by M. R. Hall
‘I’ll be right down,’ she said weakly. ‘Just give me a moment.’
She moved to the edge of the bed and swung her legs out onto the floor to prove the point. Unconvinced, Ross withdrew and went downstairs.
‘You could make some coffee,’ Jenny called after him.
It took several minutes under a cool shower to get any life back into her muscles. As the blood started to flow, the previous evening’s events gradually drifted back to her. She remembered driving back from the pub to Bristol feeling fine. She and McAvoy were laughing and listening to music. Nearing the city, she’d become drowsy – that would be the alcohol combining with her beta blocker, slowing her heart. She had dropped him off outside his office. He told her to look after herself, then reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand. There had been a moment when he might have leaned forward and kissed her, but he did it with a look instead. She relived a feeling of near elation as she drove back through Clifton, crystal white fairy lights glittering on trees outside the cafés and boutiques like star dust. Then it went hazy . . . drooping at the wheel . . . crossing the Severn Bridge . . . her shoulder dragging against the wall as she climbed the stairs, Ross following behind her.
She was back in her bedroom pulling on a sweater over her blouse when she noticed the notebook, her journal, lying open on the floor at the foot of the bed where Ross had been standing. She stooped down and snatched it up, her heart in her throat. She had written yesterday’s date in an erratic hand, and three scrawled lines:
I don’t know what happened tonight. That man . . . he does something to me. I don’t even find him attractive – he’s so tired and used up. But when he looks in my eyes I know he’s not afraid of anything. What does it mean? Why him? Why now? It’s as if
The last ‘f’ trickled off down the page leaving the thought forever incomplete.
She stuffed the journal into the drawer at the foot of her wardrobe, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame.
Ross called up the stairs. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Toast is fine. I’m coming now.’ She took a deep breath and told herself not to panic. He hadn’t seen the journal. He’d been too concerned about her to notice it. He’d probably spotted the pills, but she could explain those – stress of the divorce, new career; the medication a temporary help in easing the strain. Everyone took them at some point in their life. He’d understand.
He’d made toast and coffee and set out cups and plates on the small fold-out table, only big enough for two, which took up most of the floor space in the tiny kitchen. He was showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes – unheard of on a weekend.
She put on a bright smile. ‘Anything planned for today?’
He shook his head. ‘Karen’s away with her mum.’
‘I’ve got to work tomorrow so I thought maybe we could go for a walk, drive over to the Beacons as it’s sunny.’
Ross poured her some coffee. ‘Don’t you think you’d better rest?’
‘It was a long week,’ Jenny said, ‘that’s all. The mother of the boy who disappeared died on Thursday—’
‘I read about it in the paper.’
‘Oh?’
‘This case is a big deal. It’s been on the news and everything.’
‘I try not to listen. They never get their facts straight.’ She tried to sound light-hearted and fell short.
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Ross said, in the scathing way only a teenager can. ‘You seem pretty stressed to me, crashing out in your clothes.’
‘I fell asleep reading. Don’t you ever do that?’
‘God, do you have to be so touchy all the time?’
‘I’m sorry if I’m not Julie-bloody-Andrews.’
‘Why do you always over-react?’
‘Can we just have breakfast without arguing?’ She grabbed a piece of toast and stabbed her knife into the butter. It slipped out of her fingers. She picked it up and fumbled it again. She gave up and forced her hands into her lap, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ross said.
‘Nothing.’ She sniffed. Damn. Why did she have to fold now?
His irritation melted into concern.
‘What are all those pills for?’
‘They’re just to help me cope . . . It’s taken me a while to get over the divorce.’
‘But you were ill before you got divorced.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘Then why were you seeing a psychiatrist?’
‘Who told you that?’ she said, as if he’d been fed a lie.
‘I heard you and Dad arguing about it.’
It took all Jenny’s effort not to break down. ‘I’m better now. Everything’s changed. I’ve got a new life. It just takes a while to adjust.’
