Jenny Cooper 02 - The Disappeared

by M. R. Hall

  ‘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.

  NINETEEN

  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 to 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.

  ‘Jenny. We wondered where you were.’ He looked at her in that way of his that said everything about her would inevitably prove mildly amusing.

  ‘I switched my phone off – people pester me at the weekend.’ She glanced up at the house and saw Ross pass the uncurtained landing window. ‘I thought he was staying with you tonight.’

  ‘He is . . .’ He offered a more placatory smile. ‘But he’s decided he’d like to extend it for a while.’

  ‘He’s what? How long for? What have you been saying to him?’ She heard the brittleness in her voice.

  ‘Calm down, Jenny. I didn’t come here for any sort of confrontation, quite the opposite. It’s cold out here. Why don’t we go inside?’

  He motioned towards the gate. She stood her ground.

  ‘When did he decide this? I thought he was happy here. He’s got his girlfriend down the road—’

  ‘He sees her at college.’

  ‘The whole idea was to keep him out of the city. He hasn’t touched drugs since he’s been with me.’

  ‘He’s grown up a lot since last summer. I probably notice it more since I’m seeing less of him.’

  ‘How did this happen? What’s prompted it?’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this calmly?’

  ‘I’m perfectly calm, David.’

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  Jenny closed her eyes, telling herself not to react.

  ‘All I’m asking,’ she said with enforced restraint, ‘is for you to tell me what’s changed. You must have spoken to him.’

  ‘Do you really want to have this conversation out here?’

  ‘Wherever you want.’

  She strode up the path.

  David said, ‘Do you want me to come in or not?’

  ‘It might be an idea, as you’re proposing to take my son away.’

  The front door was ajar. She shoved it open and went straight through into the sitting room, wrenching off her coat and throwing it over a chair. David followed hesitantly.

  ‘It sounds like he’s upstairs,’ Jenny said. ‘You’d better shut the door.’

  She remained standing, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation. David glanced around the room with its stone-flag floor, low beams and draughty windows, his expression saying: no wonder he doesn’t want to stay.

  ‘Well?’ Jenny said.

  David stepped over to the sofa and perched dubiously on the arm as if it might give way beneath him. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Jenny. He’s concerned about you. He thinks you might have too much pressure on you to worry about looking after him as well.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because I don’t have dinner on the table every evening at six? You work even longer hours that I do.’

  ‘I do have Deborah.’

  ‘She’s got a career, too.’

  ‘She’s just gone part-time.’

  ‘Has she? Did you give her any choice in the matter?’

  David rode the punch with a hint of a wry smile. ‘Actually, it’s her decision. I was going to tell you – she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Oh . . . I see.’ She felt numb. ‘I suppose I should say congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. It wasn’t exactly planned.’

  Jenny didn’t respond. Desperate as she had been to escape from David at the end of their marriage, part of her still resented the presence of another woman in his life. The fact that Deborah was still in her twenties, attractive and sweetly compliant made it all the more galling.

  ‘I didn’t mean to surprise you with that today,’ he said with a trace of apology.

  ‘No need to feel guilty on my account.’

  But he did. She could see it in the heaviness that had settled around his eyes.

  In the brief silence that followed Ross’s footsteps moved across the creaking boards in the room above. Drawers opened and closed, the wardrobe door slammed: the sounds of hasty packing.

  ‘I assume you would prefer me to be honest?’ David said.

  She resisted further sarcasm. How would dishonesty ever be preferable? It was always his way to make the wounds he inflicted feel self-imposed. She presumed it was a technique he had learned i
n his practice, his instinctive method of distancing himself from his patients’ suffering and not infrequent deaths.

  David braced himself. ‘He doesn’t think you can cope, Jenny. He’s not being selfish, it makes him feel a burden. And if he stays and sees you struggling, it makes him feel even guiltier.’

  ‘What makes him think I’m struggling? I love having him here . . . I thought we were getting on fine.’

  ‘There’s never any food in the house.’

  ‘That’s not true—’

  ‘It’s not a judgement. I wouldn’t do any better by myself.’

  ‘Why isn’t he telling me this? We’ll get a delivery.’

  David sighed and drew a hand around his sinewy neck. ‘Christ, Jenny, you’re not well enough to be looking after someone else.’

  ‘What do you know? I’m fine.’

  ‘He told me about the other night, the state you came home in.’

  ‘I was just tired.’

  ‘He had to help you into bed. You don’t even remember, do you? What happened? Did you take too many pills?’

  The feeling retreated from her hands and feet. Each breath became a conscious effort as her nervous system began a systematic shutdown.

  ‘It was late, that’s all.’

  ‘What are you doing, Jenny? Are you getting help? You may not believe it, but I do worry about you.’

  ‘I see someone.’

  ‘Good. These things can be overcome. I’ve colleagues who assure me—’

  ‘You discuss me with your colleagues?’

  ‘In the past . . .’

  Her look arrested his lie.

  ‘Only in the strictest confidence. Of course I want to know what more can be done for you.’

  ‘To hear you talk, you wouldn’t think I held down a responsible job, conducted inquests, consoled grieving families—’

  ‘I know you do. But just holding it down isn’t enough, is it? You’ve nothing to prove to me, Jenny, and money isn’t an issue. I just want you to be right. So does Ross.’

  ‘And this is your way of helping me along?’

  ‘Sorting out other people’s problems won’t fix your own.’