by M. R. Hall
She checked the dosimeter one last time and locked the apartment door behind her. The radiation trail had gone cold, but she left the building certain of her next move.
There was no reply to the doorbell at Sarah Levin's apartment. Jenny waited outside in her car for over an hour and tried to order the theories invading her mind into a series of credible possibilities. Given that each one had to begin with the theft of radioactive material, it wasn't easy.
It had started to rain and she was feeling both tired and in need of a pill when a powder blue Fiat 500 pulled into a space across the street. Sarah Levin jumped out carrying several upmarket carrier bags and headed for her front door. Jenny beat her to it, intercepting her on the pavement.
'Dr Levin - I need to ask you some more questions.'
The young woman was surprised and affronted.
'Now? Are you joking? I'm only calling home for five minutes and then I'm on my way out again.'
She made for the front door. Jenny pursued her.
'It's about Anna Rose Crosby. I understand you knew her well.'
Sarah Levin stopped and turned, irritated.
'I've got friends who are lawyers - they couldn't believe that you came to my house. What do you think you're doing?'
'She's missing.'
'I heard.'
'Do you know why that might be?'
'Why would I know? I was her tutor, not her friend. I really have to get on.' She fished her keys from her pocket.
Jenny said, 'Her family were very surprised she got on the graduate scheme at Maybury. They said you might have pulled strings for her.'
Sarah Levin sighed theatrically and flicked back her long blonde hair. 'I write references for all my students. I have no idea what any of this is about, and as you don't seem inclined to tell me, we'll leave it there, shall we?'
Jenny was about to hit her with the whole story - Mrs Jamal, the caesium 137, all of it - but an instinct told her to hold fire. There was panic in Sarah Levin's defiant expression, and anger. Jenny had her denial and if need be she could use it against her later.
Calmly, Jenny said, 'You seemed rather alarmed when I mentioned her name.'
'That wouldn't have anything to do with me being door- stepped?'
'You have no idea what might have caused her to disappear?'
'This is ridiculous. None at all.'
'When were you last in contact?'
'I don't know. Last summer.'
'You'd say that on oath?'
'I'm sorry, Mrs whoever-you-are, I've had enough of this. You can ask me for a written statement, but you can't interrogate me out in the street. I'm not stupid.'
She went through the door and pushed it hard shut behind her. Her scent hung briefly in the air. If Anna Rose was pretty, Sarah Levin was beautiful. It wasn't simply her looks, it was chemical. Not a man or a woman would pass her without glancing back either in lust or envy. From the photographs she had seen of him, Jenny assumed that Nazim had had something of that quality, too. He was certainly better looking that Sarah Levin's current partner. She could imagine Nazim falling hopelessly in love with her, no matter what religious principles might have stood in his way. And for a girl who could have had anyone, he must have been one of the more interesting propositions.
Jenny hurried back to the car and pulled out her phone.
'Alison, it's me.'
'I know, Mrs Cooper. I can tell from the ring,'
'There was no radiation at Anna Rose's flat.'
'Oh. Is that surprising?'
Jenny disregarded the sarcastic tone. 'I've just spoken to Sarah Levin again. I've had a thought - can you get hold of her medical records?'
'What, without her consent?'
'Yes.'
Somewhere in the background Alison's husband called out for her over the sound of a yapping dog. She shouted at him 10 hold on, then returned impatiently to the conversation.
'Isn't that a bit irregular, Mrs Cooper? Aren't you meant to ask the witness?'
'Sod the protocol, just get them.'
Jenny had driven across the city and was staring out through a streaky windscreen at a foggy dual carriageway when it occurred to her that there was one other person who linked both Anna Rose and Nazim Jamal: the gawky Professor Rhydian Brightman. She knew little about how universities worked, but thought it safe to assume that in a closed institution professional relationships would be intense and not much would go unnoticed by colleagues. Brightman must have discussed the inquest with Sarah Levin, if only out of concern for the reputation of his department. He must have heard about Anna Rose, and if strings had been pulled on her behalf, it was more than likely he had done some of the tugging.
