Jenny Cooper 02 - The Disappeared

by M. R. Hall

  Despite protests from both families, the police remained reluctant to investigate. Mrs Jamal was writing to her local councillor and MP, desperate for help, when she had a visit at home from two young men, one white, one Asian, who said they worked for the Security Services. They said they suspected that Nazim and Rafi had become involved with Hizb ut-Tahrir and that they had been observed by the police attending a radical halaqah.

  ‘It was the first I’d heard of it, although I’d suspected something like this,’ Mrs Jamal said, ‘but I didn’t want it to be true. I put those thoughts out of my mind. They kept asking me questions. They wouldn’t believe I didn’t know about what he got up to at college. They virtually accused me of lying to protect him.’

  ‘What did they think had happened to him?’

  ‘They kept asking whether he’d mentioned going to Afghanistan, whether he’d talked about al-Qaeda. I told them he’d never said anything like that. Never, never.’

  ‘They thought he and Rafi might have gone abroad to train with extremists?’

  ‘That’s what they said. But his passport was still at his father’s house.’

  ‘And Rafi’s?

  ‘He didn’t even have one. And they went through all their bank records – there was nothing suspicious.’

  ‘Did either of them use their bank accounts or credit cards after the 28th?’

  ‘No. They just vanished. Disappeared.’

  Jenny felt a jolt of anxiety pass through her, the feeling of mental constriction that was the first stage of panic. She took a breath, relaxed her limbs, trying to let the sensation drain away. ‘Did you ever find out anything more?’

  ‘Two weeks later, a man named Simon Donovan gave a statement to the police saying that he was on a train to London on the morning of the 29th and saw two young Asian men who met their description. Both with beards and traditional dress, he said. His statement’s in the file. This made the police think they had gone abroad, so they spoke again to all the students at the hall. A girl called Sarah Levin claimed she’d once heard Rafi say something in the canteen about “brothers” who were going to Afghanistan.’ Mrs Jamal shook her head adamantly. ‘He wouldn’t have done that, Mrs Cooper. I know my own son. He wouldn’t have done that.’

  Jenny thought of Ross, of having to fetch him from school last summer when he was high on cannabis; of his unpredictable moods and occasional outbursts of staggering hurtfulness. She thought she knew the sensitive boy underneath, but sometimes she wondered; sometimes it occurred to her that we can’t truly know even those closest to us.

  ‘What did the police do with this information?’ Jenny said.

  ‘They looked for evidence, but the didn’t find any. They said they would have left the country on false papers, gone to Pakistan.’

  ‘Did they check passenger lists? It’s not easy to get through an airport unnoticed.’

  ‘They told us they checked everything. They even said they could have gone through another European country, or Africa or the Middle East . . . I don’t know.’ The energy had drained from her. She seemed a smaller, more fragile figure than before.

  ‘How did it end?’

  ‘We had a letter in December 2002. The police said they had done everything they could and that the most likely explanation was that they had gone abroad with an Islamist group. That was all. Nothing more. Nothing.’

  ‘What about the mosque and the halaqah?’

  ‘The police told us that the mosque had closed in August that year and the halaqah as well. They said that the Security Services had been following their activities, but nothing else had been learned about Nazim or Rafi. They promised us they would tell us if anything became known.’

  ‘Did these people from the Security Services ever contact you again?’

  Mrs Jamal shook her head.

  ‘You mentioned lawyers . . .’

  ‘Yes. I tried to get them to ask questions, to speak to the Security Services and police, but all they did was take my money. It was left to me. I found out for myself that after seven years a missing person can be declared dead.’ She met Jenny’s gaze. ‘And I also read that the coroner must find out how a person died. His father’s address, Nazim’s official residence at the time, is in your district, so that is why I am here.’

