The Coroner (4 page)

    'Thanks.
I'll try to get through them.'

    'I've
arranged a van, but he can't do it till tomorrow afternoon. There's half a
dozen filing cabinets. I don't know where you think you're going to put them.'

    'I'm
sure a lot of it can go into storage,' Jenny said, refusing to acknowledge
Alison's martyred tone. 'As long as we have the last couple of years' worth on
site. We'll be computerizing the system more or less immediately anyway.' 'Oh?'

    'You
must have worked with computers?'

    'Only
when I couldn't avoid it. I've seen how they go wrong.'

    'There's
a standard system all coroners are being required to use. In future GPs and
hospital doctors will notify us of all deaths by email, not only the ones they
can't write certificates for. You know Harold Shipman managed to murder two
hundred and fifty of his patients and not one of their cases crossed the
coroner's desk?'

    'That
wouldn't happen here. We know all the doctors on our patch personally.'

    'That's
been part of the problem.' Jenny drove the point home: 'I hate bureaucracy more
than anyone, but abusing trust was the reason he got himself into the record
books.'

    Alison
frowned. 'I suppose I couldn't have expected to carry on just as we were. It's
only human nature to want to change things.'

    'I
hope we'll get on well, Mrs Trent.' Alison's face remained stony. 'I've heard
great things about you. My interview panel said Mr Marshall found you
indispensable. I'm sure I will, too.'

    The
older woman softened a little, the tightness leaving her face. 'I apologize if
I seem a little tense, Mrs Cooper.' She paused. 'Mr Marshall and I had become
good friends over the years. He was such a nice man. Concerned for everyone. I
hadn't been in here since . . .' She trailed off, a slight catch in her voice.

    'I
understand.' Jenny smiled, genuinely this time, and Alison smiled back.

    The tension
between them eased. An unwritten truce was declared.

    Alison
glanced at the empty cardboard coffee cup on Jenny's desk. 'Fancy another? I'm
just going to get one for myself. Sorry there's not much in the kitchen. I'll
pop out and stock up on supplies later.'

    'Thanks.'
Jenny reached for her handbag in search of her purse.

    'It's
all right, I'll get them.'

    'No,
I insist.' Jenny brought out a twenty-pound note and handed it to her. 'That
should cover the other things, too.'

    Alison
hesitated briefly before taking the money, then folded it gratefully into her
raincoat pocket. 'Thank you, Mrs Cooper.' She ran her eyes around the room. 'I
expect you'll want to smarten this place up. Hasn't been touched for years.'

    'I'll
live with it for a couple of days, see what inspiration strikes.'

    'Harry
always said he was going to redecorate, but he never quite got round to it.
Pressures of life, I suppose - a wife and four daughters all at school and
university. He was an old father, too.'

    Jenny
remembered the photograph of Katy Taylor. 'Before you go, Mrs Trent—'

    She
reached for the file.

    'Alison
is fine.'

    'Of
course—'

    'Don't
worry, I'll call you Mrs Cooper. I'm happier with that anyway.'

    'Whichever
you prefer,' Jenny said, relieved she'd been spared the embarrassment of
insisting on her formal title. She couldn't abide being called by her Christian
name at work. She opened the file and produced the death certificate. 'I found
this locked in a drawer.'

    'I
remember. The young girl who took the overdose.'

    'Two
things seem odd about it. There's no post-mortem report, and where there's a
possibility of suicide, surely there should have been an inquest.'

    Alison
reacted with surprise. 'The police made no suggestion of suicide. Junkies are
always accidentally topping themselves.'

    'It's
still an unnatural death.'

    'Mr
Marshall never liked to upset families where there was nothing to be gained
from it. What would be the point?'

    Jenny
chose not to embark on an explanation. It was going to take more than a brief
lesson on the Coroner's Act to re-educate her officer.

    'What
about the post-mortem report? He can't have signed a death certificate without
seeing one.'

    'He
never had any choice. We're lucky if we see a written report three weeks after
a death. The pathologist would phone him up with his findings after the p-m,
the paperwork would arrive whenever.'

    
'Three
weeks?'

    'We
are talking about the National Health Service.'

    Alison's
phone rang. 'Excuse me.' She fished it out of her pocket and answered.
'Coroner's officer . . . Hello, Mr Kelso ... I see ... Of course. I'll let Mrs
Cooper know straight away . . . Yes, she's just started. Will do.' She rang off
and turned to Jenny. 'That was an A&E consultant from the Vale.
Fifty-four-year-old homeless man dead on admission. Suspected liver failure.
Post-mortem this afternoon.'

    'And
a report next month?'

    'I'll
give you the morgue's number if you like. You can give them a ring and introduce
yourself.'

    She
reached for a scrap of paper and wrote down a Bristol number. 'That'll get you
through to Dr Peterson's answer- phone - the consultant pathologist. He's
usually pretty good at calling back.'

    Jenny
glanced again at the file and felt an uneasy stirring in the pit of her
stomach. Whatever Marshall's motives may have been, his handling of the case
was negligent at best and it was her responsibility to clear up his mess.

    'No,
I think I'd better pay him a personal visit, see if we can't speed things up a
bit.'

    'You
can try,' Alison said. 'Do you still want the coffee?'

    Jenny
got up from her chair and grabbed her handbag. 'I'll wait till I get back.'