He was having none of it. ‘Why can’t you just tell me the truth for once? Steve doesn’t think you’re better. I know he doesn’t.’
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘Nothing specific. I can just tell from the way he talks about you.’
‘Ross, please, you have to believe me. Yes, I was very unhappy for a time, but I’d been with your father since I was twenty, barely older than you are now. Being on your own takes some getting used to.’ She forced in a breath, somehow managing to keep the tears at bay. ‘It’s all getting better now. I’ve got a great job, you . . .’ She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me.’
‘No pressure then,’ he said sarcastically.
‘No. There isn’t. Honestly.’ She let go, realizing how oppressive and guilt-making she must feel to him, but at the same time filled with the selfish need for his reassurance. ‘All I want is for you to feel free, but cared for. Your father and I both—’
He recoiled in embarrassment. ‘Yeah, all right.’
Jenny allowed herself to smile. They’d made connection. ‘I was serious about the two of us going out together. How about it?’
‘Whatever you like,’ Ross said, and took a mouthful of toast.
Jenny knew the expression he was trying to hide from her behind his mask of macho indifference. In all its essential elements his face hadn’t changed since he was a toddler. He felt reassured, comforted in the way he had when he’d run to her with scraped knees needing a hug.
‘Do you have to keep looking at me?’
‘I’m not—’
The phone rang in the sitting room.
‘I’ll get it,’ Ross said, and went to answer, eager to break the tension.
He came back with the receiver and handed it to her. ‘For you. Andy someone.’
Andy? She had a mental blank. ‘Hello . . . ?’
‘Mrs Cooper. Andy Kerr, sorry to call you on a weekend – your officer gave me your number.’
‘Is this about the Jane Doe?’
‘I’m not sure . . . I came into work this morning to catch up. I still had the dosimeter kicking around my office. I was playing around with it waiting for my computer to boot up when I realized it was still picking something up. I took it over to the fridge thinking there might still be traces from the body when it started going crazy . . .’ He paused, sounding as if he scarcely believed what he was about to say. ‘Mrs Jamal’s body is giving off radiation. Whatever the source is, it’s pushing out nearly fifty milliSieverts an hour.’
Jenny felt as if the room had been suddenly shaken by an unexpected tremor. Radiation? She was baffled.
‘I don’t understand the measurements,’ she said, ‘What does it mean?’
‘Put it this way,’ Andy Kerr said, ‘background radiation is two milliSieverts per year. Five hundred milliSieverts is usually considered very bad for your health. We’re not talking sudden death, but we are talking dangerous levels.’
‘Where could it have come from?’
‘No idea. I’ve got someone from radiology on the way. I’m hoping she might come up with some answers. I thought you might want to be
here.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Shouldn’t we get the facts straight first?’
‘I’ll be right down.’
Jenny promised she’d only be an hour or two, but Ross said wearily that he’d learned to multiply her time estimates by three. Forget going out, he’d rather be dropped in Bristol, where he could meet up with friends.
He told her to let him out near Bristol docks. She watched him saunter off towards the coffee shops and bars where she suspected he and his friends liked to mingle. Seventy-five weekends until he was gone. How many of those would they spend together? A handful if she was lucky.
She tried McAvoy’s mobile number twice during the fifteen-minute drive to the Vale hospital. Each time she reached his answerphone, and each time she froze when it came to leaving a message. She could no longer deny that in a deeply confusing and incomplete way she was attracted to him, but it wasn’t shyness that stopped her, it was a vague and unsettling sense that whatever awaited her would be complicated enough without his unpredictable presence. And, if she were brutally honest with herself, she remained suspicious. There was still something about him, the bit that by his own admission remained wholly unredeemed, that she didn’t trust.
A stiff female figure swaddled in an anorak and gloves was waiting outside the mortuary entrance. It was Alison. Jenny could sense her mood of martyred disapproval at twenty yards.
