Harry too, had dependants, everything to live for. There was no reason to think his death was anything other than tragically untimely, but still, there was a sense that it was more than mere coincidence. Even heart attacks were rarely entirely random events. Delve deep enough and you could usually find something which had triggered a feeling of depression or hopelessness in the deceased; how many men died in the immediate aftermath of retirement? Jenny paused, put down her pen and sipped at the cup of tea, now nearly cold, which sat untouched on the desk. Harry's disorganized files and papers still lay on the floor either side of her, and in them, possibly, might lie some small clue.

  She pushed her notes aside and lifted them on to the desk. The accounts file still waiting for her attention was too dull even to open. She dropped it back on the floor and turned to Harry's collection of newspaper cuttings in search of a common thread. She leafed through them. Now and again he was mentioned or quoted: there were cases of industrial accidents, road deaths, hospital operations gone tragically wrong, several deaths in custody, a brutal beating to death of a young black man by police officers and numerous spectacular suicides. The most recent cuttings related to Danny Wills's death. In all of them Danny was portrayed as a dangerous young criminal whose end was to be expected, even applauded. One article, written by a journalist determined to tar Simone Wills's name, pointed out that she had failed to register the names of the fathers of three of her children, quoting an acquaintance who implied their fathers had most likely been Simone's dealers.

  The fact that Harry had bothered to read and cut out these articles at all said something, but Jenny couldn't decide what. It might only be that he still possessed a streak of vanity - the Mick Jagger pout in his college photo suggested it - and the cuttings boosted his ego. There were no articles, however, about Katy Taylor's death. Even though the discovery of her body had been reported widely, he hadn't clipped a single cutting. Perhaps his failure to shake the citadel to its foundations in the Danny Wills inquest had temporarily deflated his ego. Or perhaps his mind had been on other things.

  Alison arrived back from her shopping expedition and bustled in with the news that she had taken Jenny at her word and ordered two new desks and executive chairs that were so smart they were going to put the rest of the office to shame. She'd made a few calls on the way and arranged for some decorators to come and quote, people she'd used on her own house who'd give them a good price.

  Jenny let the stream of trivia wash over her and then, when Alison had finished, said, 'I'd like you to get hold of Harry Marshall's medical records.'

  Alison seemed shocked by the request. 'What for?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  'But you haven't got any power to. You're not investigating his death.'

  'No, but I'm investigating Katy's, and his motive for writing her death certificate is something I need to understand.'

  'He wouldn't have done anything wrong on purpose, Mrs Cooper. He wasn't like that. He was a decent man.'

  Gently, Jenny said, 'I understand your feelings towards him and I promise I'll deal with this sensitively. They may turn up nothing.'

  'What do you want me to tell the doctor?'

  'I'll give you a letter requesting that he produce Mr Marshall's notes. He's under a legal duty to comply. If there's any problem give me a ring and I'll talk to him.'

  Alison, muted now, said, 'What about the decorators?'

  'We'll see them another day.'

  Steadied by her third pill in ten hours, Jenny crawled through slow traffic to the Taylors' house. She rang the bell three times and was about to give up when Claire answered the door. Her hair was rumpled, as if she had been lying down. She was wrapped in her usual cardigan and was shivering slightly. Her face was thinner, too, as if she hadn't been eating.

  'Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Taylor. I thought I should explain the situation. Is your husband home?'

  She shook her head, burying her hands in her cardigan pockets, arms pressed in closed to her sides.

  'I could come again when he is.'

  Claire thought about it for a moment, then took a step back from the door, Jenny's invitation to come inside.

  She followed her along the short hallway to the kitchen. Breakfast bowls and cups lay unwashed in the sink. The atmosphere was heavy and airless, all the windows firmly closed. Claire motioned her to a chair at the small dining table. Jenny thanked her and took a seat. Claire remained standing, in the corner by the stove, putting as much distance between them as she could.

  'You understand that I've adjourned the inquest to allow the police time to reopen their inquiry.'

