by M. R. Hall
Once everyone had settled, Jenny introduced herself and invited the lawyers to do the same. Mrs Jamal was represented by Trevor Collins, a balding high street solicitor dressed in a shapeless suit which hung sadly off his narrow shoulders. He spoke in a nervous, faltering voice and gave the impression that he would much rather be spending the morning in his poky office drafting wills. A handsome and urbane criminal barrister, Fraser Havilland, whom Jenny knew to have featured in several recent high-profile inquests in London, had been briefed to represent the Chief Constable of the Bristol and Avon police force, and Martha Denton QC, a spiky, abrupt woman, who was normally to be found in the Old Bailey prosecuting terrorists, represented the Director General of the Security Services. Each barrister had assorted instructing solicitors sitting in the row immediately behind them, armed with textbooks and a battery of laptops: two hefty legal teams determined to put on a show of strength. For her part, Jenny had only a well-thumbed copy of Jervis on Coroners, a stack of fresh notebooks and the fountain pen her father had given her as a graduation present. Alison, who sat at a small desk to the right, operated the same cassette recorder that had kept the official record of Severn Vale District inquests since the early 1980s.
With the exception of Havilland, the lawyers were restless and fidgety as, assisted by Alison, Jenny called the pool of jurors forward and asked each in turn whether there was any reason why they couldn’t serve. She took pity on two single mothers and released them, then selected eight from the remainder by lot. Those whose names were drawn took their places in two rows of four seats to Jenny’s left. They were all white and six of them had grey hair. The one male under thirty wore grubby jeans and a hooded sweat top and already gave the impression of being bored to distraction. The youngest, a girl of nineteen or twenty, wore a bemused, uncomprehending expression that seemed to say, ‘Where am I?’
Ignoring the lawyers’ impatient sighs, Jenny told the jury to forget about the courtroom dramas they had seen on television and to understand that this wasn’t a criminal trial. They would hear evidence about the unexplained disappearance of Nazim Jamal and his friend, Rafi Hassan. If, and only if, the evidence was sufficient to show that Nazim Jamal was dead, their task was to determine when, where and how that had happened. After thirty minutes of careful explanation she was satisfied that they had grasped the basic concepts. She asked if they had any questions. No hands went up.
Explanations complete, Mrs Jamal was making her way forward to the witness chair when the doors at the back of the hall swung open and a group of young Asian men burst in, followed by at least another half-dozen excited journalists. They had a hostile, intimidating air and made no attempt to move quietly, as those that could occupied the spare seats and the remainder lined up against the wall. The room felt suddenly cramped and oppressive. There was an atmosphere of simmering anger.
Jenny noticed Anwar Ali nod in recognition to one of the new arrivals. Alison shot her an anxious look.
‘This is a public hearing,’ Jenny said, trying to sound reasonable, ‘but this room can only hold so many people. I’ll allow everyone who’s here now to remain for the rest of this session, but I may have to review the situation later.’
‘May it please you, ma’am, I appear on behalf of the British Society for Islamic Change.’ A Pakistani man in his early thirties approached the lawyers’ table clutching a legal pad and several text books. ‘Yusuf Khan. I am the society’s legal representative.’ He set his belongings down and handed Alison a business card. ‘If you’ll hear me, ma’am, I am instructed to seek the right to examine witnesses in this inquest.’
Jenny glanced at the card Alison had passed to her. Khan was a solicitor from a firm in Birmingham she had never heard of. ‘On what grounds, Mr Khan?’
‘Ma’am, rule twenty of the Coroner’s Rules gives the coroner a wide discretion to allow any person who in your opinion is properly interested, to be represented. In this case I ask you to extend that privilege to Mr Khalid Miah, president of the society I represent. His organization has five thousand members in the UK, all of whom are young Muslim men and women aged between eighteen and thirty-five. It is the leading advocate for the community and has regular high-level meetings with politicians of all parties. It consults with the Home Office on matters of criminal justice and has representatives on several major think tanks.’ He extracted a glossy brochure from between his books. Alison took it from him and handed it to Jenny with a suspicious frown.
Jenny turned through the professionally produced pages. The society called itself ‘BRISIC’ and had a cheerful logo featuring brown and white hands clasped together. There were photographs of young men standing proudly outside a new mosque, others of their number meeting with cabinet ministers inside the Houses of Parliament, and a reassuring section showing members enjoying a wholesome summer camp in the Yorkshire Dales.
‘You clearly represent a respectable and successful organization, Mr Khan, but rights of audience can only be granted to those who have a legitimate and well-grounded interest.’
‘Ma’am, as one of the leading organizations of young Muslims in the UK, I would submit we clear that hurdle. It’s not just Mr Jamal’s case that concerns us; there are tens of others who have disappeared in the years since 2001. The official reason given is invariably that they have gone abroad to train or fight with radical insurgents in Afghanistan or Iraq, but my clients are far from satisfied with what little evidence has been provided. A large part of the coroner’s purpose is to determine cause of death so that similar deaths don’t occur in the future. I represent a constituency which is suffering from, if not proven deaths, many unexplained and seemingly permanent disappearances.’ A murmur of approval travelled around the room. ‘The British Society for Islamic Change does not come here with a political or religious agenda. It comes out of concern for tens if not hundreds of young Asian men. Where are they going? Where have they gone? If these are not legitimate questions, I do not know what are.’