  From the moment she had seen the judge’s declaration Jenny had assumed that Mrs Jamal had come seeking an inquest, but the prospect threw up a raft of problems, not least the fact that there was no body and only a presumption of death. In such circumstances Section 15 of the Coroner’s Act required her to get the Home Secretary’s permission to hold one. That would only be granted where holding an inquest was judged to be in the public interest, which was as much a political as a legal decision. And even if that hurdle were cleared, it would be no easy task so many years after the event to cajole reluctant police officers and government officials to dust down their files and release whatever information wasn’t deemed a threat to national security. Broad as they were, the coroner’s powers would, in this instance, struggle against the powerful machinery of the state.

  ‘Mrs Jamal,’ Jenny said, with what she hoped was an appropriate balance of caution and concern, ‘I will gladly look into your son’s case, but all I can do is write a report to the Home Secretary requesting—’

  ‘I know that. The judge told me.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that the chance of getting as far as holding an inquest is slim, probably non-existent. It’s extremely unusual in cases where is there no actual proof of death.’

  Mrs Jamal shook her head, her expression hardening with disappointment, ‘What are you telling me – that I should give up after all this struggle?’

  If she were being completely honest, Jenny would have told her that in the absence of a body, and after the passage of seven years, the best thing she could do would be to treat the court order as final proof that Nazim was dead, allow herself to grieve, and then move on. She would have told her that the main obstacle to her happiness was her obsession with her son’s fate, and that an inquest was unlikely to satisfy or cure it.

  ‘It would be wrong of me to hold out any hope of finding out what happened to your son,’ Jenny said. ‘I think perhaps you should ask yourself what purpose you think an inquest might serve. It won’t bring him back.’

  Mrs Jamal started to gather her jumble of papers. ‘I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

  ‘I’m not refusing to investigate—’

  ‘You’re obviously not a mother, Mrs Cooper, otherwise you would understand I have no choice. My life is nothing compared with my son’s. I would rather die trying to find out what happened to him than live in ignorance.’

  Mrs Jamal stood up from her chair as if ready to march out without another word, but seemed suddenly to lose energy and falter. She slowly placed the file back on the desk and folded her hands across her middle, her head dipping forwards as if she hadn’t the strength to hold it up. ‘I apologize, Mrs Cooper. I expected too much of you. I don’t hope for miracles . . . I know that Nazim is dead. When he came to my flat that afternoon with a fever, I had a feeling. Yes . . . when I think of waking and hearing him reciting the tajwid the next morning, I still can’t be sure if it was him or his ghost.’ She looked up with dry, desolate eyes. ‘Maybe you are right. Too much time has passed.’

  Jenny had recoiled in the face of what she had perceived as Mrs Jamal’s all-encompassing self-pity, but not for the first time in their meeting she saw beyond to the deep and profound grief of a mother in search of her lost child. The last thing she needed was another fraught and time-consuming case, but her emotions were already churning, the faces of the missing boys were already vivid, their spectres already haunting her.

  ‘Leave the file with me,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll look through it this afternoon and get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Cooper,’ Mrs Jamal replied quietly. She reached for the scarf lying across her shoulders and raised it over her hair.

  ‘What abo
ut Rafi Hassan – are his family seeking a declaration?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘We don’t speak. They were very hostile to me. They chose to believe that Nazim was responsible for what happened to their son.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He gave up long ago.’

  Jenny detected a frostiness in Alison’s demeanour as she showed Mrs Jamal out. During six months of working together she had learned to read every slight shift in her officer’s mood. Alison was one of those women with an uncanny ability to let you know precisely what she was feeling without ever saying a word. What Jenny read in her reaction to Mrs Jamal was suspicion bordering on outright disapproval. When, several minutes later, she returned to the doorway to report that the police were agitating to see the post-mortem reports on the bodies in the refrigerated trailer, Jenny remarked that she seemed irritated by Mrs Jamal.

  Alison crossed her arms. ‘I remember her son’s case. I was in CID at the time. Everyone knew he and the other lad had gone off to fight abroad.’

  Another trait that Jenny had noticed: Alison’s stubborn adherence to the consensus amongst her former police colleagues.

