by M. R. Hall
‘What was his name?’
‘Mr McAvoy,’ she said, as if she could never forget. ‘Mr Alec McAvoy.’
From the corner of her eye, Jenny saw Alison look up with a frown of recognition. And then she remembered. McAvoy: the legal executive she’d met at the morgue, whose card she still had in her purse. She turned to Alison, ‘Could you request that Mr McAvoy attend, please, Usher? This afternoon if possible.’ She would like to hear his side of the story before she called the police witnesses. It was becoming apparent that their investigation had been pursued with far less than the usual rigour and she would expect a full and comprehensive explanation.
Fraser Havilland, counsel for the chief of police, had only a few low-key questions for Mrs Jamal. Did the police respond swiftly when she raised the alarm? Would she accept that they had taken appropriate steps to trace her son? Could she agree that if her son really had left the country, perhaps on false documents, that there was little more the police could have done? He didn’t get the answers he would have liked, but neither did Mrs Jamal react angrily or emotionally as Jenny had feared she might. When Havilland asked, quite reasonably, what was her chief complaint against his client’s force, she replied that she didn’t believe it was the police who were to blame. They were being told what to do by a higher authority, she said. They were merely obeying orders. Why else would they have given up so easily?
Martha Denton, counsel for the Security Services, whom it was now clear were the focus of Mrs Jamal’s suspicion, shared none of her colleague’s deference. Her first question, more of a statement, was a well-aimed arrow designed to do harm: ‘You’ve been disingenuous, haven’t you, Mrs Jamal? You knew your son had become a radical Islamist and you are using these proceedings as an attempt to assuage the guilt you feel at not having taken action to stop him being sucked in as far as he was.’
‘I don’t understand. Why should I feel guilty? It was your people who stopped the police from finding out what had happened to him.’
‘And where did you get that idea?’
‘The detective who told me about the intelligence, he almost said as much.’
‘The one whose name you can’t remember?’
‘He was about forty years old. Slim.’
‘I see.’ Denton struck a sarcastic tone: ‘And did he explain to you why the Security Services might be so keen not to find two radical Islamists who were known to have been associating with members of Hizb ut-Tahrir, an organization which, although not officially supportive of terrorism, harbours known sympathizers within its ranks?’
Thirty pairs of unforgiving eyes fixed on Martha Denton.
She remained unmoved. ‘Did he explain that, Mrs Jamal?’
‘No.’
‘This is an invention of yours, isn’t it? You are desperate to blame someone for the fact you haven’t discovered the fate of your son and you have chosen to fixate on my clients.’
Jenny cut in to issue a reproach. ‘We may have a jury but this is not a criminal court, Miss Denton. It is a civilized inquiry and will be conducted in that manner. Please moderate your tone.’
Martha Denton raised her eyebrows at her instructing solicitor and continued with mock politeness. ‘Mrs Jamal, did your son ever talk to you about his new-found religious conviction?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Did you know that he was meeting regularly with members of Hizb ut-Tahrir, an organization whose aim is to help bring about an international Islamic state?’
‘That’s what you say. I have no idea.’
‘But you did suspect something like that was going on?’
Jenny said, ‘What exactly is the point of your question, Miss Denton?’
Martha Denton sighed impatiently. ‘What I am attempting to extract from the witness, ma’am, is exactly what she did know about her son’s involvement with radicals and extremists.’
Mrs Jamal erupted. ‘My son would never do a bad thing. Never. Anyone who said he would is a liar.’ Her words echoed around the silent hall.
‘His father took rather a different attitude, didn’t he?’ Martha Denton said. ‘He resigned himself to the most obvious explanation for your son’s disappearance very quickly, didn’t he? That’s why he isn’t here. For him there is no question to be answered.’
‘I can’t speak for that man. He hasn’t even lifted the phone to me in six years. How should I know what he thinks?’
‘And Rafi Hassan’s family, too?’
