The Coroner (52 page)

    Her
fingernails digging deep into the steering wheel, she tried another way: face
the fear and let the tide wash through.
Come on, you bastard, give me what
you've got.
She touched the brakes, dropping her speed, and let it come.
The ring around her diaphragm tightened, her vision narrowed to a blurred
tunnel and her ears filled with a static buzz as the electrical pulses shot up
her spine and through her skull. She clung to the threads of consciousness -
Come on, come on and take me, you evil bastard
- then felt the plunge, like
falling off a cliff, and slewed across the road into the opposite carriageway.
Snatching a breath, she jerked the wheel left, staring down the tunnel, seeing
a whirl of trees. A cold rush over the top of her head and down her back as she
approached the layby, fighting an invisible hand stronger than hers trying to
pull the car over and into the woods. She fought it, jamming her foot on the
throttle, and cleared the next bend . . .

    And
she'd done it, taken all the adrenalin and Cortisol her body could spew out.
She was drained, exhausted and shaking, but still driving, still alive.

    The
relief was short-lived. Making the turn to Melin Bach and starting up the lane,
her fear shifted from what might lie in the darkness of the woods to being
alone in her home with the old disgruntled ghost. It was a child's fear, no
different from the terror of a dark basement or a malevolent stranger, and all
the pleading of her rational adult mind wouldn't dissolve it. When she arrived
outside, too afraid to turn off the engine, her eye was drawn to the bedroom
window, where she felt sure she'd seen a lined and disapproving face swiftly
retreating.

    She
was too frustrated with herself to cry, too conflicted between self-loathing
and self-pity to find such easy relief. She
knew
from countless
expensive hours on the couch that this was something that had to be faced, that
her mind was suffering a chain reaction: past hidden trauma fuelled by current
anxieties sending her nervous system into neurotic seizures. If she could only
force herself inside she could check each room and prove to herself there was
no ghost, but after yesterday she was, she realized, equally frightened of
herself. A glass of wine to dull the anxiety and she might lose grip again,
find herself lining up her stash of temazepam.

    At
least she was sane enough to see her situation as it was: pressed hard up
against the membrane between life and death, she could see glimpses of the
other side and, in knowing it, felt its tug.

    She
had friends, only a handful who knew what she'd been through, but none she
could ask to come running. She picked her handbag up from the passenger seat
and reached for her many bottles of pills. She settled on a beta blocker. As
she unscrewed the lid, she asked herself why she needed drugs to see her
boyfriend. The answer came as she swallowed: she was scared she was falling for
him. Another person in her life to let down.

    She
pulled up in his yard next to the Land Rover. The canvas was off the back,
which was stacked with fresh bales of hay.

    Alfie
lay in the sun in the dust by the gate, keeping an eye on a hen scratching with
a new brood of chicks. Recognizing her, the sheepdog thumped his tail, barely
lifting his head. Over in one of the sheds was a beaten-up old Peugeot with the
bonnet up, tools lying nearby.

    She
rang the brass ship's bell that hung at the side of the already half-open front
door. There was a sound of movement from somewhere inside. She stepped over the
threshold into the kitchen: old quarry tiles and pale oak cupboards. Beyond it,
the layout was semi-open plan to a wooden spiral staircase and living room.

    'Steve?
It's Jenny.'

    The
noises came from upstairs, a woman's voice in whispered protest, then a guilty
silence. She glanced at the table and saw two cups, an empty packet of
cigarettes across from his tobacco, next to a set of car keys dangling a bunch
of plastic charms.

    'Fuck
you. Fuck you, Steve.' Her shouts echoed around the bare walls and up the
stairs.

    She
hurled the table on to its side and slammed out.

    Spinning
her tyres in the rough gravel, Jenny caught sight of the figure in the upstairs
window: Annie, annoyed, pulling on her bra.

    Her
anger propelled her inside. She screamed at the ghost to go to hell and
unscrewed a litre of cheap Italian red, taking her first pull straight from the
bottle. There. A few good mouthfuls on an empty stomach and she was
battle-ready, not afraid of anything. Screw Steve, screw his lies and his
deadend girlfriend. Screw everything. From now on it was going to be Jenny
first and last. She'd sort out her cases, blow UKAM apart and get her life
back, all on her terms.

    She
tipped out her handbag and found the beta blockers and antidepressants, emptied
them into the sink and ran the hot tap until they were small enough to push
down the plughole. She didn't need pills; it was other people's junk, not her
own, that had brought her down. What she needed was to fight back, let the
world know who she was. She'd hold on to a few tranquillizers, just to keep her
anger from boiling over so she didn't kill anyone, but that was the only
reason. She was too wild, too close to the truth, for people to handle her,
that was her problem. Poor, weak people, too frightened to face the truth.

    She
took the wine and a glass through to the study. It was obvious now what had to be
done: she'd write a formal, scholarly report that would set out in devastating
detail the cover-up over Danny's death. Marshall's suicide would have to be
part of it, but she didn't feel so sorry for him now. He'd paid the price for
being weak and his family would have to live with it. She'd send a copy to the
Ministry of Justice, one to the local authority, one to the Severn Vale
District Hospital Trust and another to Simone Wills, and lodge one with a
solicitor. If a new inquest wasn't held which brought the full truth to light
she'd deal with the newspapers personally, and tie them up in a contract so
tight they couldn't change a word of her copy.

