observation was that
eleven-year-old girls behaved quite innocently online: it was all pictures of pop stars, harmless chit-chat about boys, and playground gossip. Layla and Mandy hadn’t become online friends
(Layla had ignored Mandy’s request), and Ed, it seemed, had kept entirely away from them both.
Kelly Hart had used her account even less than her youngest daughter. She had left it open to the world, with the loosest security settings, but had made only three substantial posts: each one a
photograph of herself in a different setting. In the first she was in cut-off jeans, paddling in the surf on a Cornwall beach; in the second she was dressed up for a party in a short black frock.
The third was very different: a soulful portrait of Kelly standing next to a pond in autumnal woodland, dated the previous October. Whereas the first two pictures had been smiling and optimistic,
this one had left Jenny with an impression of a woman who, whether she was aware of it or not, was suffering from a sense of melancholic longing; resigned to, but not fulfilled by, the life she was
leading.
A solitary pick-up painted in dark green Forestry Commission livery was parked outside the small, timber-clad office building. Beyond it was a fenced-in area of hardstanding in which several
items of heavy plant – two tractors and a tree harvester that did the work of fifteen men – were slowly disappearing under a thick covering of snow. The sweep of Jenny’s
headlights across the office windows as she entered the yard brought a face to the glass. The man inside squinted out into the gloom, not expecting visitors. He came to the door as Jenny mounted
the short flight of steps leading up to it. He was around fifty, with heavy-set shoulders, and weathered, bovine features.
He greeted her suspiciously. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Jenny Cooper. I’m the coroner. I left a message on your machine.’
‘Oh, that was you, was it?’ He looked her up and down once more, with the slow, patient gaze he might have used to size up an awkward piece of standing timber. ‘Bob Bream. Come
in.’
Jenny followed him into an office heated by a large potbellied stove. Of the three desks, only one showed signs of activity. Bream stepped behind it.
‘Everyone else on holiday?’ Jenny asked by way of smalltalk, as she took a seat.
‘Best place for them, this weather,’ Bream said, easing his huge body into a swivel chair.
Jenny noticed his hands: palms the size of tea plates, with thick, calloused fingers. ‘I’m right in thinking you’re the local manager?’
‘
Forestry Officer
, not that it makes any odds. A couple of full-time staff and a few machines. Not exactly an empire.’
‘Does that include Ed Morgan?’
‘No. Ed was part-time. He’d fell the odd bit of tricky stuff the machines couldn’t get to, and keep the deer down – and the odd boar. He’d no head for desk
work.’
‘Had you known him long?’
Bream nodded. ‘About thirty-five years. He was a cousin, well, half-cousin, strictly speaking. Known him from a babe in arms.’
‘You sound as if you were close?’
‘Close enough. My mother’s side never much cared for the Morgans – no one remembers why – but Ed was all right. Yes, he was a good lad.’ He shook his head.
‘What do you think happened, then? None of us can work it out – he was the sort of bloke you’d trust with your life.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘All sorts – gunshots, this and that. You know how people talk.’
Jenny took out her phone and for the second time that day called up Ed Morgan’s parting message. She handed it across to Bream who read it with a puzzled expression, then read it again
with a growing look of disbelief.
‘No,’ he scoffed. ‘Pardon my French, Mrs Cooper – that’s bollocks. Total bollocks.’ He pushed the phone back across the desk. ‘One of the sanest men I
knew.’ Bream sat back in his chair, which creaked under his weight, and
eleven-year-old girls behaved quite innocently online: it was all pictures of pop stars, harmless chit-chat about boys, and playground gossip. Layla and Mandy hadn’t become online friends
(Layla had ignored Mandy’s request), and Ed, it seemed, had kept entirely away from them both.
Kelly Hart had used her account even less than her youngest daughter. She had left it open to the world, with the loosest security settings, but had made only three substantial posts: each one a
photograph of herself in a different setting. In the first she was in cut-off jeans, paddling in the surf on a Cornwall beach; in the second she was dressed up for a party in a short black frock.
The third was very different: a soulful portrait of Kelly standing next to a pond in autumnal woodland, dated the previous October. Whereas the first two pictures had been smiling and optimistic,
this one had left Jenny with an impression of a woman who, whether she was aware of it or not, was suffering from a sense of melancholic longing; resigned to, but not fulfilled by, the life she was
leading.
A solitary pick-up painted in dark green Forestry Commission livery was parked outside the small, timber-clad office building. Beyond it was a fenced-in area of hardstanding in which several
items of heavy plant – two tractors and a tree harvester that did the work of fifteen men – were slowly disappearing under a thick covering of snow. The sweep of Jenny’s
headlights across the office windows as she entered the yard brought a face to the glass. The man inside squinted out into the gloom, not expecting visitors. He came to the door as Jenny mounted
the short flight of steps leading up to it. He was around fifty, with heavy-set shoulders, and weathered, bovine features.
He greeted her suspiciously. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Jenny Cooper. I’m the coroner. I left a message on your machine.’
‘Oh, that was you, was it?’ He looked her up and down once more, with the slow, patient gaze he might have used to size up an awkward piece of standing timber. ‘Bob Bream. Come
in.’
Jenny followed him into an office heated by a large potbellied stove. Of the three desks, only one showed signs of activity. Bream stepped behind it.
‘Everyone else on holiday?’ Jenny asked by way of smalltalk, as she took a seat.
‘Best place for them, this weather,’ Bream said, easing his huge body into a swivel chair.
Jenny noticed his hands: palms the size of tea plates, with thick, calloused fingers. ‘I’m right in thinking you’re the local manager?’
‘
Forestry Officer
, not that it makes any odds. A couple of full-time staff and a few machines. Not exactly an empire.’
‘Does that include Ed Morgan?’
‘No. Ed was part-time. He’d fell the odd bit of tricky stuff the machines couldn’t get to, and keep the deer down – and the odd boar. He’d no head for desk
work.’
‘Had you known him long?’
Bream nodded. ‘About thirty-five years. He was a cousin, well, half-cousin, strictly speaking. Known him from a babe in arms.’
‘You sound as if you were close?’
‘Close enough. My mother’s side never much cared for the Morgans – no one remembers why – but Ed was all right. Yes, he was a good lad.’ He shook his head.
‘What do you think happened, then? None of us can work it out – he was the sort of bloke you’d trust with your life.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘All sorts – gunshots, this and that. You know how people talk.’
Jenny took out her phone and for the second time that day called up Ed Morgan’s parting message. She handed it across to Bream who read it with a puzzled expression, then read it again
with a growing look of disbelief.
‘No,’ he scoffed. ‘Pardon my French, Mrs Cooper – that’s bollocks. Total bollocks.’ He pushed the phone back across the desk. ‘One of the sanest men I
knew.’ Bream sat back in his chair, which creaked under his weight, and
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