  She nodded.

  'In the meantime, I'm afraid Katy's body will have to remain at the mortuary, in case the pathologists need to run any more tests.'

  Another nod. Every second spent in Jenny's presence was clearly painful.

  'I'll also be conducting some enquiries of my own. I'm particularly interested in finding out who Katy might have been with when she disappeared from home.'

  Claire shrugged, an almost indifferent gesture. 'She never told us where she was. Could have been anywhere.'

  'Does the name Hayley Johnson mean anything to you?'

  Jenny could see that it did and that the associations weren't good. Claire said, 'I think I heard her talk to her on the phone. One of her druggy mates, I expect.'

  'You don't know where I might find her?'

  'Andy told you where the kids hang out, down the rec ...'

  'Is that where Katy used to go?'

  'Sometimes ... I think there were older kids involved, too. Girls with their own flats and that. Katy couldn't wait to get a place on her own.'

  Jenny offered a smile, relieved that Claire was at last beginning to open up a little.

  'Did Katy have a mobile phone?'

  'Andy wouldn't let her. She had one once but we got a bill for three hundred quid. That was that. Whether she bought one out of her own money, I don't know. I think it all went on drugs.'

  'Can you remember what happened on the Sunday, Mrs Taylor - I'd like to know about the last time you saw Katy.'

  Claire looked out of the window, her body language becoming defensive again. Jenny waited. It was some moments before she spoke.

  'She'd kicked up on Saturday night about this curfew, but we managed to keep her in. Andy and I went to bed about eleven. She was already down. I was up at half-six next morning and she was gone. That was the last we saw of her.'

  'Was it a big argument on Saturday night?'

  'No more than usual.'

  'Did Katy take anything with her, a bag, clothes?'

  Claire shook her head. 'Not that I could see. Just what they found her in. She might have had a coat.'

  'What happened to Katy if she hadn't taken drugs for a while?'

  'She got difficult, argumentative. She'd hit and scratch, swear . . .'

  'Is that how she was on Saturday?'

  'It was just shouting, quite mild really. The fact she actually stayed in ... we thought the curfew was working, that she was going to stick to it.'

  'Had you seen a change in her since she came out of Portshead?'

  'Yeah . . . She was quieter. Definitely quieter. That's the thing . . .' She broke off and wiped her eyes with her cuff. 'We both really thought we were getting somewhere.'

  'I'm sorry to put you through this, but it's very useful for me . . .'

  Claire nodded and reached for a roll of kitchen towel.

  'Did you go looking for her on the Sunday?'

  'We walked down to the rec, that was about it. . . Thing is, we couldn't do anything. We went through all this with social workers the last few years - you can't use physical force against your own kid. If Andy tried it she'd just threaten him with Childline or the police. She'd call them both without even thinking. We've had police here, social services, all treating us like we're the ones at fault ... Of course I wanted to shove her in the car and drive off to the Highlands or somewhere we could get her straight, but you daren't. You're frightened of your own child . . .'

  Jenny said, 'Would you mind if I had a look in Katy's room?'

  Claire shrugged. 'Opposite the top of the stairs.'

  Jenny left Claire in the kitchen and climbed the narrow staircase to the small landing. Four doors led off it. One, ajar, was to the marital bedroom; the curtains were drawn, the bed unmade. She opened the door opposite her and stepped into a tidy single room. Her first reaction was surprise. There was the usual collection of schoolgirl posters on the walls, hairdryer, make-up on the dressing table that doubled as a desk, a TV, stereo, some books. It could have been the room of the girl who was top of the class. It didn't smell of cigarette smoke, she hadn't disfigured the wallpaper, the collection of magazines on the shelf was relatively innocent. The clothes in the wardrobe were hung up neatly and folded in orderly piles. Jenny opened drawers and stooped down to look under the bed. It was the same everywhere: nothing that screamed, or even suggested, that she was a delinquent.

  She heard Claire come up the stairs and stop out on the landing. 'You don't mind if I don't come in?'