‘They’re frightened. They’re all frightened of your people. I’m the only one who won’t be intimidated. I’ve seen them outside my home, following me in the street—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Jamal,’ Martha Denton said with an amused expression and sat down.
Mrs Jamal scowled at her, all her efforts to appear reasonable unravelling with her final outburst. Several of the jurors exchanged dubious glances. Jenny doodled a row of question marks on her pad. Try as she might, she couldn’t take Mrs Jamal at her word.
Yusuf Khan got to his feet with a placatory smile. ‘Mrs Jamal, you said that your son would never have done a bad thing. Do you honestly believe that?’
‘He would never have hurt another human being. I swear on my life.’
‘Do you believe he went abroad to join a jihadist organization?’
‘If he did, it was not of his free will. That was not his way.’
‘You told this to the police and Security Services at the time, I presume, but what – they wouldn’t believe you?’
She shook her head. ‘They believe only what suits them.’
Khan said, ‘Did they give you the impression that they believed your son was an extremist, a young man seduced into sympathy with violence against the West?’
‘They didn’t have to. It was written in their faces – even the Indian one, Singh.’
Jenny glanced at Alun Rhys. He caught her eye, his expression saying: just wait.
‘And did they even appear to entertain the possibility that your son or Mr Hassan might have been the victims of a crime, even though there were signs of forced entry on both their doors?’
‘No. Never.’
Khan turned to the jury. ‘Were you made to feel, Mrs Jamal, that your son was one of the enemy within?’
Jenny threw him a warning look. She wasn’t going to tolerate grandstanding.
To her credit, Mrs Jamal didn’t give him the soundbite he was hoping for. ‘I was made to feel that nobody cared. But I prayed to God every day, and I still believe there can be justice.’
Khan snapped back: ‘You don’t think this inquest has been permitted merely to seal your son’s reputation as a traitor and a jihadi?’
‘Mr Khan,’ Jenny said, ‘I’ll warn you once and not again – this is an inquest, not an opportunity for you to score political points. Next time, you’re out.’
The murmur of dissent rose like a wave. Accusing glares turned on her.
Khan said, ‘You’re quite right, ma’am. Perish the thought that an inquest should ever be used to play politics.’
And as he smiled someone sniggered, then another joined him. A moment later the hall was filled with the sound of mocking laughter. Thrown, Jenny hesitated long enough to lose all face. She felt her cheeks redden and her heart crash against her ribs.
NINE
THE HALVED BETA BLOCKER JENNY had gulped down on leaving the courtroom had barely got to work when Alison tapped on the door and let herself in before she could answer.
‘Mr Rhys would like to talk to you.’
‘Tell him he can send me a note.’
‘He was insistent.’
‘I don’t talk to interested parties during the inquest. He should know that.’
Alison gave a dubious nod, turned halfway to the door, then looked back.
‘What?’ Jenny said, impatiently.
‘I think you should clear the gallery, Mrs Cooper. They’re not interested. It’s just a mob with a few ringleaders. They’re already out at the fr
ont talking to news cameras.’
‘How could I claim to be holding an open and fair inquiry if I shut out the public?’
‘Do you think those people care? Nothing will change what they think.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Their solicitor as good as said it. He thinks this is window dressing. You’re just here to prove those two boys ran off to become terrorists, or whatever we’re meant to call them.’
‘I can handle a few rowdy kids. Tell Rhys to get lost.’ She took a gulp of water from the glass on her desk. Alison watched it shake in her hand but made no comment.
Jenny said, ‘Have you got hold of McAvoy yet?’
Alison grimaced. ‘His office says he’s been in court on a long-running trial, but he’ll try to get over this afternoon.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Everyone in CID knew McAvoy.’
‘Really? What’s the story?’
‘Whatever he says it is, it isn’t.’
She left the room.
