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money?’
    ‘She was obviously very troubled,’ I mumble.
    ‘Gutless, you mean.’
    ‘It takes a lot of courage to jump off a bridge.’
    ‘Courage,’ he scoffs.
    I glance at Gina. ‘And it takes even more courage to ask for help.’
    She looks away.

    Mid morning I cal Bristol Police Headquarters and ask for Sergeant Abernathy. The rain has final y stopped. I can see a patch of blue above the tree-line and the faint traces of a rainbow.
    Gravel and phlegm down the phone: ‘What do you want, Professor?’
    ‘I apologise for yesterday— leaving so suddenly. I wasn’t feeling wel .’
    ‘Must be catching.’
    Abernathy doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m unprofessional or inept. I’ve met coppers like him before— warrior types who think they’re separate from normal society, above it.
    ‘We need a statement,’ he says. ‘There’l be an inquest.’
    ‘You’ve identified her?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    There’s a pause. My silence irritates him.
    ‘In case it escaped your attention, Professor, she wasn’t wearing any clothes, which means she wasn’t carrying any identification.’
    ‘Of course. I understand. It’s just—.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I thought somebody would have reported her missing by now. She was so wel groomed: her hair, her eyebrows, her bikini-line; her fingernails were manicured. She spent time and money on herself. She’s likely to have friends, a job, people who care about her.’
    Abernathy must be taking notes. I can hear him scribbling. ‘What else can you tel me?’
    ‘She had a Caesarean scar, which means children. Given her age, they’re probably school age by now. Primary or secondary.’
    ‘Did she say anything to you?’
    ‘She was talking to someone on a mobile phone— pleading with them.’
    ‘Pleading for what?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘And that’s al she said?’
    ‘She said I wouldn’t understand.’
    ‘Wel , she got that much right.’
    This case annoys Abernathy because it isn’t straightforward. Until he has a name, he can’t gather the required statements and hand it over to the coroner.
    ‘When do you want me to come in?’
    ‘Today.’
    ‘Can’t it wait?’
    ‘If I’m working Saturday, so can you.’

    Avon and Somerset Police Headquarters is in Portishead on the Severn Estuary, nine miles west of Bristol. The architects and planners were perhaps labouring under the misapprehension that if they built a police headquarters a long way from the crime-ridden pockets of inner-city Bristol, the perpetrators might relocate and join them. If we build it— they wil come.
    The skies have cleared, but the fields are stil flooded and fence posts stick out of the brackish water like the masts of sunken ships. On the outskirts of Saltford, on the Bath Road, I see a dozen cows huddling on an island of grass surrounded by water. A broken bale of hay is scattered beneath their hooves.
    Elsewhere waves of water, mud and debris are trapped against fences, trees and bridges. Thousands of farm animals have drowned and machinery lies abandoned on low ground, caked in mud like tarnished bronze sculptures.
    Abernathy has a civilian secretary, a smal grey woman whose clothes are more colourful than her personality. She rises grudgingly from her chair and ushers me into his office.
    The sergeant, a large, freckled man, is seated at a desk. His sleeves are buttoned down and starched resolutely with a sharp crease running from his wrists to his shoulders.
    He speaks in a low rumble. ‘I take it you can write your own statement.’ A foolscap pad is pushed towards me.
    I glance down at his desk and notice a dozen manila folders and bundles of photographs. It’s remarkable how much paperwork has been generated in such a short space of time. One of the files is marked ‘Post Mortem’.
    ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’
    Abernathy glances at me like I’m a nosebleed and slides it over.

    AVON & SOMERSET CORONER
    Post-Mortem Report No: DX-56 312
    Date and time of death: