by M. R. Hall
The constable took a reluctant step back.
Pironi erupted. ‘Do you think you’re bigger than all this? Someone’s running around with a dirty bomb and you’re playing beat the detectives.’
‘I’ve a legal right to speak to Anna Rose.’
‘You have a right to remain silent, Mrs Cooper. Withholding information—’
Jenny shouted over him. ‘I saw the American. He was right there.’ She pointed to the corner of the trailer. ‘He took a shot at those men snatching Anna Rose.’
Pironi fell silent for a moment. ‘Where’d he go?’
‘He took off just after they did. I think he might have been hit.’
‘Stay here.’
Pironi strode over to the corner of the trailer.
‘What’s his problem?’ Jenny said to Alison.
‘He’s been told to nick you.’
‘Who by?’
‘There’s a question.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘He doesn’t know. It just gets passed down the line.’
‘And what are you here for, moral support?’
‘I think he needed to talk.’
Pironi marched back towards them. He looked at Alison, then at Jenny, fear and indecision in his eyes. ‘Did you get a look at his face?’
‘I saw him at the mortuary ten days ago. He claimed to be looking for his missing stepdaughter.’
Pironi looked down at the dirty snow. ‘You weren’t here. Get lost.’
Jenny said, ‘What about my car?’
‘Give me the keys. Wait over there.’
She handed them over. ‘Are you going to tell me who this man is?’
‘We haven’t got a fucking clue.’
The events at the service station played repeatedly behind her eyes like a disturbing fragment of rolling news. After all her efforts, they had got to Anna Rose first. And as surely as they had put her beyond reach, they would by now have silenced Sarah Levin. Jenny felt nothing except an absence of sensation. Like her own frustrated inner journey, her inquest had reached the foot of an unscalable cliff.
A thin crust of snow lay on the ground outside Melin Bach. The earlier storm had passed, leaving the air deathly still. The night was as silent as any she’d known. Even the restless timbers of the house had stopped their quiet groaning. There was only the sound of her breath and her footsteps on the flagstones. Huddled in a nightgown and cardigan, she paced restlessly to and fro from the living room to the study groping for any argument or authority that might keep her inquest alive. She was beyond the territory covered by the textbooks. They spoke grandly of a coroner’s powers to apply to superior courts for orders for production of witnesses and documents, but they presumed a due process, a system of law that didn’t bend to political pressure, impartial judges who looked on all agencies of the state as equal. They didn’t provide for tricks, fixes, official denials and deliberate misunderstandings.
It was four a.m. when her mind finally folded. She collapsed into a chair and tried to relax her still-agitated body. There’s nothing more to be gained, she told herself. You tried, you did more than any other coroner ever would. Slowly her muscles began to unwind and grow heavy. Some things are simply beyond your grasp; let yourself off the hook, Jenny.
Her eyelids began to droop. She rocked forward, meaning to take herself to bed, but instead fell into a doze, then into a deep, defeated sleep.
It felt like only moments later when she was painfully jolted to consciousness by the phone. Disorientated, she reached for the receiver and murmured a croaky hello.
‘Jenny? It’s Alec.’ McAvoy’s voice was quiet and sober.
‘My God.’ Jenny blinked at her watch: it was nearly four-thirty. ‘Where the hell did you go?’
‘I didn’t think you’d get to me today . . . I had things to do.’
Her thoughts came at her in a jumbled rush.
‘I need you. You’ve got to give evidence tomorrow. I need you talk about the American – you know something, don’t you?’
‘I’ve plenty to tell you, Jenny. Plenty. I could fill a book with it.’ He sounded tired.
‘Alec . . . you are all right, aren’t you? Pironi told Alison you didn’t seem well.’
‘Oh. Was this a physical or a spiritual diagnosis?’
‘I’m bringing him to court to hear your evidence. There’s a chance he could be persuaded to come round, at least as far as to say who made him halt his original investigation. He might even admit that he was ordered to put you away.’
