The Coroner (27 page)

    '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.'

    'Did
you mention the phone call he made to you the night he died?'

    'I
didn't like to.'

    'Anything
else?'

    'Not
really. Like me, she'd noticed he was out of sorts, but he didn't really talk
to her about his work much. She says it depressed her.'

    No
wonder Harry liked his gin so much. Alone all day with the dead and no one to
offload to in the evenings.

    'OK.
Thanks.'

    'So
what do you think?' Alison sounded genuinely hopeful that Jenny would say that
was an end to it, that Harry's death was tragic but clearly natural.

    Jenny
said, 'I'll think about it. Goodnight, Alison.'