'A bit. Not much. In the showers and that.'

  'What was he like?

  'Quiet. Didn't say a lot. Wouldn't go to class, went to canteen, that was it.'

  'Why wouldn't he go to class?'

  'Had a problem with it, I dunno.'

  'Did you ask him?'

  'Nope.'

  'Did you speak to him in the canteen?'

  'Once or twice. Asked him what he was in for and that.'

  'How did he seem?'

  'Pissed off. You're all like that first time in. You can't believe it.'

  'Did he have any injuries, look like he'd been in any fights?'

  'Not that I noticed.'

  'Did he seem upset to you at all?'

  Terry shook his head. 'He was no baby, man. Someone said something he'd give them this look, you know, like don't mess with me.'

  'Did he talk to anyone else in the canteen?'

  Terry shrugged. 'Couple of the girls maybe. He wasn't exactly fitting in, you know.'

  'Which girls?'

  'I dunno.'

  'If you saw him talking to girls, you must remember which ones.'

  'I wasn't paying him any notice.'

  'Did he ever talk to you about how he was feeling?'

  Terry smiled. 'Yeah, right.'

  'Did you see him in the evenings, when you came back from class?'

  'No. He just sat in his room . . . Apart from the last night. I think he came out and watched TV then.'

  'Did he tell you he'd been in an observation cell?'

  'No. I didn't know that till it all came out, you know. He never said a thing. Just kept himself to himself.'

  'Apart from the girls he spoke to?'

  Terry shrugged.

  Jenny glanced over at Simone Wills. She looked heartened by what she was hearing, proud that her boy came across as tough.

  'Terry, can you tell me about the Friday night, the 13th, the night Danny died. How was he?'

  'He came back to the common room after canteen. We were watching TV.'

  'Did he talk to anyone?'

  'Not really. He was just chilling. We were watching one of those talent shows, having a laugh, rating the girls and that.'

  'Was Danny laughing?'

  'Yeah. Maybe.'

  'What happened then?'

  'Telly off half-nine, get washed, into bed.'

  'Did you have any contact with Danny in that half-hour?'

  'No.'

  'So when lights out came, what then?'

  'Just lay in my bed. Went to sleep.'

  'Did you hear anything from Danny's cell?'

  Terry paused, shook his head. 'I'm not sure . . .'

  'About what?'

  'There was one time, I thought I heard someone go in there, like the door closing, voices maybe.'

  Jenny's stomach lurched. Voices.

  'What time was this?'

  'I don't know, late ... I don't know if I dreamt it or what.'

  'What kind of voices did you hear?'

  '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.'

  Jenny thought about it for a moment. 'That'll do.'

  She swallowed the first dose in her car outside the late-night chemist in Chepstow High Street. Not having eaten since breakfast, the drugs got into her system fast. It was a sensation she'd almost forgotten. Things flattened out. The anxiety melted away, her diaphragm loosed and she was no longer conscious of her heart beating. It was different from alcohol, a subtler feeling without elation; an absence more than a presence.

  Dr Allen said he wasn't going to tell her not to drive, but to be careful. If she even felt the beginnings of an attack she was to pull over. Technically he could take her licence away but he was going to trust her. It was his way of saying they had a deal. He'd cut her some slack if she committed to digging out the trauma.

  She didn't want to think about her own past now. As she drove back up the hill towards the edge of town she felt fine behind the wheel. She had three clear working days and the weekend to turn up more evidence.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There were two messages on the machine in her study. The first was from Alison, asking if Jenny would like her to deal with the run of the mill cases for the next couple of days - she could always email her anything that looked out of the ordinary. The court had been reserved for next Monday and everyone notified of the adjournment. There was nothing for her to worry about except getting well. Jenny smiled when she heard that - like all she had was a head cold.

  The second was from Tara Collins, sounding concerned. She'd heard Jenny was ill and hoped it wasn't anything sinister. Listening to her questions in court, she'd picked up the connection Jenny was trying to make with Katy Taylor and had been putting the word out that she wanted to speak to Hayley Johnson. A contact had left a message that Hayley had been working the streets in Broadlands the last few nights. Did she want to try and find her?

  Jenny dialled Tara's number and got rerouted to her mobile. It sounded like she was in a bar somewhere, a lot of voices and music in the background.

  'It's Jenny Cooper. I just picked up your message.'

  'How are you? Your officer said you were ill.'

  'I'm fine. Nothing serious.'

  Tara sounded relieved. 'Buying time, right?'

  'Kind of.'

  'Thought so. Those bastards thought they had it all sewn up, didn't they? I wouldn't be surprised if they'd even got to Terry Ryan. There's not much a kid like that wouldn't do for a few grams of ice.'

  'Ice?

  'Crystal meth - the kind you smoke.'

  'I'm behind the times.'

  'You know what fashion's like now, your trainers are sad before you get 'em home.' Tara was sounding chattier than she'd ever heard her, as if she'd had a few.

  'Look, I'd like to talk to Hayley Johnson. Do you think I could find her tonight?'

  'It's a bit early yet. She won't hit the street until at least eleven.'

  'Any idea where I should start?'

  Tara said, 'If you like, I can come with you. She should recognize me.'

  'OK. Where do you want to meet?'

  'Pick me up at my place. I'm 15B Alexander Road, Bradley Stoke.'

  'See you at eleven.'

  'Bye, Jenny. Byeee.' She'd definitely had several.

  Jenny put the phone down and immediately felt restless. Nearly four hours to kill. She grabbed a sandwich and a cup of herb tea, then tried to settle at her desk and work on a chronology of events to help order her thoughts. She went over all the major dates again but kept coming back to the same point: Marshall began his inquest into Danny's death on Monday 30 April. It was on the previous Thursday or Friday that Simone Wills said his mood had changed. Katy had gone missing from home the Sunday before that and had died or been killed on the Monday or Tuesday. If there was a link to be made, the answer lay in what happened during the last week of April.

  She called Alison at home and asked for Mrs Marshall's phone number. Alison was hesitant and hedged around, asking how Jenny was, trying to tease out of her the reason for wanting it. Jenny said she was fine and just wanted to ask Mrs Marshall if she remembered Harry saying anything about either Danny's or Katy's case.

 

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