign a death certificate but the parents were insisting on a post-mortem, convinced their child had been contaminated by radiation from the nearby decommissioned Berkeley power station. Jenny granted them their wish, if only to give them peace of mind.

  Her afternoon was largely taken up with calls to bemused consultants at the Vale explaining that she wouldn't be writing death certificates for their recently deceased patients until she had received written post-mortem reports. After eight such encounters she received an angry call from a senior manager, Michael Summers, who complained that their mortuary was already full to overflowing. Jenny told him that hiring a secretary for the pathology department would be far cheaper and more environmentally friendly than a fleet of refrigeration lorries.

  At five-thirty, just when she thought she could turn to planning tomorrow's inquest, Alison arrived with six more death reports, all of them old people who had died in nursing homes that day. Alison was puzzled by them. Ninety-nine out of a hundred such deaths were attributed to natural causes and had certificates signed by GPs. Mr Marshall had hardly ever got reports like this. Jenny asked Alison to phone round the coroners in the four districts neighbouring hers and her suspicions were confirmed: only she had been hit by this new phenomenon. Further enquiries revealed that an email had been sent to local surgeries from the Severn Vale Primary Care Trust recommending that all but the most mundane deaths be referred to the coroner. After only three days in post, her enemies were organizing to bury her in paperwork.

  Grantham's visit and subsequent interference had stirred up her anger, the one emotion powerful enough to displace her anxiety. She responded by firing off an email to all local doctors, informing them that they would shortly be required to submit details of all recorded deaths to her office electronically, and to ignore the trust's recent instruction. She was damned if a puffed-up petty bureaucrat was going to frustrate her work. Jenny flicked through her copy of Jervis and read up on the common law offence of obstructing a coroner: if he tried anything else she could have him arrested.

  It was gone eight by the time she found a parking space near to Ross's school and arrived, perspiring, outside the gymnasium where the parents' evening was being held. The temazepam she had taken mid-afternoon was wearing off and her heart was galloping. She pushed her way through a stream of parents flowing in the opposite direction and made it to the doors as her ex-husband came out. Forty-six now, but still thirty inches around the waist and good-looking, almost unfairly so, he was wearing one his most expensive bespoke suits, determined, as always, to let the other parents know that his son wasn't attending a comprehensive school for want of money.

  David looked at her in the pitying way he had perfected in the early years of their marriage. 'Prompt as usual.'

  'It's only just gone eight.'

  'Our appointments were at seven-thirty. I emailed you last week.'

  'Oh. Did you?'

  'You didn't miss anything. These clowns wouldn't know potential if it ran up and bit them on the backside.'

  'What did they say?'

  'Does it matter? You know my views on this place.'

  'He's in the middle of exams.'

  'According to his teachers he'll be lucky to pass any of them.'

  'Why haven't you told me any of this? You must have known there was a problem.'

  'You had enough of your own. I didn't want to add to your burden.'

  'Well, what does Ross say?'

  'Very little. He usually just grunts and disappears upstairs, plugged into something.'

  'You live under the same roof, you must have some idea what's going on.'

  'I'm afraid I don't have your powers of insight.'

  Jenny felt her throat tighten. 'Look, I didn't come here for an argument, David. I'm sorry I was late, but it sounds like it's Ross I should be talking to, not his teachers.'

  'Then why don't you come over for lunch on Saturday?'

  'To your place?'

  'It is his home. If you can bear it, I thought we might put on a united front, try to talk to him like responsible parents for once.'

 

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