‘That’d be the day.’
‘I think he’s had an attack of conscience. Something happened this evening . . .’ She checked herself. ‘I’ll tell you after you’ve testified. You will, won’t you?’
McAvoy was silent.
‘Alec, listen to me, listen. You have to come. I’d begun to think there was no hope, but there is still some, isn’t there? . . . Alec?’
‘There’s always hope.’
‘And when this is over, we’ll talk?’
‘We will. Goodnight, Jenny.’
‘Goodnight . . . Alec—’ You didn’t tell me why you called was what she wanted to say, but the line had already gone dead. She could have rung him back, but it would have spoiled the moment. Besides, she knew what he wanted to say, she could feel it: that she wasn’t alone. He was with her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
FROM HER OFFICE ON THE first floor Jenny could hear the protesters chanting outside the hall. The crowd of angry young Asian men had swelled to more than thirty, but they remained outnumbered by the police. Still not a word about the inquest had been published in the papers or broadcast on radio or television. Nor had the snatching of Anna Rose and the exchange of gunfire in a motorway service station made it to the news. As far as the outside world was concerned, none of it had ever happened.
Alison knocked on the door and entered wearing an apologetic expression.
‘There’s no sign of Mr McAvoy yet, nor Dave Pironi. I’ve left another message for Dr Levin. She knows she’s meant to be here.’
‘What about Salim Hussain – did you manage to trace him?’
‘I got an address and phone number from the university office. He’s not answering. I spoke to his tutor, who says he’s missed his last two supervisions.’
‘When was the last time he saw him?’
‘Nearly three weeks ago.’
Jenny fought back the suspicion that her witnesses were being deliberately withheld from her.
‘What do you want to do?’ Alison said. ‘We should have sat fifteen minutes ago. Miss Denton’s getting impatient.’
Jenny drew on her dwindling reserves of strength. Deep tiredness combined with the overwhelming anxiety about everything slipping through her fingers was threatening to overwhelm her medication. Her heart was hammering against her lungs.
‘I ought to tell the jury something,’ she said, and got up from behind her desk. ‘Keep trying McAvoy and Pironi. Who knows? Maybe they’re on their way together.’
Alison raised her eyebrows. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
Martha Denton rose impatiently as soon as Jenny had taken her seat at the head of the courtroom.
‘May we have a word before the jury are brought in, ma’am?’
Jenny could think of no reason to refuse.
Denton produced a document. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that the Secretary of State has issued a certificate of public interest immunity covering the intelligence relating to the whereabouts of Nazim Jamal or Rafi Hassan during the time immediately following their disappearance.’
Alison took a copy over to Jenny. She glanced over the impersonal text and noticed that Mr Jamal looked older today, resigned.
Jenny said, ‘I suppose if I demand to see this intelligence I’ll be refused.’
‘If it’s any help, ma’am, there is a High Court judge currently sitting in Bristol who can make himself available this afternoon.’
With
his appeal-proof judgement already written, Jenny didn’t doubt.
‘I have several other witnesses to call, Miss Denton. I’ll make my decision on this certificate when we’ve heard their evidence.’
With a look of surprise, Denton said, ‘Surely, if you don’t intend to challenge this certificate, the correct course would be to direct the jury to return an open verdict sooner rather than later. Mr Skene’s statement does at least confirm that the intelligence places the missing men outside the country. It’s not concrete evidence, but as far as I can see it is the best evidence that will ever be available.’
‘Unless I can see it, it’s no evidence at all, Miss Denton,’ Jenny said, prompting an approving nod from Khan.
Denton shot straight back. ‘Ma’am, although it’s a highly unusual occurrence, a coroner’s verdict can be overturned and a fresh inquest ordered when the verdict is clearly perverse. And although it may be frustrating, without hearing the content of this intelligence the jury can reach no credible verdict other than an open one.’