Jenny sat back in her chair, closed her eyes and tried to relax. She had conducted stressful inquests in the full public glare before and got through, just. All the morbid, anxious and unwanted thoughts that were assailing her were merely the by-products of stress. They had no meaning. She was in control.
Her limbs were finally starting to feel heavy when her phone bleeped alerting her to a text message. Her eyes started open and she reached for it. It said: Have it you’re way. Your on you’re own. Working for MI5 and he couldn’t even spell.
The mood was noticeably more sober when the court reconvened and Anwar Ali took his place in the witness chair. Composed and confident, he seemed to command respect among the young Muslim men. Jenny ran her eyes over the faces in the public gallery and couldn’t see Rhys. She felt a flutter of anxiety and realized how quickly his presence had become a safety blanket. She found herself desperately curious about what he might have said had she let him speak to her. A coroner only ever acted alone, she had to remind herself; a coroner was independent and answered only to the Lord Chancellor. She didn’t need anyone else.
She began with the uncontroversial questions, establishing that Ali was thirty-two years old and had been part way through a post-graduate MA in politics and sociology when Nazim and Rafi disappeared. He was currently employed by Newport Borough Council as general manager of the refugee centre where Jenny has visited him, and was a part-time doctoral student at the University of Cardiff. His thesis was entitled: ‘Anglo-Muslim Identity: Integration or Cohabitation?’ He claimed not to be a member of the British Society for Islamic Change although he admitted to having contributed several articles to their website. He described himself as ‘a politically engaged British Muslim concerned with promoting peaceful coexistence between communities’.
‘During your time at Bristol, Mr Ali, you were a regular at the Al Rahma mosque, were you not?’
‘Yes, I prayed there on Fridays.’
‘And this was a small mosque in what had once been a private house?’
‘It was.’
‘What was its purpose? There were other mosques in the city, weren’t there?’
‘It was progressive. Mullah Sayeed Faruq established it in the mid-1990s to cater for young men and women who had a different vision of their place in the world.’
‘How would you describe Sayeed Faruq’s theology?’
‘Mainstream.’
‘His politics?’
‘Questioning.’
‘Could you enlarge on that?’
Ali thought carefully before responding. ‘He questioned to what extent Muslim identity was being diluted by Western influences and values. Many of us wanted to talk about a future that wasn’t based on materialism and violence. We wanted to rediscover the essence of our religion.’
‘I understand the police believed him to hold radical and extremist views. Did he?’
‘If you mean did he personally advocate violence, no, he did not. Persuasion, force of argument, asserting that the Islamic way was better for the spiritual health of mankind, yes.’
‘Was Sayeed Faruq a member of Hizb ut-Tahrir?’
‘I believe he was,’ Ali said. ‘I was not, nor to my knowledge were Nazim or Rafi. But you ought to understand, ma’am, Hizb specifically does not advocate violence to promote Islam. Its purpose is to argue and persuade. It has attracted much suspicion, but in the vast majority of free countries it is not an illegal organization.’ He turned to the jury. ‘The name means party of liberation.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ali. I’ve done a little research myself. I’ve read that Hizb’s methods of persuasion involve inviting young people to meetings – halaqah – such as the ones you held in your flat at Marlowes Road.’
‘I hosted discussion groups, but I was never a member of Hizb or any other organization.’
Unflappable, he had a smooth, well-rehearsed answer for everything. Jenny pushed and probed, but he wouldn’t budge from his position that at both the mosque and his discussion group only peaceful means of spreading the Islamic message were discussed. Both he and Sayeed Faruq had believed in working towards the establishment of an international caliphate, but violence and terrorism were condemned as sacrilegious except in self-defence.
Interesting as their exchange was, Jenny noticed a number of jurors beginning to yawn. The finer points of Islamic theology weren’t holding their attention. It was time to push on into more contentious territory.
‘When did Nazim Jamal first come to the Al Rahma mosque?’
‘In October ’01, I think. I couldn’t say exactly. Rafi came first, Nazim a few weeks later.’
