“I’ll try,” she said after a very long time. “I really will try. And… don’t go, Jonathan. You’re right. The children couldn’t bear it.”

She wasn’t sure she would be able to bear it herself. But she really wasn’t ready to say that.

CHAPTER 51

Michael Andrews always said the most important quality a coroner should possess was courtesy. And indeed, he had never come across one who didn’t. It was important for all concerned: for the relatives of the deceased, of course, still grieving, often disappointed that there was to be no criminal trial, so that they might find retribution for the death of their loved ones, and at least anxious to establish the truth; for the police who had worked so hard to establish that truth and whose evidence, often rather ponderous, must be heard in full, that the hard work might be justified; for the witnesses, often distressed themselves, always nervous; and of course for the coroner’s office staff, so at pains to be courteous themselves, to put people at ease, to ensure that proceedings ran smoothly and as swiftly as possible.

The inquest he was to conduct the following week, on the people who had died in the M4 crash the previous August, would be long, possibly running over two days. There were three deceased, and many witnesses; the crash had been complex and high-profile. It would test his skills considerably, and he would need to prepare for it with great care.

Since it was to be so large, and with so many attendees, it was to be held in the council chambers at the county court, rather than in one of the committee rooms; in a way people preferred that; they felt the deaths of the loved ones was being considered a matter of some importance, accorded proper dignity. The other thing about inquests, of course, was that they differed from criminal enquiries in that all the witnesses heard all the evidence. It gave a sense of greater openness and fairness, and it meant those involved could more easily see any concerns laid properly to rest.

There would be lawyers present, of course, because of insurance issues, and several doctors. One of the doctors, Dr. Jonathan Gilliatt, would be giving evidence on two counts: his own involvement in the crash, and his professional observations of the injured and deceased.

It would be wrong, Michael Andrews supposed, to say he was looking forward to the inquest-it would be both gruelling and sad-but it did promise to be what he privately called a yardstick, one by which he would judge and compare others.

His wife, Susan, was prepared for a somewhat solitary weekend.

“All rise.”

Michael Andrews liked this moment, as he walked into the court: not from any delusions of grandeur, but because it was an acknowledgement of his authority and through him the court’s.

He sat in the council chamber on a high dais, flanked by his clerk and coroner’s officer. The public sat before him, the seats ranged amphitheatre style, and banking up towards the back of the chamber; the witness table-also slightly raised and complete with microphone and Bible-was to his left.

He began as he always did: by welcoming everyone, by explaining the purpose of the inquest. “We are here to answer four questions: who the deceased were, and when, where, and how they came to their deaths. It is not to establish any blame, and no charges will be brought as a result.” He paused. “Three of the four answers are straightforward. The fourth, establishing by what means death arose, is the main purpose of this inquest. The families, if they wish, may ask relevant questions.”

The families, sitting together in their prescribed area, all looked at one another and then nervously about them. He knew from experience that it was likely at least one of them would ask questions, probably of the pathologist. He also knew what the first question, at least, was likely to be: would the victim have suffered at all?

He named the deceased and described them briefly: their ages, their status, where they lived-the young girl, Sarah Tomkins, the minibus driver, Edward Barnes, the young mother, Jennifer Marks.

He called the pathologist, Dr. Paul Jackson from St. Marks Hospital, who had carried out the postmortems on the deceased and asked him to take the oath. People were very respectful of the oath; they spoke it clearly and audibly, even if they became less so as they gave their evidence. And it reassured the relatives further, he knew: that no one was going to lie, to prevaricate; they were going to hear, finally, exactly what had happened to cause the deaths of those they loved.

Dr. Jackson gave his evidence: the awful bald facts, the exact cause in each case of the deaths. The mother of the young girl began to cry; the husband blew his nose hard and repeatedly. Andrews asked if there were any questions: the wife of the minibus driver, a middle-aged woman, her face pale and etched with strain, said, “I would like to ask a question. In your opinion, Doctor,” she said, speaking to the pathologist, “would my husband have suffered at all?”

“I think I can state quite categorically,” Dr. Jackson said, “that he would not. It is my professional opinion that all three would have died instantly.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. The others looked at her and half smiled; Sarah’s mother said, her voice shaky with nerves and emotion, “I was going to ask the same thing. But I wondered if whoever found my daughter-I believe it was another doctor-would have agreed.”

“We shall come to that evidence a little later,” said Andrews, “and you will be free to speak to the gentleman in question-who was indeed a doctor-then.”

The police evidence describing the background of the victims, how they had come to be on the road that afternoon, followed: the always tragic accounts of lives ended too soon. They were rich in clichés: “a devoted and selfless mother,”

“a lively, popular, and clever daughter,” “a loving and generous grandfather.” He hated the clichés, but they seemed de rigueur; they were what people told the police and, in any case, undoubtedly comforted the families.

He called Dr. Alexander Pritchard, the A &E consultant at St. Marks, to describe what medical procedures, if any, were carried out on the victims. Pritchard, who, like the pathologist, had clearly given evidence at many inquests before this one, spoke straightforwardly and with equal and careful tact: no procedures were carried out, the victims were all dead on arrival, and neither basic nor intensive life-support techniques were indicated. He added that in his opinion also, the deaths would all have been instantaneous.

Nice man, Andrews thought: an old-fashioned doctor of the best kind.

The inquest machinery ground on.

A large sheaf of photographs of the crash, taken from every angle, with relevant vehicles and trajectories painstakingly marked, were handed out to everyone. A description of the crash was given by Inspector Greg Dixon; he said people were for the most part very calm and helpful and that he would like to pay tribute to the courage of a doctor on the scene, “Mr. Jonathan Gilliatt, who worked tirelessly among the injured for many hours, and cared for a woman who had gone into premature labour, reassuring her and monitoring her condition until the ambulance arrived. He also most courageously climbed up into the lorry to turn the ignition off.”

Andrews asked for the forensic evidence; it was complex and highly technical, as it always was. Clearly the cause of the whole thing had been the wheel nut shattering the lorry’s windscreen; there was also considerable detail about a car two behind the lorry, which had apparently had a blowout, and caused considerable further damage, and which had had a large rusty nail in one of its tyres that would certainly have contributed to, if not caused, the blowout.