Calmly, Jenny said, ‘Miss Denton, my jury will deliver a verdict of their choosing when, and only when they have heard all the available evidence. That may or may not include your so-called intelligence.’
Alison appeared at the committee-room door on the right-hand side of the hall and mouthed, ‘Dr Levin’s here.’
‘Bring the jury in, please,’ Jenny said. ‘And then we’ll have Dr Levin back.’
Martha Denton shot a look over her shoulder at Alun Rhys and thumped into her seat. Rhys fixed Jenny with a threatening glare, but there was nothing he could do except sit and watch. The jury filed back to their places and Sarah Levin made her way out from the committee room.
She glanced apprehensively between Jenny and the lawyers as she took her seat in the witness chair.
‘You’re still under oath,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ve asked you to come back to help us with a few background questions that may be of assistance. Has anyone from the police or Security Services spoken to or made contact with you since you gave evidence yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Has anyone told you what you may or may not say in evidence?’
She shook her head.
Jenny was unconvinced, but tried not to let it show. Havilland and Denton would leap at the merest suggestion of bias.
She struck a conciliatory tone. ‘You were a Stevenson scholar, weren’t you? After graduating, you secured a scholarship to study for your doctorate at Harvard university in the USA.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You were one out of only a dozen or so that year.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have any American connections while you were an undergraduate at Bristol?’
‘No,’ Levin replied, with a trace of apprehension.
Jenny pressed on. ‘A man in his forties was seen leaving Manor Hall at midnight on 28 June – the night Nazim and Rafi disappeared. He was described by Dani James as wearing a blue puffy anorak and a baseball cap. He was carrying a rucksack or holdall. Do you know who that man was?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Did you know any American men at the time who met that description?’
‘No . . .’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Last week a man of a similar description, only several years older, was seen leaving the building where Nazim Jamal’s mother lived, only minutes after she had died. Have you met any fifty-year-old American men lately?’
Martha Denton slapped her hands on the desk in front of her as she sprang to her feet. ‘Ma’am, what possible relevance could this have to the events of eight years ago?’
‘Miss Denton, I’ll remind you that I decide what’s relevant, not you.’
‘Ma’am, if I’m correctly informed, Mrs Jamal’s death is currently the subject of a police investigation. It is only right that I remind you that any speculation in this court regarding it runs the risk of prejudicing the jury and invalidating their verdict.’
‘Sit down, Miss Denton. And don’t interrupt again.’
Jurors smiled. Martha Denton did as she was told with a venomous glare.
Jenny returned her attention to the witness. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Dr Levin.’
‘I can answer it very well. I don’t know a man meeting that description.’
‘But you do know Anna Rose Crosby, don’t you?’
Alun Rhys sat up sharply.
‘Yes . . .’ Sarah Levin said tentatively.
‘Could you please tell the jury who she is?’
‘She is . . . she was a student in my department. She graduated last summer.’
‘And you helped get her a job last autumn as a trainee in the nuclear industry.’
‘I was her tutor . . . I wrote the usual references.’
‘And are you aware that she has been missing for the past fortnight?’
Sarah Levin glanced anxiously at the lawyer’s bench. Alun Rhys had left his seat and was crossing the floor of the hall towards them.
‘I did know that, yes.’
‘Are you aware that last year she became involved with a young Asian man – a postgraduate student at the university – by the name of Salim Hussain?’
‘No . . . I didn’t know that.’
‘And do you have any idea why the same American man might have been looking for her since she’s been missing?’
Sarah Levin shook her head, her eyes on Rhys, Denton and Havilland. Their solicitors were hurriedly conferring.
‘You’ve no idea at all, Dr Levin?’
‘I told you, no.’
‘Really? Would it help prompt your memory if I told you this man seems to have been contaminated with a radioactive substance that you’ll doubtless be familiar with—’
Denton interjected. ‘Ma’am, I am instructed that this line of questioning has to stop.’