She pulled into a filling station just short of the M4 motorway and made some more calls. Eventually she tracked down a porter in one of the halls of residence, who relished telling her it was more than his job was worth to give out the private number of a member of staff. Jenny lost patience and told him that unless he called back with it in five minutes he could expect a visit from the police.
It was Brightman himself who returned her call and asked tentatively how he could help. Jenny apologized for disturbing his weekend and asked if they could meet.
'What is it you want to know, Mrs Cooper? I really have no light to shed on what happened to those two young men.'
Jenny said, 'Nazim Jamal's mother was found dead on Thursday.'
'Oh. Poor woman.'
Jenny paused, weighing her next move. What the hell, why not hit him with it? He'd hear it sooner or later. 'It seems she may have had a visitor shortly before her death. And there were traces of caesium 137 on her body. The block of flats where she lived has been evacuated.'
He was silent for a moment. 'Well, I really don't know what to say . . .'
Jenny said, 'I've only a few questions. It won't take long.'
'Maybe it's best if you come to my office.'
Professor Brightman was waiting for her on the steps outside the physics department dressed in a scruffy anorak and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Making awkward small talk, Jenny followed him through cold, deserted corridors to his office: a tiny, cluttered room on the second floor overlooking the street. Clearing her a chair, he apologized for the temperature - economies meant that the heating was turned off on Sundays. They sat on either side of the desk in their coats. Jenny could barely feel her toes.
Agitated, Brightman pushed his thick glasses up his nose. 'Do you mind if I ask what manner of conversation this is, Mrs Cooper? My employers would normally expect me to inform them if I were being questioned by the authorities.'
'You're not under any suspicion, Professor. You can tell them anything you wish.'
He tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk. 'I'd rather this remained between us for now, if you don't mind. Obviously, if you need me to make an official statement—'
'Let's take it a step at a time, shall we? What brings me here today is a more recent student of yours - Anna Rose Crosby.'
'I remember her. You're not going to tell me — '
'No. All we know is that she's missing. The only reason I'm interested in her is because she works in the nuclear industry, and, as I told you, Mrs Jamal's body shows signs of radioactive contamination.'
Brightman frowned, perplexed. 'Caesium 137? You're sure?'
'The Health Protection Agency confirmed it. One hundred and ten milliSieverts.'
He shook his head in bewilderment. 'How on earth? Why?'
'I've no idea. But with Anna Rose having been missing for ten days, her connection with this department makes this an obvious line of inquiry, I'm sure you'll agree.'
'I hardly knew her, not personally - I only supervise postgrads these days - but she was a perfectly ordinary student as far as I know. Caesium 137 ... ? We don't have anything like that here. I don't know if you know how — '
'I've got some idea. It's not the sort of thing you'd find lying around a university. Am I right?'
'
Correct. Minute quantities for specific experiments, maybe, but very tightly controlled. There's not been any here.'
'Anna Rose Crosby was on the graduate-training programme at Maybury. Does that surprise you?'
'Not particularly. She was an average student from what I recall.'
'I meant more from the point of view of her character.'
'Really, I couldn't comment. Dr Levin would have more of an opinion.'
'I tried, but she's not inclined to help.'
'Oh,' Brightman said guardedly. 'You've already spoken to her?'
'Anna Rose Crosby's mother says that Dr Levin helped her daughter get the job. She formed the impression she used her influence.'
'I suppose she may have contacts. We do have the occasional industry presentation for the students.'
'You seem uncertain.'
'No . . . I'm just thinking about what you said. Dr Levin is still quite junior in the department. I can't see that she would have much influence to exert. And it's not really how we do things here.'