  Jenny said, ‘Everyone being . . . ?’

  ‘The squad who were on the obbo for five months. The extremists were operating freely back then.’

  Jenny felt a twinge of annoyance. ‘His mother still has the right to know what happened to him, insofar as that’s possible.’

  ‘If I was her, I’m not sure I’d want to know. We can’t exactly call witnesses from Afghanistan.’

  ‘No. You don’t happen to remember who was in charge of the observation?’

  ‘I can probably find out. Just don’t expect to get very far – the spooks are all over this sort of thing.’ Alison changed the subject: ‘What about these bodies in the lorry – do you want me to have a look? I expect the police will want that one for themselves as well.’

  ‘It might be as well for you to make your own report,’ Jenny said, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘we know how our friends in blue can see one thing and write down another.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what I heard at the time, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison retorted. ‘And back then we still gave Muslims the benefit of the doubt.’

  Jenny held her tongue, sensing in Alison’s reaction that Mrs Jamal had stirred complicated emotions. Six months on, Jenny knew that Alison was still privately grieving for the man she’d been in love with: the late Harry Marshall, her predecessor as coroner. They had been close. The messy circumstances of his sudden and unexpected passing had left a mess of unresolved feelings which she was attempting to clear up with a dose of full-strength Christianity. When insecure, Alison cleaved to institutions – the police, the church – and resisted anything that threatened them. It was irrational, but who was Jenny to pass judgement? Without her medication she was beset by irrational fears too.

  ‘Her son’s been declared dead.’ Jenny said. ‘She’s entitled to an investigation, however limited. I doubt very much it’ll amount to anything.’

  Alison’s hostility hung in the air like an unwelcome presence long after she’d left the office. Jenny felt almost guilty as she arranged Mrs Jamal’s papers into a semblance of order. She hadn’t felt like this again since the first case she and Alison had worked on together – that of the fourteen-year-old Danny Wills, who’d been found dead in his cell at a privately run prison. Perhaps, as an ex-policewoman, Alison sensed trouble more keenly than she did.

  Although numerous, Mrs Jamal’s documents cast little light. There were lists of students who lived in the halls of residence at the time; statements from members of both families; statements from police officers who had searched the campus; copies of ineffective correspondence with various councillors and politicians. There was a copy of the original identification statement given by Simon Donovan, in which he described the two young men on the train, and statements from students Dani James and Sarah Levin, describing the mysterious intruder and Rafi’s overheard remark about Muslim brothers heading for Afghanistan. There was a sketchy photocopy of Nazim’s UK passport, confirmation from the Passport Office that Rafi Hassan had never possessed or applied for one, and a dry letter written by a DC Sarah Owens, Family Liaison Officer, explaining in patronizing tones that the police had decided to suspend their investigation until such time as further evidence came to light. The final document was a ‘missing’ poster put together on a home computer displaying various head shots of the young men. Jenny was struck by how handsome they both were: keen-eyed and slender featured. She stared at them for a long moment, then felt an unexpected wave of almost unbearable sadness: they weren’t even dead. It was worse than that: they had simply disappeared.

  She pushed the file aside, fighting against the irrational connections her mind was already making with her discussions with Dr Allen. People vanished without trace all the time. It was purely coincidental that this case had arrived on her desk when it had. Technically it could also have been handled by the Bristol coroner as Jamal was last seen in his jurisdiction. Jenny needn’t take it at all . . . but yet she knew she had no choice.

  The telephone rang in the empty outer office and was automatically diverted to the phone on her desk. She answered in her most businesslike voice. ‘Severn Vale Coroner’s office. Jenny Cooper speaking.’

  ‘Good morning. Andrew Kerr. New pathologist at the Vale.’ He sounded chatty and energetic. ‘I’ve just had a look at this Jane Doe of yours. I think perhaps we ought to meet.’