‘And when did they start attending your discussion groups?’
‘About November time.’
‘Who else was there apart from you and them?’
‘Various people came and went. They were mostly students.’ He rattled off half a dozen names but claimed not to have kept in touch with most of them. Jenny made a note. She’d track them down if necessary.
‘Can you give us an idea of a typical discussion – the kind of subjects covered?’
Ali shrugged. ‘We talked about Palestine, possible solutions to the conflict; the war in Afghanistan; American paranoia and how Muslims should respond to it.’
‘How would you describe Nazim’s politics?’
Ali glanced over at Mrs Jamal. She met him with a searching gaze. She was looking at a man who had seen a side of her son she knew nothing of.
‘At first he was quiet . . . then he became more confident, more inspired. I remember he was a good scholar. He knew his Koran.’
‘Inspired to what, exactly?’
‘Ideas. To the notion of a society built on religious principles. He had the untainted enthusiasm of youth, you might say.’
‘What was his take on the use of political violence?’
‘He was against it, as we all were.’
‘And Rafi Hassan?’
‘He was quieter. More of a listener than Nazim. I didn’t feel I knew him as well.’
‘Did he hold similar views?’
‘As far as I know. Really, you have to understand, no matter what the police or Security Services may have thought, our discussions were no more radical than those you would have heard at any of the university’s political societies. We were young men grappling with ideas, that’s all. I believe we were watched simply because Sayeed Faruq was on a list of Hizb members. He was automatically assumed to be part of a fifth column. Little was known about British Muslims at the time except that they shared a faith with some notorious terrorists.’
Thus far Jenny hadn’t learned a single piece of new information from the one witness who had been closer to the two missing boys than anyone else she would be calling. She went in harder, pressing Ali to admit that the subject of fighting the Muslim cause must at least have been discussed, but he wouldn’t have it. He denied coming into contact with anyone recruiting potential jihadis to fight abroad and maintain
ed that none of the regulars at Marlowes Road halaqah had ever shown the slightest inclination to take up arms. He insisted that he had no clue as to where Nazim and Rafi had disappeared to and denied even suspecting that they had extremist tendencies. She pressed him as to whether he recalled a change in Nazim’s mood the weekend before he disappeared, as Mrs Jamal had described: he claimed not to have. Ali had been close to the members of his halaqah, he said, but not so close that he knew the details of their lives. They held spiritual, intellectual gatherings, not social ones.
It was a masterful performance and Jenny didn’t believe half of it.
Growing frustrated, she said, ‘You must have some idea where they went. You would have heard rumours, at least?’
‘No. I must have spent hundreds of hours answering these questions at the time and my answer hasn’t changed. I swear before my God, Allah the most merciful, that I do not know where they went or what became of them.’
The solemnity of his oath was greeted with a respectful and reflective silence. All the young men in the room were still and sombre. Even Alison seemed to be affected by its sincerity.
Jenny said, ‘What became of Sayeed Faruq? Where did he go?’
‘He went to Pakistan. He was wise enough to know that he would always be under suspicion in this country.’
‘You’re sure he had nothing to do with their disappearance?’
‘Again, I swear it. Whatever happened to them is as mysterious to me as it is to you.’ He turned to Mrs Jamal. ‘I sincerely wish it wasn’t so, ma’am.’
Fraser Havilland and Martha Denton both declined the opportunity to cross-examine. Having failed to open up a single fissure, Jenny sensed they were content not to risk accidentally succeeding. It gave the lie to Gillian Golder’s claim that the Security Services were as anxious as she was to find out the truth, but came as no surprise. Jenny was beginning to agree with Yusuf Khan that her inquest had only been allowed to proceed because they were confident it posed no danger other than to project the already diabolical image of young Muslim men. The meaning of Rhys’s text message still puzzled her, but perhaps he simply meant that she would have to face the consequences of a non-result alone: it would be she, personally, who would take the blame for failing to unearth the truth.