‘Good morning, Alison.’
‘On your own, are you, Mrs Cooper?’ she replied sharply.
‘Yes.’
‘I was half-expecting you to be with Mr McAvoy – as you and he seem to have become so friendly.’
‘I know you’ve got a history, but I think he may have helped me make a breakthrough. I tracked down the man who was driving the Toyota, the one who paid Madog a visit. Have you managed to take his statement yet?’
‘Yes,’ Alison said curtly. ‘But helpful or not, I’ve known you long enough to say this, Mrs Cooper – that man’s using his charm to get the better of you. He’s got mischief in mind, I know it.’
Jenny could have pointed out that Alison was hardly objective when it came to her good-looking former boss or her confidant and baptismal sponsor, DI Dave Pironi, but her more humane instincts told her to hold back. This was her officer’s way of saying that she was concerned, and Jenny appreciated it. Now didn’t feel like a good time to have to manage without her.
‘I’m under no illusions,’ Jenny said. ‘The next time I see him will be in court. That’s a promise.’ She pushed the buzzer.
Andy Kerr came along the corridor to meet them, dressed in a radiographer’s apron, surgical mask and cap.
‘I can’t let you go any further,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘We’ve found hazardous levels. Sonia’s got some kit up there that should help identify the source. Undertakers are on the way with a lead-lined coffin.’
Jenny craned past him to see a young woman dressed in a similar outfit to his. She was kneeling on the floor tapping on a laptop. It was hooked up to some equipment housed in boxes that resembled photographer’s cases.
‘Could she have been poisoned?’ Jenny said.
Andy said, ‘Come through here. It’s one room which isn’t giving a reading.’ He pushed through the swing doors into the empty autopsy room. Jenny and Alison followed.
Andy pulled off his mask and ripped at the Velcro tabs on his apron. The beach club T-shirt he was wearing underneath was soaked through with sweat. ‘Sonia says she’s found radioactive particles on the surface of the skin. They’re beta emitters, which starts to narrow it down. She also found a particle in the nasal passage. It’s early days, but her initial impression was that Mrs Jamal has been in an environment where she’s come into contact with a radioactive substance.’
‘Such as?’ Alison asked.
‘There are some medical and commercial applications for these radionuclides – iodine 129 is used to treat thyroid complaints – but it’s more likely she’s been exposed to low- or medium-level nuclear waste.’
Jenny said, ‘How likely is that?’
‘Beats me,’ Andy said. He pulled his dosimeter from his pocket – a small yellow gadget about the size of a pager – and switched it on. He waved it in Jenny and Alison’s direction and checked the digital readout. ‘You’re both clear.’
Sonia Cane was a Ghanaian woman who wore a permanent frown. Having finished her work at the fridge she scrubbed down in the autopsy room while reeling off a list of urgent tasks. The Health Protection Agency would have to be informed immediately. Their radiation team would oversee the clean-up of the mortuary and the storage and eventual disposal of the body. Until the building was clear of contamination it would be sealed off and no bodies would be allowed to come or go. The levels of radiation were high enough to make this a significant incident.
‘Do you have any idea where this came from?’ Jenny asked her.
‘No, but I can tell you what the substance is. There’ll be more detailed tests, but I’m pretty certain it’s caesium 137. Tiny amounts – no more than specks of dust – but from a potent source.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Alison said, saving Jenny from revealing her ignorance.
‘A by-product of the nuclear industry,’ Sonia said. ‘It results directly from the fission of uranium. You’d also find it where there’d been a nuclear explosion—’
Jenny interrupted, ‘This woman worked in a clothes shop.’
Sonia said, ‘I find it as puzzling as you . . . If she worked at a nuclear power plant you could understand it.’ At a loss, she shook her head. ‘You read about terrorists trying to get hold of this stuff to make dirty bombs. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Do you know when she was contaminated?’ Andy said.
