The door to the cafe tinkled as Dan walked in.
Rosie’s was a small place close to the town centre that had once served milky tea in cracked mugs but had remodelled itself to compete with the coffee chains on the main street. It had gone for a French vibe, with dried lavender pinned to the walls and bistro tables outside, but the clientele hadn’t changed. Labourers and office workers still needed their bacon sandwiches.
The person he was looking for was sitting in a corner, his infamous usual place.
Mike Summers was the local coroner, a judge who decided on cause of death in those cases when a death didn’t have a natural cause. It wasn’t a job for the squeamish.
Mike still had his own firm and made occasional appearances in the local criminal courts as one of Highford’s defence lawyers, but his coronial work was a route out of a collapsing industry.
Dan had always been surprised that a man who saw so much death seemed determined to drag his own a little closer. He’d always struggled with his weight, his arrival in the courtroom usually preceded by panting and wheezing, but his morning breakfast routine had never changed. His wife once put him on a diet, packing him a salad and believing his promises that he’d cut down. It had merely provided a colourful garnish to his regular fried breakfast.
Dan wanted to catch him in Rosie’s, because the atmosphere at his office might make him close down. Lined by law reports, never read, his office was aimed at the more traditional clients, those who expected law offices to resemble Victorian parlours, low-lit and wood-lined. Then again, that was much more Mike’s client base, helping out farmers and landowners in neighbour disputes.
Mike looked solemn as he sliced a sausage. His expression was always serious, his movements slow and deliberate, wearing his responsibility like a funeral director. He’d earned the nickname Dr Death, although never to his face.
Dan slid in opposite him.
He looked surprised. ‘Dan? What can I do for you?’ He gave Dan a smile, but it was brief and polite, with little warmth.
‘Mike, I need a word, if you’ve got time.’
‘Will it take long?’ He raised his fork, the sausage glistening. ‘As you can see, I’m busy.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Is it to do with what happened to your office, and to you?’
‘Loosely.’
Mike sighed and put his fork down. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need some information in relation to past inquests.’
‘They’re matters of public record. Have you tried the local newspaper? Just because we pass each other sometimes in a courtroom doesn’t mean that you’ve earned a shortcut.’
‘My needs are more urgent than that. I’m on day two of a murder trial and the alternative suspect has a history of talking people into suicide.’ Dan hoped he wasn’t overselling it. ‘I’ve found one from Wakefield, a vulnerable young man persuaded to kill himself, but there might be a pattern.’
‘And if you’ve come to me, you must think there is a case like this in Highford.’
‘I do, but I don’t know who or when.’
‘What’s his name, this alternative suspect?’
‘It’s not a he. It’s a she. Leoni Walker was her name, but I wonder if she’s changed it.’
‘How far back are we going?’
‘Perhaps as far as fifteen years, because people like Leoni don’t stop.’
Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you say talked him into it, how do you mean?’
‘Just pushed and pushed, made out like it was a joint thing, two lost souls sharing their pain, but he was the only one who killed himself. She was on the phone to him when he died, claimed she was screaming at him not to do it, and by the time she hung up, to call an ambulance, he’d died.’
Mike paled.
‘What is it?’ Dan said.
He pushed his plate to one side, as if his appetite had gone. He stared at the table, deep in thought. Dan sat patiently.
When Mike looked up again, he asked, ‘If there is such a case, are you trying to say I got it wrong and should have spotted she’d talked him into it? I’m not going to help you if it’s any kind of witch hunt against me.’
‘I’m not here because of a dodgy inquest. I’m here because I have a murder trial that might result in an injustice.’
Mike nodded to himself as he thought whether he should say anything. ‘All right, there was this one case, around ten years ago. A musician. Sensitive, one of those people who was good at what he did but didn’t have the drive to be successful. I admit that it troubled me at the time, because he was part of a suicide pact, except one side backed out.’
‘A young woman, then just turned twenty or so?’
‘Yes, that’s her. She gave evidence, but I was there to establish cause of death, not determine fault. It was clearly suicide. His parents were pushing for misadventure, that he’d been goaded into it against his will, but there just wasn’t enough evidence of that. The young woman said that they were both going to kill themselves, but she panicked at the last minute. She was talking to him on the phone, imploring him to get help, until eventually she rang for an ambulance.’
‘An exact copy.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Why do you remember it so well? You must deal with so many.’
‘Just something, you know, some disquiet, that niggle in the back of my head. Her messages read exactly like a suicide pact, but it was how she was. Cold. I couldn’t imagine her being so low that she’d consider suicide, because she was so matter-of-fact, but then again, I’m no psychologist and I work on evidence, not on how I think someone should behave.’
‘Rehearsed, is perhaps the answer. She knew what to say, because she’d been there before.’
‘How long before?’
‘Five years or so before yours.’
‘The parents were going to appeal my finding, but I think they lost heart, decided that it wasn’t healthy.’
‘Can you remember his name? Or hers?’
‘I don’t remember her name, but I do his. We don’t get that many tricky ones a year, so you remember the ones that make the press. Lee Bridges.’
Dan smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Mike.’
Just as he turned to go, Mike said, ‘If you’re right, speak to Lee’s parents. I’ll look again at my decision, reopen the inquest even. Getting it right is more important than me trying to hide that I got it wrong.’
Now, it was time to find Leoni.