  'No.' Jenny had a final glance around and stepped out to join her. 'It's very tidy, Mrs Taylor.'

  'She was, mostly . . . Part of her was still our little girl. I don't think she knew what she was. Drugs, friends she felt she had to impress, I don't know what it was got hold of her.'

  'You haven't touched it since?'

  'No. That's how she left it.'

  'Was that usual?'

  'She'd kept it nice since she came home on the Wednesday. It was like she was trying to make an effort.'

  'Had she taken drugs in that time?'

  'Not that I knew about. And I could normally tell from looking at her, but she seemed clean. Saturday night, that's when I imagine she got the craving . . . That's the only thing I can think of.'

  It made sense. For all her wildness, Katy came from a solid home. She knew what family life was and how normal people lived. Even for a girl who'd learned to turn tricks to pay for drugs, six weeks in Portshead Farm would have come as a shock. Yes, it did make sense that she would have tried to behave when she came out. And when you've been used to taking drugs every day, four days without a fix is when the need would become acute. She could imagine her pacing the floor in the small hours, tidying her room, wanting to get straight again, desperate to make it up to Mum and Dad and all the while fighting the irresistible urge to get high.

  Jenny said, 'Did Katy ever mention a boy by the name of Danny Wills, about a year younger than her?'

  'Danny Wills who hanged himself at Portshead?'

  'Yes.'

  'She knew him. They were at the same primary school, Oakdene, up in Broadlands. He was trouble even then.'

  'Did she spend time with him recently?'

  'Not before she went away as far as I know. When she came out she said she'd seen him in the canteen before he died. Said he looked in a bad way, like he'd been fighting. She said there were a lot of fights there.'

  'Did she say any more?'

  'No . . . Why?'

  'My office dealt with his case.'

  Claire looked at her mistrustfully. 'Katy may have been bad, but she wasn't in the same league as him. He was out of control when he was eight years old. She had a proper home, parents who loved her.'

  Jenny had touched a nerve. 'I can see that. I can see that you loved her very much. I will find out what happened to her, Mrs Taylor. I promise you.'

  The unseasonal rain had returned and the recreation ground, a grand title for a tired, unkempt two acres of public park, was largely empty. Jenny turned up the collar of her mac and went in search of dissolute teenagers. There were none to be seen. She found their cigarette ends, empty beer cans and alcopop bottles and, by the benches in the corner furthest from the gate, several used condoms in the untended flower beds. It was depressing but not shocking, only a few degrees worse than she had been. She'd drunk her share of alcohol, smoked joints when they were on offer and probably would have given cocaine a whirl if the right boy had waved it under her nose. There was sex, too, but under slightly more savoury conditions, and mostly in the belief that it was the route to eternal love.

  Making her way across the wet grass to the exit, she spotted two girls, aged around fourteen or fifteen, who came into the park, clumsily lit cigarettes and swaggered in her direction en route to the benches. Both wore a semblance of school uniform, one had a phone pressed to her ear.

  Jenny addressed the taller of the two, the one without the phone, a dark-haired, mixed-race girl with a pretty face. 'Excuse me. Did you know Katy Taylor?'

  'What d'you say?'

  'She was the girl who died at the end of April. She used to hang out here.'

  The girl struck an aggressive pose, cocked a hip. 'I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.'

  'Hayley Johnson?'

  The other girl came off the phone and said to her friend, 'What does she want?'

  Jenny said, 'I'm trying to find people who knew Katy Taylor. I'm the coroner. I'm investigating her death.'

  The girl with the phone said, 'We don't know shit,' and walked on. Her friend followed, stepping in close to Jenny and bumping her with her shoulder.

  Jenny fished in her jacket pocket, pulled out a card and set off after them. 'Look, there's money in it. A hundred pounds for anyone who can tell me where Katy was on Sunday 22 or Monday 23 April. I also want to speak to Hayley Johnson. You see her, give her my number.'