Jenny noticed Alun Rhys trying to catch her eye. She deliberately avoided his gaze. She didn’t need him to tell her what he was thinking, she could read it from here: let these people in and risk turning the inquest into a political and media circus. Even if their lawyer behaved himself – and she could always exclude him if he didn’t – BRISIC could take public offence at or exploit every turn of events. But what was the alternative? If she refused them now, they’d raise a protest, inflame Muslim opinion and convince Mrs Jamal that she was being subjected to yet a further layer of conspiracy.
Rhys was resorting to unsubtle gestures to attract her attention. He’d tell her they were a political front wanting to hijack the inquest and mercilessly exploit the publicity it would bring them. Maybe so, but who was she to take orders from the Security Services? She had a legal duty to make up her own mind. She resolved to disregard him.
‘Wait there, Mr Khan,’ Jenny said. She addressed the entire assembled company: ‘I’m not a coroner who believes in restricting access to my inquiries. In the interests of openness and fairness I’m willing to allow any legitimately interested party the right to cross-examine witnesses, not least because it serves to counter any accusation that important questions have not been put. I am therefore prepared in principle to allow the British Society for Islamic Change to have a representative at the advocates’ table, but if there are any objections I will hear them.’
Fraser Havilland glanced round at his instructing solicitor, who gave an indifferent shrug. The portly young man instructing Martha Denton, however, was in a furious, whispered heads-together with Alun Rhys. Jenny gave them a moment to finish conferring and for the red-faced solicitor to pass a message forward to his counsel.
Unfazed by the silent, but palpable enmity which greeted her as she rose, Martha Denton addressed the court in perfunctory tones. ‘Ma’am, there is no evidence that Mr Jamal or his surviving relatives had or have anything to do with this amorphous organization. They may claim to represent others who have
gone missing for one reason or another, but this is an inquest into the disappearance of one man only. There is therefore no reason why they should be represented. But of course if they wish to observe, they are more than free to do so.’
‘Can you point to any facet of their activities which makes them unsuitable to be represented?’ Jenny said.
‘The question is, ma’am, whether they have any legitimate right to be represented at all.’
‘Which is a matter entirely in my discretion.’
‘All discretion has to be exercised reasonably,’ Martha Denton said.
Jenny felt Rhys’s threatening glare. She turned to BRISIC’s lawyer, her mind made up. ‘On condition that all legal representatives behave reasonably, I will allow you rights of audience, Mr Khan.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Khan said and gave a deferential bow. There were surprised smiles on the faces of the young men in the room.
Pouting, Martha Denton sat back pointedly in her seat. Alun Rhys crossed his arms defensively across his chest.
Jenny said, ‘Right. If you could come forward to the witness chair now, Mrs Jamal.’
Her face partially obscured by her veil, Mrs Jamal made her way to the front of the hall and sat on a chair positioned halfway between Jenny and the jury, immediately to the side of which stood a small desk just large enough to carry a bible, a koran and a jug of water. She read her oath in a quiet, but steady voice with only the faintest trace of nervousness. Her demeanour was composed and dignified, in stark and surprising contrast to the woman Jenny had met at her office.
Allowing her to tell her story in her own time, Jenny led Mrs Jamal through Nazim’s young life, his scholarship to Clifton College, her divorce and his arrival at Bristol University. She painted a picture of a devoted son and a hardworking student. The first tremor of emotion entered her voice as she described how he had arrived at her flat in traditional dress during his second university term.
‘Did you talk to him about his reasons for dressing this way?’ Jenny asked.
‘Yes. He said lots of Muslims his age were wearing these clothes.’
‘Did you ask why?’
Mrs Jamal faltered briefly. ‘I did . . . He wouldn’t talk about it. He said it was just something he wanted to do.’
‘How did you react? Were you concerned?’
‘Of course. We all knew what was happening to our sons, that these extremists were coming into mosques and talking to them about jihad and such nonsense.’
‘Didn’t you then discuss any of this with him?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t like to. It may not make much sense to you, but I didn’t want to upset him. And I trusted him . . . Young people go through these phases. It’s part of growing up. He was a scientist, he’d never been that religious. I didn’t think it would last.’
‘Was there part of you that was frightened of pushing him away if you challenged him too directly?’
‘Yes. He was all I had.’ She turned to the jury. ‘I was alone. He was my only child.’
The faces that looked back at her were more sceptical than sympathetic.
Jenny allowed Mrs Jamal a moment to recompose herself, then led her through her final two meetings with Nazim: the happy occasion of her birthday in May 2002, and his unexpected arrival, pale and feverish, on Saturday, 22 June.
‘When Nazim stayed for the night in June, would you say he was different from when you saw him in May?’
‘He wasn’t well . . .’ she stopped, as if arrested by another thought.
‘Mrs Jamal?’