    She
sat at her laptop for four hours without looking up from the screen, drafting
and editing until her report read like a House of Lords judgement. She'd worked
through the wine and needed a little something extra before proofreading. In
the back of a kitchen cupboard was a half-bottle of brandy that was meant to be
used for cooking. She poured two inches into a tumbler and had a taste. It was
good, warm all the way down. She topped up her glass and brought it through.

    She
must have been staring at the screen harder than she thought, because the words
merged when she tried to read a printed copy. She rummaged around for the
glasses she always resisted wearing and tried again. Better, but not much. She
must be tired. One read through and hit the sack, set the alarm for five a.m.,
make sure her pristine report was on all relevant desks at start of business.
Then sit back and wait for the phone calls, maybe do some work around the
garden to pass the time.

    She
was shutting down her computer when her landline rang. It was nearly eleven.
She pictured Steve, huddled in a phone box, full of beer and remorse, wanting
to come up and spill his heart out, tell her that he was in love. She let it
continue and when it fell silent picked up the receiver to check the caller's
number. It wasn't Steve, it was Ross's mobile. She remembered she hadn't called
him all week.
How could she have forgotten?
She punched in his number.

    'Ross?'

    'Mum.
How are you?'

    'Good.
What about you?'

    'OK.
A few more days to freedom.'

    'Of
course. Hey, sorry I haven't called—'

    'It's
OK. I know what happened.'

    Jenny
stalled, not sure how to explain herself, where to begin.

    Ross
said, 'Allowing your place to be used, that's not a crime, is it?'

    'Apparently
so. Not a very serious one.'

    'I
bet you didn't even know what he was smoking.'

    'No ..
.' She cringed at her lie.

    'I
guess you'll get off, then. It's not like you've got a record.' He gave an
ironic laugh. 'You should've heard Dad. He thinks you've turned me into a
delinquent.'

    'I'll
tell you what really happened in a day or two. I've been working on a couple of
cases.'

    He
was quiet for a moment. 'Are you OK, Mum? Dad says . . .'

    'What?
. . . What does he say?'

    'It
doesn't matter.'

    Jenny
sighed, a familiar guilt welling up. 'I'm sorry to put you through this. It'll work
out . . . Give it a couple of weeks. I just want you to get through your exams
without worrying about me.'

    'What
about next term, do you still want me to come over and stay?'

    'Of
course.'

    He
fell into another silence.

    'Ross?
What's the matter? . . . What's your father been saying? Tell me.'

    'I'm
fine. You know what he's like.'

    'I
need to know ... I promise I'm not going to pick a fight with him.'

    'He thinks
... he thinks you're not very well. He keeps saying you need help but you're
too stubborn to get it.'

    'Oh,
really? Does he say what for?' Her words came out sounding sharper than she
intended. 'Sorry . . .'

    'Just
forget I said it. I was just worried, that's all.'

    'Well,
don't be. I'm fine.'

    'But
you don't sound it.'

    'Honestly.'
Through the gap in the curtains she noticed headlights pulling up outside. She
tugged them back and saw the outline of an expensive saloon, like nothing Steve
would drive. Two male figures climbed out.

    'After
my exams, can I come and stay? ... I could help with your place.' He sounded
concerned.

    'That'd
be great. . .' She heard footsteps on the path, two solid strikes of the
knocker. 'Ross, can I call you right back? There's someone at the door.'

    'This
late?'

    'I
think it'll be something to do with work.'

    'Yeah,
right. Check what he's smoking this time.'

    'Ross—'
He rang off. Hearing the dial tone made her want to cry.

    The
knocker sounded again, louder this time. Who the hell could it be at this time
of night? Detectives? A process server? She grabbed the flash drive from her
laptop and scanned the room for a place to hide it. Another two knocks. She
went out to the hall, reached up and tucked it in the narrow gap between the
top of the door frame and the plaster where she kept a spare key.

    She
called through the closed door, 'Who is it?'

    'Open
up, Mrs Cooper.' The voice was hard and abrupt, like a policeman's.

    'Tell
me who you are and I might think about it.'

    The
sound of smashing glass came from the kitchen. Jenny spun round and pulled the
living-room door shut, but there was no key in the hallway side of the lock.

    Another
crash of glass in the study. She jerked round to see a gloved hand reach in and
pull back the catch on the sash. She dived for the stairs, but stumbled on the
first tread and cracked her knee hard.
Shit.
She groped for the banister
as the two men appeared behind her at once. The shorter one was squat,
fortyish, muscular, in a waist-length jacket, greying hair cropped short. He
grabbed her arm and yanked her upright on to the hall floor, her shoulder
feeling like it had popped from its socket. The taller of the two, dark,
craggy-featured, sank a heavy fist into her stomach, taking the wind out of
her. She dropped, choking, to her knees; the shorter one back- fisted her hard
across the face. She felt her head crack against the flags and tasted the blood
pouring from her nose. She lay with her legs twisted under her but with no
strength to move.

    The
shorter one, fading in and out of focus, leaned over her, his hands on his
thighs. 'If you want to live, Jenny, you know what to do.'

    She
sucked in a breath, blood clogging her throat. He straightened and kicked her
sharply between the legs, a pain that split her pelvis.

    'You'll
fucking leave it alone.'