Jenny studied his face. He seemed genuinely confounded and troubled at the direction her questions were taking. He didn't strike her as a man who would lie convincingly. He was a scatty academic, unworldly to the bone. There were stains on his anorak, and signs of frequent shaving injuries on his neck. She could imagine him misreading people, failing to notice all manner of things happening right under his nose, but she couldn't see him orchestrating anything underhand.
'Anna Rose's parents think she may have had an Asian boyfriend last year. Salim someone. Ring any bells?'
He shook his head. 'Sorry. As I explained, I'm really not the person to ask.'
'Perhaps you could check with one of your colleagues who might have been closer to her, Dr Levin, even.'
'Yes . . . Yes, of course,' he said distractedly, his mind clearly racing ahead to the possible scandals that might engulf him.
Jenny hesitated, feeling sympathy for him. He seemed helpless; plainly he wasn't a political creature. She could imagine junior colleagues eagerly manoeuvring to lever him out of his untidy office at the slightest suggestion of mismanagement.
She struck a softer tone, moved by an urge to make him less anxious. 'Could I ask you something purely in your professional capacity?'
'Of course.'
'All I know about caesium 137 so far is that it's dangerous, that it's a by-product of the nuclear industry and there's a lot of it near Chernobyl. What could it be used for, exactly?'
'You're right to mention Russia,' he said, in rapid, animated staccato. 'That's where most of the illegally held substance is suspected of having originated - impoverished Soviet scientists making a few dollars in the early nineties. Yes, from what I've read in the popular press it's the material of choice for a dirty bomb. A small amount at the heart of a conventional device would scatter over a city on the wind, rendering it uninhabitable for decades. Dreadful.'
'I see.' A clearer picture began to form in her distinctly unscientific mind. She'd had a vague idea that it might be used for poisoning, or even in a localized bomb, but had never conceived of a target as vast as an entire city.
They looked at each other across the unruly stacks of books and papers, and for the first time Jenny understood the true depths of his concern.
'Do you have any idea how Mrs Jamal came to be contaminated?' he asked. 'I can't think of anything more worrying for the anti-terrorist people.'
'No,' Jenny said. 'But a man was sighted at the scene. Tall, white, slim, around fifty years old. He bears some resemblance to a figure seen leaving the hall of residence where Nazim Jamal was living on the night he disappeared.'
Brightman gazed into space. 'I remember the police mentioning someone like that at the time. One of the students claimed to have seen him.'
'Her name's Dani James. She gave evidence at the opening of my inquest last week. She also claims to have slept with Nazim during the week before.'
'I saw a press report. . .' His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of these disjointed fragments.
Jenny said, 'There's a hint that Nazim might have been seeing another girl at the end of his first term; someone well spoken. I don't suppose you're able to say if that was Dr Levin?'
Brightman swivelled his eyes towards her. 'I beg your pardon?'
'I just wondered if she and Nazim had been an item?'
'What gives you reason to ask that?' His pupils, dilated with surprise, were grossly magnified by his thick glasses.
Jenny said, 'His mother accidentally took a phone call from a girl. It's a long shot, but whoever she is might still know something about him we don't.'
Brightman swallowed uncomfortably.
She'd hit on something, she could tell.
'As a matter of fact I did once see them together,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'The reason I remember is that I was asked this question once before - in late 2002 it must have been - by Mrs Jamal's solicitor, I think it was.'
Jenny's heart started to race. 'Alec McAvoy?'
Brightman frowned. 'Yes - Scottish.'
'He asked you if you thought Nazim and Sarah Levin had had a relationship?'
'He did,' he said, guiltily. 'And all I could remember was the one incident. It was in the lab along this corridor. One gets used to it among students . . .'
Jenny could barely speak. 'What did you tell McAvoy?'
'That I walked in on them. They stepped apart as if they'd been kissing. I remember they both looked rather flustered.'
'Have you ever spoken to Dr Levin about this?'