‘There was one difference.’
‘Yes?’
‘On my birthday he went twice to the spare room to perform his afternoon and evening prayers. He was praying five times a day as you’re meant to . . . not many do.’
‘And in June?’
‘He arrived at noon and went to bed at about nine o’clock. He didn’t pray. He talked about his work, and tennis – he’d stopped playing for a while and mentioned he was thinking of taking it up again. We talked about family, his cousins . . . but I don’t think we discussed religion.’
‘How was he dressed on that occasion?’
‘In normal clothes: jeans, a shirt. His hair and beard were shorter than before.’ She glanced anxiously around the room, aware that she was being listened to closely. Most of the Muslims in the hall wore Western clothes, a few traditional dress, nearly all had beards. ‘I remember feeling glad about that. In our family we didn’t believe that you had to dress-as if you live in the desert to be close to God. That’s something that’s come from outside. It’s never been that way with us.’
The young men in the hall traded disapproving glances.
‘Did he say anything to indicate that he had changed in some way?’
‘No. But when you look at your child you know. Something had changed in him. He wanted me that day. He wanted things the way they used to be before . . . when he was a boy.’
‘Do you have any idea what this “change” was about, Mrs Jamal, what had caused it?’
She lowered her head and looked down at the floor, silent for a long moment. ‘I remember thinking, it’s over. I was relieved. And when I heard him at dawn the next morning, praying the way he was taught as a child, I knew.’
‘What was over?’
‘Whatever ideas those people had put in his head.’ She nodded towards Anwar Ali. ‘People like him. Radicals.’ She spat out the word. ‘My Nazim was never one of them.’
Anwar Ali held her in a steady, unflinching gaze. His friends and associates in the room stirred restively.
‘Mrs Jamal,’ Jenny said, ‘did your son ever mention Rafi Hassan?’
‘Never once.’
‘Did he mention any university friends?’
‘Not by name.’
‘You didn’t consider that odd?’
‘For eight months, from October to June, I hardly saw him . . . When I did, perhaps I was a little selfish. I wanted him with me, not talking about friends.’
‘Is the truth more that you didn’t want to know?’
‘Perhaps . . .’
‘Because you knew that groups, such as Hizb ut-Tahrir, had no qualms about prising members away from their families?’
‘Yes . . . I had heard that.’
Jenny made a note that from January to June 2002 Mrs Jamal knew full well that her son was radicalized and had buried her head in the sand. Her own painful experience had taught her how easily a mother could deceive herself.
In terms of evidence, Mrs Jamal had little more to offer, but Jenny nevertheless took her through the events of the weeks following Nazim and Rafi’s disappearance. She described her sketchy meetings with DC Sarah Owens, the family liaison officer appointed by the Bristol and Avon police, and her interviews with David Skene and Ashok Singh, the MI5 officers who met her three times before the investigation was effectively brought to a halt in December. Mrs Jamal insisted that the last formal contact she had with the police or with the Security Services was the letter from DC Owens dated 19 December 2002, which contained the nonsensical sentence: ‘In the absence of any firm evidence concerning the whereabouts of your son or Mr Hassan, it has been decided that the investigation will be suspended until such time as further evidence becomes available.’ A detective whose name she couldn’t remember had told her several days before that the Security Services had received intelligence suggesting the two young men may have gone abroad, but no one, she claimed, had ever come up with one solid fact to back this up. In the months and years that followed she wrote countless letters to the police and MI5 both personally and through a number of lawyers, but received nothing in return except barely polite acknowledgements, and often there was no response at all.
She had been met with a wall of silence and indifference.
Before handing her over to the waiting lawyers, Jenny leafed through the photocopied documents Mrs Jamal had given her and pulled out a statement made by Detective Sergeant Angus
Watkins on 3 July 2003. She passed it to Alison to read aloud to the jury. Watkins stated that he had examined the door frames of both Nazim and Rafi’s rooms in Manor Hall and found identical quarter-inch wide depressions in both, consistent with the use of a blunt object to force entry. He also noted that laptops and mobile phones belonging to both students were missing from their rooms, but there was no sign of their other possessions having been disturbed. Valuable objects such as an MP3 player were still in evidence.
‘Was this suggestion of forced entry to both rooms ever followed up to your knowledge?’ Jenny asked Mrs Jamal.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t even get this statement until my solicitor wrote to them the following year.’
‘Did you go to your son’s room yourself?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What impression did you form?’
‘All his clothes were still there, and his suitcase. His koran – the one his father and I gave him when he won his scholarship – was still on the shelf. His prayer mat was on the floor. All that we could see that was missing were his phone and computer.’
‘What about Mr Hassan’s room?’
‘I spoke to his mother briefly. It was the same. No computer. Everything else was as he would have left it.’
‘Was there no burglary investigation? Didn’t your solicitor take this up with the police, ask if they searched for fingerprints or DNA samples?’
‘My solicitor . . .’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘He was working on the case when he was arrested and went to prison. He claims he was innocent . . .’
‘Arrested for what?’
‘Something to do with evidence in another case.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to believe about him.’