by M. R. Hall
'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 tenn
is - 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.'
'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, 'Gould 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 Hi
zb 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.