  She offered her card to the taller girl. 'It looks like she was murdered. You could be a lot of help to me.'

  The two girls traded a look, their bravado wearing a little thinner.

  'Take the card. Think about it.'

  It was the phone girl who reached out and snatched it, then tossed it on the ground.

  It was nearly eight p.m. and she was still at her desk. She had cleared today's death reports - already becoming inured to the gruesome details - and was contemplating opening the accounts file to see just how big and dreary a task awaited her. She had managed to lift it on to the desk and open the cover when she heard the outer door opening and Alison call through, 'Hello? Mrs Cooper?'

  'In here.'

  She appeared in the door clutching a large brown envelope. 'The surgery had passed the records back to the main archive at the hospital. We were lucky to get hold of them - it took the girl ages. They were bagged up, ready for the shredder.' She handed the package across the desk.

  Jenny opened it and pulled out a crumbling cardboard file. Marshall's name and date of birth were written on the front in the kind of cursive script that hadn't been used for decades.

  Alison said, 'They go right back to when he was six months old.'

  Jenny turned through the fragile pages, smiling at the neat, perfunctory entries made by the Marshall family doctor: 'Cough, moderate. Reassured mother (fussing) not whooping.' 'Complains of stomach aches - only on week days!'

  'The later stuff is mostly about his blood pressure. He was taking statins for his cholesterol.'

  Jenny turned over a chunk of dusty pages and found the most recent entries. She could sense Alison's jumpiness.

  Harry had visited the doctor approximately every six weeks for the last two years to have his cholesterol measured, and the trend was mostly downwards. His final reading, a month before he died, was a respectable four point five, two points lower than what she would have expected from a coronary victim. The final entry was dated Friday 27 April, just short of a week before his death, and three days before the Danny Wills inquest. It read: 'Symptoms of depression, feelings of being overwhelmed, insomnia, TATT, anxious about ability to function at work. Advised long summer holiday in order - agreed. 4 x 5omg Amitriptyline for two weeks then review.'

  Alison said, 'What does TATT mean?'

  'Tired all the time. These are classic symptoms of depression. He prescribed a sedating antidepressant, quite a high dose.'

  'I thought so.'

  'Have you spoken to Mrs Marshall about this?'

  'No. Why would I?'

  Jenny slid the notes back into the envelope. 'Maybe I'd better.'

  'What for?'

  'For one thing, it would be useful to know how many pills he had left from his prescription.'

  'No. You mustn't.'

  Jenny looked at her, surprised at the sharp note of alarm in her voice.

  Alison said, 'Let me talk to his GP first. There's no point upsetting Mrs Marshall and his girls.'

  'Alison, there's something you've got to understand. I am going to find out what happened to Harry Marshall, and if it's relevant information it will become public. I am not and never will be in the business of protecting anyone's reputation if that stands in the way of justice.'

  Alison fixed her with an accusing glare. 'You may be grateful for your friends one day, Mrs Cooper. And real friends are there even after you're gone.'

  The phone rang at nearly midnight, waking Jenny with a jerk from her first, fitful dozes of the night. Unexpected calls always made her think something terrible must have happened to Ross. He had barely more than grunted during their twice- weekly conversation last Friday and it left her feeling empty and rejected. She gripped the banister as she went downstairs, fighting the effects of half a bottle of red and a sleeping pill. She lurched into the study, barely able to focus as she picked up the receiver.

  'Hello?'

  'It's Alison, Mrs Cooper. I didn't know if I should disturb you—'

  'What is it?'

  'I spent most of the evening with Mrs Marshall, talking. She's still very upset, of course ... I did manage to mention the tablets, but she didn't know about them. I looked them up. They're ones you're not meant to mix with alcohol, but Harry was still having his gin and tonic in the evening. We think he might not even have picked up the prescription.'

  'She didn't find any drugs bottles in his clothes or anywhere?'

  'No. Nothing, Just his statins - he kept them in a drawer in the kitchen.'

 

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