'It's not the sort of thing that comes up,' he said, adding defensively, 'She's very able. She went to Harvard on a Stevenson and came back with the most superb references.' His expression was almost tortured. 'Sarah wouldn't be mixed up with anything untoward. It's unthinkable.'
Jenny took a breath. 'If you don't mind, I'd like you to make a statement.'
Her body was burning; she no longer felt the cold.
Chapter 19
People had always remarked on how calmly Jenny accepted bad news. While others succumbed to tears at the announcement of a sudden death or unexpected tragedy, her outward response was invariably the opposite. An unnatural serenity would descend, her eyes would remain stubbornly dry as the emotional ones gravitated towards her seeking reassurance. She had such profound perspective, they would say, she was such a steadying presence. For many years she had believed that she did in fact possess a unique immunity to grief; that she was simply stronger than most. It took until her thirty-ninth year and her 'episode' (she had always refused to call it a breakdown) to realize the truth. Dr Travis, the kindly psychiatrist who had patiently and confidentially nursed her through the acutely painful months that followed, had helped her to understand that beyond a certain threshold her emotions internalized, failing to break the surface. They existed, powerfully so, but were confined to a strongroom somewhere deep in her subconscious. The trick was to open the door inch by inch to let the stored-up trauma - whatever that was - seep out to be processed. But try as she might, she hadn't yet found the key.
Alec McAvoy had deceived her. He had known all along that there had been something between Sarah Levin and Nazim, but he hadn't told her. Why? He had come to her inquest, sought her out when she was alone and quoted poetry to her.
Who was he, this crooked lawyer and convict who knew how to reach inside and touch her, this man, who, like no one else, made her feel that she wasn't alone? What did he want from her? Could Alison be right - was he hijacking her inquest in the hope of salvaging a wrecked career? Or were his motives even darker than that?
She didn't know. She couldn't know. Her instincts had dried up, her responses dulled. The rage and fury and betrayal that should have poured out of her were locked deep inside, leaving her nothing to cleave to except a flimsy layer of logic. Was he angel or devil? Floating in limbo, she had no means of knowing.
With the dry sliver of consciousness left to her, she resolved to retreat t
o solid ground. She would trust only her intellect, resist all speculation and conduct her inquest strictly by the rules. Her mistake had been to allow that precious rational part of her that withstood every assault to be undermined. Dig deep enough foundations, Dr Travis had told her, and you might shake, but you'll never fall down.
Winding the final mile up the lane to Melin Bach she became aware that forty minutes and twenty miles had passed in an instant. The fears and imaginings that often plagued her during these dark journeys home had dissolved. Her eyes followed the headlights and her mind turned as dispassionately as a clockwork mechanism as she planned her strategy. She would schedule the inquest to resume mid-week. She would issue witness summonses first thing in the morning and prepare detailed cross-examinations that would tease out every flaw in the evidence. She would make no judgements and reach no conclusions other than those precisely justified by what she heard. She would place herself beyond influence or criticism and deliver justice according to the law. That was how to build foundations and win back the confidence that, McAvoy had so effortlessly and astutely observed, had been knocked out of her.
She indulged herself in a moment of defiance: perhaps, unwittingly, he had made her stronger.
The lights in the cottage were on, the front path lit up by the powerful halogen lamp she'd had installed for the winter. And there was a dark blue BMW parked outside in the lane. She recognized it at once: it belonged to David, her ex-husband.
As she drew close and pulled up, he stepped out from the driver's seat. He looked even slimmer and fitter than the last time she had seen him over three months ago. He wore chinos and a T-shirt beneath a snug lambs-wool v-neck. Forty-seven years old and his hair was still its natural deep brown, his face sufficiently lined to lend him gravitas but the boyishness still lingering in his features. And somehow he managed his feat of agelessness despite working fifteen-hour days as a cardiac surgeon. There was no justice in his getting better looking as she slowly faded. He strolled forward to meet her as she climbed out of her car, his bearing as casually arrogant as ever.