  THREE

  SHE WAS BUZZED INTO THE mortuary building by one of the monosyllabic assistants – a taciturn breed whom she’d only ever heard laughing from a distance and between themselves – and stepped carefully over the newly mopped reception floor, becoming aware of the sound of raised voices on the other side of the slap doors. She pushed through to find a muscular young man wearing surgical scrubs, who she took to be the new pathologist, doing his best to fend off a bellicose Scotsman. Dressed in a dark suit and coat, the visitor had a threatening tone and an aura of unpredictable menace which hit her like a minor shock wave as he jabbed his finger at the pathologist’s chest.

  ‘Listen, son – my client’s wee girl has been gone six months and not a trace. The poor sod’s lost every hair on his head. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got the cancer if he doesn’t find her soon.’

  ‘You’ll have to come back with the police. You can’t walk in here and simply demand to see a body.’

  ‘I’m his lawyer for Christ’s sake, his legal agent. I know the education’s all to cock these days, but they must’ve taught you what that means.’ He pushed his unruly, sandy hair back from his forehead revealing once attractive features now lined and lived in.

  The pathologist set his hands on his hips and stood his ground, showing off a thick pair of gym-pumped shoulders. ‘All right, that’s enough. I’ve told you how it is. You’ve got the detective’s number – call him. I’ve got a job to do here.’ He looked past the man to Jenny. ‘Sorry, madam. How can I help you?’

  Not about to back down, the angry Scotsman said, ‘What in the hell difference does it make to you if I’ve got a copper holding my hand?’

  Jenny stepped forward and addressed him. ‘Jenny Cooper. Severn Vale District Coroner. The body’s in my charge at the moment.’ She had both men’s full attention now. ‘Dr Kerr?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned to the visitor. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Alec McAvoy. O’Donnagh & Drew.’ He looked her up and down with startling blue eyes that belonged to a much younger face. ‘Any chance of giving this young laddie a law lesson?’

  Ignoring the remark, she said, ‘Perhaps if you could tell me exactly who you’re representing I might be able to help.’

  ‘Client’s name’s Stewart Galbraith. My firm’s represented the family since God was a boy. It was the police who told him about this body in the first place.’

  ‘Which police?’

  ‘Now you’re being funny. You t
ried calling the cop station lately? If it’s not Bangalore it’s a fuckin’ robot.’

  Jenny saw Dr Kerr bristle, but she remained calm. Lawyers were paid to be awkward. Despite his bluster, the mischief in McAvoy’s eyes told her there was no personal animosity intended.

  ‘Have you got a business card?’

  McAvoy grunted, fished in his coat pocket and came out with a card:

  Alec McAvoy LLB, Legal Executive, O’Donnagh & Drew, Solicitors. She scanned it twice, wondering why a man with a law degree was a mere legal executive and not a qualified solicitor.

  He saw that she’d noticed.

  ‘There’s a story behind that. I’ll tell you sometime,’ McAvoy said.

  ‘Do you mind if I give your office a call?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  She reached for her phone, then thought better of it. It felt petty to question his credentials. She knew the name of O’Donnagh & Drew from her days in practice. They were a long-established firm chiefly known for having cornered Bristol’s market in major criminal litigation.

  She turned to Dr Kerr. ‘Would you mind if we have a quick look? It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘It’s your body, Mrs Cooper. I’ll be in my office.’ He turned and walked swiftly across the corridor, pulling the door hard shut behind him.

  ‘You’re sure he’s old enough to be doing this job?’ McAvoy said. ‘He’s hardly out of short trousers.’

  ‘Shall we get this done?’

  She led the way to the refrigerator, passing half a dozen bodies parked on trolleys, aware of McAvoy’s eyes on her as he followed. He was one of those men who didn’t even try to pretend they weren’t looking.

  She took a latex glove from a dispenser screwed to the wall. ‘Have you got a photograph of your client’s daughter? It can sometimes be hard—’

  ‘No need. I’ve known her from a baby.’