‘Very recently – the particle in the nose can’t have been lodged there for more than a few days, even hours before death. The natural processes would have expelled it.’
‘And this contamination was on her skin, right?’ Jenny said. ‘Her body was found naked.’
‘I’m not sufficiently expert to tell you whether or not she was clothed or not when she was exposed,’ Sonia said. ‘We’d have to bring in specialists.’
Jenny’s mind raced through a number of equally baffling possibilities. None of them seemed credible. All of them pointed to Amira Jamal having a far more complex connection with her son’s disappearance than Jenny could ever have imagined.
‘We’d better inform the police,’ Alison said.
Andy reached for the phone on the wall.
Jenny stopped him. ‘Hold on. I’d like to go to her flat first. It’s only a few minutes away.’
Sonia said, ‘This is a radiological incident. We’re under a legal duty—’
‘I know. But let’s find out how big the incident is first, shall we? Could you come with us?’
Sonia and Andy traded an uncertain glance.
‘He can make the call in half an hour. Meanwhile I’m gathering evidence for my inquest into her son’s death – I’ll explain on the way. Bring whatever you need to take measurements, but we’ll have to be quick.’
Alison held fire until they were marching back out across the car park. Sonia, following behind, was on the phone offloading the day’s domestic duties to an evidently disgruntled husband.
Alison said, ‘Would you mind telling me what you think you’re doing, Mrs Cooper? We have a duty to report this incident immediately.’
‘It was you who told me that the Security Services put pressure on the police to shut down their investigation in Nazim and Rafi’s disappearances before they wanted to.’
‘I told you there was talk, that’s all,’ Alison said defensively.
‘That’s not how I remember it . . . Look, I know Pironi’s your friend—’
‘He did everything he could.’
‘He could have resigned.’
‘Why are you bringing him into this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? He
’s part of it.’
‘He’s a decent man.’
‘That’s not what I’m hearing.’
‘Oh, from McAvoy—’
Jenny stopped abruptly next to her car. ‘You may trust a man who allowed himself to be silenced. I don’t, and I’m the one running this inquiry. So which horse are you going to ride?’
Alison met her with a flinty glare as Sonia’s arrival brought their exchange to an unresolved end.
‘Your call,’ Jenny said.
Jenny drove Sonia the three miles to Mrs Jamal’s flat in her Golf, repeatedly checking her mirrors for Alison’s Peugeot. There was no sign of it. She felt an unexpected pang of sadness verging on betrayal. Relations with Alison had always been bumpy, but until this week she had never truly doubted her loyalty. In the space of a few days it appeared to have all but dissolved.
It took three long blasts on the doorbell to rouse the irritable Mr Aldis, the caretaker, who growled over the intercom that he didn’t work on weekends so could they kindly get lost. Jenny responded with another extended ring which finally drew the hefty, bulldog-faced Mrs Aldis hobbling to the front door on a single crutch. She shoved a set of keys at Jenny telling her to help herself, then limped back indoors.
Sonia Cane produced a sensitive dosimeter the size of a small cellphone. It was fitted with a Geiger-Muller counter, she explained, and was able to differentiate between different categories of radiation. She held it discreetly in her hand so as not to alarm any passing residents and took a reading in the front hall. There was an electronic crackle – each blip an electron firing through the dosimeter’s sensors like a microscopic shotgun pellet. It was a similar reading to that she’d found on Mrs Jamal’s body – fifty milliSieverts. It petered out towards the stairs, but spiked alarmingly to eighty when they entered the lift.
‘We’re going to have to get this building cleared,’ Sonia said anxiously.
‘Five minutes,’ Jenny said. ‘Let’s just sweep the flat.’
Sonia moved quickly, not wanting to take a fraction more radiation than she had to. The trail cooled to twenty-five milliSieverts along the stretch of landing between the lift and the front door of Mrs Jamal’s apartment; once inside the front door the dosimeter erupted like dry twigs on a bonfire.