    'Have
you been to a mortuary before?'

    'No.'

    'Just
to warn you - it might be a bit of a shock. Wild horses wouldn't drag Mr
Marshall down there.'

    Alison
waited until she heard Jenny's footsteps disappear through the front door of
the building, then sat quietly at her desk for a long moment before reaching
into her briefcase and drawing out a thick, bound document. She turned through
its pages, her eyes flicking anxiously towards the door as if fearing that at
any moment she might be seen. At the sound of voices on the stairs she
hurriedly closed it again and returned it to her case. Long after the voices
had gone she remained in her chair, staring across reception into the office
where Harry Marshall should have been, her eyes burning with tears that refused
to come.

    Jenny
sipped the warm dregs of her Diet Sprite, one hand on the wheel, as she drove
the four miles to the hospital in slow-moving traffic. Edging through road
works at walking pace, sandwiched between a truck belching fumes and an
impatient Mercedes, she felt her heartbeat begin to pick up, a tightness in her
chest, her 'free-floating anxiety' as Dr Travis, her previous psychiatrist, had
termed it, close to the surface.

    Highly
strung. Stressed. Nervous. Call it what you like. Ever since the day almost
exactly a year ago that she dried in court, had to sit down midway through
reading out a banal medical report to a bemused judge, the most mundane of
anxiety- making situations could trigger symptoms of panic. Waiting in a
supermarket queue, travelling in an elevator, sitting in the hairdresser's
chair, crawling through traffic: any situation from which there was no
immediate escape could make her heart pound and her diaphragm tighten.

    She
went through her relaxation routine, breathed slow and deep, felt the weight of
her arms tug at her shoulders, her legs sink into the seat. The anxiety
gradually subsided, retreating to its hiding place in her subconscious, but
leaving the door open a chink. Just so she wouldn't forget it was there.

    Arriving
at traffic lights, Jenny tossed her empty can into the passenger footwell and
rummaged in her bag for the temazepam. She shook out a single tablet and
swallowed it dry, angry at her dependence. Other people survived traumas
without living on pills, why couldn't she? She tried to console herself with
the fact that in the three months since she decided to quit being a courtroom
lawyer her symptoms had eased significantly. No dark unwanted thoughts. No full-blown
panic attacks.

    One
day at a time . . .

    Approaching
the large, modern, brick-built hospital that looked like another of the
anonymous business units that surrounded it, she endeavoured to be rational, to
accept that the stress of a new job would temporarily cause her to be more
anxious. She would use the pills while she adjusted to her new
responsibilities, then, in a week or two, wean herself off them again.

    But
as she parked up and walked across the tarmac to the hospital building her mind
refused to still. Disturbing, unformed images played under the surface. What if
her psychiatrists were right? What if there was a secret horror in her
childhood that would continue to haunt her like a malevolent ghost until she
somehow summoned the strength to confront it?

    Damn.
She had thought she was over this.

    She
caught her reflection in the glass of the revolving door: a smart, confident
woman in a business suit. A professional. A presence. Give it a little more
time, she told herself, and it'll dissolve like a bad dream.

    After
ten minutes of wandering along crowded corridors, many doubling as wards, with
grey-faced patients stranded on trolleys, Jenny realized there were no signs to
the mortuary. She queued at the reception desk, too self-conscious to pull rank
on the ragtag of enquirers ahead of her. Most looked poor, old or confused; a
heavily pregnant young woman gripped her stomach in obvious pain. The
receptionist, a tense woman with nicotine-stained teeth, dealt increasingly
impatiently with each one, one hand fidgeting with a pack of cigarettes as she
struggled to give complicated directions around the building with the aid of a
faded plastic map no one could follow.

    The
mortuary was situated in a separate anonymous, single- storey building at the
rear of the hospital complex. There was no reply when she pressed the buzzer.
She tried again. Still no response. On her third attempt a young Filipina cleaner
answered, wearily wiping her hands on grubby, sleeveless overalls. Jenny
tentatively asked where she could find Dr Peterson. The girl shrugged and waved
her in, saying, 'No speak English, sorry,' and went back to flopping her mop
across the tiled floor.

    Jenny
stepped inside, proceeded along a short corridor and pushed through swing doors
into an open lobby area, off which were two semi-glazed office doors and a set
of slap doors. A water cooler and a snack vending machine stood in the corner.
She glanced through into the offices but no one was home. Following the sound
of voices, she nudged through into a wider corridor, at the side of which were
parked half a dozen or more gurneys, each carrying a corpse wrapped in white
plastic. Then the smell hit her: powerful disinfectant mixed with a heavy,
sweet odour which caught the back of her throat.

    A
tall, wiry, dark-featured man wearing stained surgical scrubs came through a
door to her right. Pulling off a face mask, he gave her a look of pleasant
surprise. 'Can I help you?'

    Jenny
straightened, tearing her eyes away from the row of dead bodies. 'Hello. Jenny
Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. I'm looking for Dr Peterson.'

    'That's
me.' He smiled, tiny lines creasing around his eyes.

    Jenny
instinctively offered her hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

    'I
wouldn't recommend it - best if I wash up first.' The smile again, almost
boyish. 'Coroner, hey? Can't remember the last time I had one of you down here.
Harry Marshall even managed to avoid it after he died. Shall we talk in my
office?'