‘I’ve told you already, Miss Denton—’
Rhys leaned over the desk behind her, issued Denton with further orders and hurried from the hall.
Denton stalled, her expression of indignation replaced with one of bewilderment. ‘Ma’am. I am instructed to inform you – ’ she spoke as if she could scarcely believe what she was about to say herself – ‘that Dr Levin is a criminal suspect and will be placed under arrest immediately.’
‘She’s a witness in a lawful inquiry. Anyone who interferes with her giving evidence will be in contempt of court.’
Rhys crashed through the doors at the back of the room flanked by two uniformed police officers, a sergeant and a constable.
‘Apologies, ma’am,’ the sergeant stammered. ‘I’ve been asked to arrest Dr Sarah Levin.’
‘You can wait until she’s given evidence or be committed for contempt,’ Jenny snapped.
‘Do it,’ Rhys ordered.
The two police officers marched up to the witness box.
Jenny unleashed her fury at them: ‘Don’t you dare interfere with the proceedings of this court.’
Behind the emotionless masks of uniformed men obeying orders, the two policemen took hold of a terrified Sarah Levin and led her from the witness box. Rendered speechless with impotent rage, Jenny watched them take her from the hall. As they left, it was DI Pironi who held the door open for them.
‘Mr Pironi,’ Jenny said, in scarcely more than a whisper, ‘are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
From the crummy depths of her handbag she fished out the two Xanax tablets covered in fluff and grime which she’d kept – pretending to herself they weren’t there – for dire emergencies. She swallowed them both and waited a clear two minutes for them to hit her system before summoning Pironi. Alison traipsed in behind him. Jenny was beyond objecting. No breach of protocol could make the situation any more absurd.
Jenny glared at him. ‘Well?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mrs Cooper,’ he said, deadpan. ‘What just happened in there was nothing to do wit
h me. I think you can pin that one on MI5. And what I’ve got to tell you is nothing to do with them. Not yet.’
Jenny pressed her hands to her aching head. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘About an hour ago I had a call from Mr McAvoy . . . He claims to have found the remains of Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan. He’s given a location in north Herefordshire.’ Pironi swallowed. ‘And to quote him, he said, “That black-hearted bastard Tathum held onto it until his last God-forsaken breath.”’
Pironi called Jenny with the news about Tathum as she and Alison hiked up a steep muddy track. It was located over a mile from the nearest road through a plantation of dense, oppressive pines. His body had been found in an outbuilding at his farm with holes the size of pudding bowls in both his thighs where the shotgun blasts had ripped away the flesh. One side of his face was staved in and his right arm was broken in several places. The weapon was found outside in the yard. McAvoy was being hunted on suspicion of murder. Jenny could think of nothing to say and rang off with a muted, ‘Thank you.’
They arrived at the tiny clearing which had been formed by several fallen trees. Jenny and Alison watched in silence as two scene of crime officers gently brushed away the earth to reveal the heel of a shoe, a white shin bone, shreds of semi-decomposed clothing, a wristwatch around a wrist bone. As more soil was removed, the pelvis of a second body gradually emerged, also laid face down. Vertebra by vertebra, the painstaking work uncovered the spine and finally the curve of the skull.
‘Jesus Christ,’ the sergeant said under his breath, ‘look at this.’ He pointed a gloved finger at the base of the skull, just above the junction with the spine.
Jenny stooped forward in the fading light to see a neat, round entry wound.
‘At least it would have been quick,’ Alison said without conviction.
The moment of dispatch might have been, but the preamble would have been protracted. It was a ninety-minute drive from Bristol and a long, lonely trek up the hill to the place of execution.
Something stirred in Jenny: a bitter sense of satisfaction that Tathum had suffered as much, if not more, than his victims. She was glad for what McAvoy had done. She pictured him standing outside the village hall on the very first day of her inquest, his hair tossed in the wind, the lines he had recited: