by M. R. Hall
Only McAvoy’s word connected the company to Tathum, but even if the link were fictitious, even if Madog’s story about the black Toyota was a fantasy or a red herring, she felt obliged to call Colonel Maitland as a witness, if only to disprove the allegations once and for all.
Jenny printed off a pro-forma witness summons and completed it by hand, requesting Maitland to attend her inquest on Wednesday, 10 February. It was unreasonably short notice, but it would flush him out and make him pay attention if nothing else. Rather than trust a courier to collect a signature on delivery she decided it was safer to take it herself. Reluctant witnesses were apt to claim the summons had never arrived. She wanted no arguments: if Maitland or Tathum refused to comply she would have them committed to prison for contempt. There weren’t many perks to being a coroner, but the power to bring to heel those who normally thought themselves above the law was one of them.
It was shortly after eight and barely light when she drove into Hereford and parked in a quiet street a short distance from Maitland’s office in the city centre. There was no reply when she rang the buzzer to the first-floor suite and no sign of lights in the window. Faced with a choice between killing time in the coffee shop four doors along or the cathedral opposite, Jenny turned up her coat collar and crossed the road.
The choir was rehearsing in the vast, resonant interior. It smelt of incense, cold stone and polished oak. Great iron coke stoves gave out an inadequate but welcome heat. She drifted along the nave, past the transepts and into the Lady Chapel and sat, for no conscious reason, in one of the rows of chairs facing the altar, at the side of which, guarding the sacrament, an eternal flame flickered.
In the stillness, an image of Mrs Jamal returned to her; the pain in her face as she talked of her missing son. Jenny imagined her final thoughts being of reuniting with him, of seeing him again wherever souls go. It was a comforting notion, but not one she could sustain. The building in which she sat was built as much through fear of hell and damnation as it was out of the love of God. She seldom prayed except in desperation or self-pity, but something moved her. Words sprang from nowhere.
She pleaded for the souls of Amira and Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan. ‘Please God, don’t let them be lost.’
The reception area was sleek and expensively furnished with tasteful original art and cream leather sofas. It belonged in central London, not a rural backwater. The receptionist was no more than twenty-five, pretty, and spoke with a crisp, educated voice without a trace of local accent.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked.
Despite being dressed in her best suit and coat Jenny felt clumsy and inelegant next to the girl. She handed over one of her business cards. ‘Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. Is Colonel Maitland in? I’d like to speak to him.’
‘No,’ the girl said, sensing danger. ‘He’s out of the office today, I’m afraid.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I think he may be back.’ The second lie was less assured than the first.
Jenny reached into her coat pocket and brought out the envelope containing the summons and a form of receipt.
‘This is what’s called “personal service”. This is a witness summons for him to attend my inquest tomorrow. I’ve even included the taxi fare – it’s a legal requirement. If he really can’t attend he can contact my office today to make further arrangements. If I could just ask you to sign the receipt?’
‘Well, I—’
Jenny pre-empted her evasion. ‘If you don’t, you’ll become a witness to the fact that I’ve served the document – ’ Jenny checked her watch – ‘at eight forty-two a.m. on Tuesday, 9 February, and you’ll be coming to court with or without him.’
She passed the girl a pen. She looked at it for a moment, then took it and hurriedly scribbled her signature on the receipt. It was illegible.
‘If you could print it as well.’
She did as she was told, reddening with either anger or embarrassment, Jenny couldn’t tell. As she completed the task, Jenny said, ‘One last thing, I just need to confirm the up-to-date address for your employee, Mr Christopher Tathum.’
The girl’s eyes flicked uncertainly to her computer.
‘You’re going to tell me you can’t give out private addresses, right?’
‘Yes,’ the girl stammered.
‘Technically I could force you, but let’s do it this way – I’ll tell you what it is, you tell me if I’m wrong.’
Jenny repeated Tathum’s address. The girl hesitated for a moment, then tapped on her keyboard. Sideways on, Jenny saw a list of addresses scroll up.
‘Anything to say?’ Jenny said.
She shook her head.
‘Good. You’ll make sure Colonel Maitland gets his letter this morning, won’t you?’
Jenny drove back to Bristol with a weight lifted from her shoulders. McAvoy hadn’t lied to her. Tathum was employed by Maitland and if needs be she had a witness who could be persuaded to confirm it. There were many obstacles to be overcome in court, but for the first time in days she felt she was standing on something approaching solid ground. She trusted McAvoy again, and was beginning to trust herself.
She arrived at her office feeling big enough to deal with Alison and ready to heal the jagged edges. Since her painful faux pas the previous day they’d hardly spoken, except to exchange a few words as Jenny had hurried out to her emergency appointment with Dr Allen. She braced herself for a frosty reception and prepared a conciliatory speech.
‘Good morning, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison said with pointed formality as Jenny entered.
She noticed the room was unnaturally tidy: the magazines on the table were neatly arranged, there were fresh flowers in a vase, the inspirational messages had been removed. It felt . . . sanitized.
‘Good morning, Alison,’ Jenny said with a note of contrition and took her mail – stacked in size order – from the tray on her desk.
‘You got to your son on time, did you?’
It took Jenny a moment to recall the excuse she’d muttered as she bolted from the office an hour earlier than usual.
‘Yes, thank you. Just.’
She flicked through the envelopes bracing herself to make an apology. If she left it any longer it would become impossible: they would pass the whole day in frigid silence.
‘Look, Alison, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday . . . I had no business mentioning your daughter, or passing judgement on your personal life. I was angry with Simon Moreton, not with you. He had no right to ask for confidential information.’
‘Apology accepted, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison said, her eyes fixed firmly on the desk.
‘You didn’t have to take the cards down.’
‘They’re not appropriate in the workplace. They wouldn’t be tolerated in the police. Not nowadays.’
‘Whatever you think best.’
There was an awkward silence, neither sure how to end their exchange.
‘I know I fly off the handle sometimes, but we both know I wouldn’t get very far without you.’
Jenny offered a smile. Alison’s jaw remained rigid with tension.
‘I may have made a fool of myself over Harry Marshall,’ Alison said, referring to the former coroner, her ex-boss, ‘but it’s different with David. Not that there’s anything improper between us,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I’ve seen him go through some of the most trying situations a person can face. He’s not a liar, Mrs Cooper. He’s doing his duty.’
‘I respect that, of course, but the coroner’s duty is different from a policeman’s. No one else seems to get it, but my duty, my legal duty, is to do whatever it takes to get to the truth no matter who would rather I didn’t. Until the Lord Chancellor picks up the phone to tell me I’m fired, I have to keep on digging.’
Alison nodded, but without conviction. She was still a dutiful detective at heart. Legal distinctions and high ideals weren’t for her. She preferred the comfort of belonging to a powerful tribe and was fearful of being ou
t on her own. But she kept Jenny’s feet on the ground, which is why they were still together after eight often turbulent months. Jenny had come to need her like a tree needs roots.
Alison said, ‘There’s a message from that woman at MI5. She wants you to call. I expect it’s about the report from the Health Protection Agency – it came last night.’ She handed Jenny a print-out of a document headed, ‘Radiological Assessment’. It was stamped ‘Highly Confidential’.
Jenny turned to the final paragraphs:
The caesium 137 particles taken from the address were chiefly concentrated in the fabric of an armchair. Several particles were also found in the common parts of the building and on the skin of the deceased, Mrs Amira Jamal, notably on her lower back and buttocks. It is safe and indeed logical to conclude that the deceased was contaminated through contact with the armchair in the period shortly before death. It is not possible, however, to say for how long the particles had been present on the armchair or in the building. Circumstantial evidence suggests a recent contamination: there were no traces of contamination in either the vacuum cleaner in Mrs Jamal’s premises or in that used by the caretaker of the building in the common parts.
In conclusion, it is suggested that contamination occurred at some time during the days immediately preceding Mrs Jamal’s death.
Alison said, ‘If it’s any comfort, the police haven’t got a clue. They’re guessing it was someone her son was mixed up with. Some of them are even saying it might have been him coming out of the woodwork. There are all sorts of wild ideas flying about.’
‘On an armchair? It’s as if someone who was already contaminated sat on it,’ Jenny said.
‘Imagine if it was Nazim,’ Alison said. ‘That would have shocked her – seeing him back from the grave.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No. That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Why not? There’s no proof he’s dead. All we’ve got are two contradictory sightings of him alive and heading in different directions. He might even have come back to shut his mother up. They don’t care about life, these jihadis – if you die a martyr’s death, you and seventy of your relations get a free pass to paradise anyway.’
Jenny could tell Alison had been in the thick of the police-canteen gossip and had soaked it up. And as usual the police had concocted theories to suit their prejudices: an all-Asian affair with a matricide thrown in would absolve them entirely; no need to feel guilty for caving in to the Security Services and letting two young men vanish into thin air.
Jenny said, ‘You haven’t mentioned Madog’s statement to anyone?’
‘Of course not, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison said, affronted. ‘I do talk to my ex-colleagues, but I’m not indiscreet.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting—’
‘I know you’re putting a lot of store by him, but I really shouldn’t, if I were you.’
‘I haven’t told you everything yet. There’s a chain of evidence building—’
‘Before you do tell me, there’s probably something you ought to know – about Alec McAvoy.’
‘Oh?’ Jenny felt her hackles rise but resisted the urge to snap back. It would be better not to tell Alison about the Maitland connection before court. The last thing she wanted was her best evidence leaking to the police and Security Services before it had been heard.
‘Just so you’re clear what kind of man he is,’ Alison said. ‘He’s been part of the team defending Marek Stich. He’s the Czech fellow who shot a young traffic policeman dead last October. I don’t know if you heard the news yesterday?’
‘I try to avoid it.’
‘Stich got off. It’s not that surprising – all they had was a couple of ID witnesses who only saw him further down the street driving away from the scene. The thing is, there was a car which had stopped behind Stich’s. According to another witness the driver was a woman who must have seen it all. CID never tracked her down, but last night they had an anonymous call. An emotional female caller said Stich pulled the trigger – she watched him do it. She was going to give a statement, but later that afternoon she was approached by a man with a Scottish accent who stopped her outside the gates of her son’s school. He told her that if she said a word she’d lose her child. This was in front of him, mind you, an eight-year-old boy.’
Another apocryphal story to explain away CID’s failure, was Jenny’s immediate thought. How they must have hated to see a troublesome lawyer they thought they’d seen off for good return to humiliate them.
‘I’m sure it’ll be looked into,’ Jenny said, seeking to avoid another confrontation.
‘It’s what I told you, Mrs Cooper. He fixes witnesses – finds them or shuts them up – that’s all he knows.’
Avoiding the issue, Jenny said, ‘Talking of witnesses, are we on track for tomorrow?’
Alison pushed a list across the desk towards her. It contained the names of Detective Sergeant Angus Watkins, the officer who had examined Nazim and Rafi’s rooms for signs of forced entry; DI Pironi; David Skene, one of the MI5 agents attached to the initial inquiry; Donovan; Madog; Tathum; Sarah Levin; Professor Brightman; McAvoy; Hugh Rees, the owner of the car rental firm in Hereford; and a name she didn’t recognize – Elizabeth Murray.
Alison said, ‘She’s the old lady who thinks she saw the Toyota. You asked me to see if she was still around. She is. I took a statement from her on my way home last night. She’s eighty-six, but still game.’
She passed Jenny another piece of paper containing a few brief sentences in which Mrs Murray said little more than that she had seen a stationary black car with two men inside. Reading it through, Jenny tried and failed to recall asking Alison to trace the witness. She wondered what else she might have forgotten or missed . . . It was McAvoy again, absorbing all her attention, even when she wasn’t aware of it. And Alison knew: she could see it in the wary, concerned way she was looking at her, registering her mental slip. Her detective’s instinct was telling her that Jenny’s mind had been skewed, that she was in danger of favouring the mad and illogical, of ignoring obvious truth because a corrupt and dishonest man had fascinated her.
Alison said, ‘I do understand, Mrs Cooper. I know what it’s like to be impressed with someone. Look at me and Harry Marshall . . . The ideal man is always the one you could never have. That’s the whole point. It’s a fantasy – what you think you want.’
She had seen straight through her. She was right, it was a fantasy. Just as Alison had dreamed of Harry leading her to a gentler, finer world, Jenny imagined McAvoy, a man who had been to darker places than she had ever imagined, slaying her monsters at a single stroke.
Lying to herself as much as to Alison, Jenny said, ‘Don’t worry. I could never have feelings for him. The man’s a wreck.’
Alison gave a faint, only partially convinced smile. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Leaving Alison with instructions to double-check witnesses, ensure jurors had fail-safe transport and to take care of the myriad administrative tasks all other categories of court would have a battery of staff to attend to, Jenny retreated to her office to make the call to Gillian Golder.
‘Jenny, finally. I was beginning to wonder if you’d disappeared.’ It was meant as a joke, but came out gracelessly.
‘You must have spoken to Simon Moreton,’ Jenny replied. ‘I told him all I know, which isn’t much.’
‘That’s the problem in a nutshell,’ Golder said. ‘We’re all rather groping in the dark and not sure what we might find.’
Jenny didn’t like the ‘we’. It sounded ominous.
Anticipating what she expected would come next, Jenny said, ‘If you’re concerned about my inquest trespassing on the criminal investigation into Mrs Jamal’s death, I can assure you it won’t. I’m only interested in what happened eight years ago.’
‘But can we be sure the two events are entirely separate?’
‘I have no reason to delay any further, Miss Golder. Your organization and the police gave up on the criminal in
quiry years ago.’
‘Let’s live in the real world for a moment, shall we, Jenny? My service and the police are desperately looking for the source of illegally held radioactive material. And one of the chief suspects is the subject of your inquest.’
‘You have evidence that Nazim’s alive?’
‘We’d rather the whole issue stayed out of the news until we find the son of a bitch we’re looking for. Even if you don’t mention Mrs Jamal, the media are going to be all over it. If anything’s going to drive him or whoever it is further under, that will.’
‘I don’t see that at all,’ Jenny said. ‘What I see is you trying to save yourself from potential embarrassment. It was your service who let the trail go cold. It may have suited your purposes at the time – boosting the argument for war and all of that – but I wouldn’t be fit to hold this office if I let that sway me.’
Icily, Gillian Golder said, ‘Believe it or not, we’re not as unreasonable as you seem to think. I’m sure we could find a way to stop your inquest if we really wanted to, but perhaps we can agree on a reasonable compromise.’
Golder paused, waiting for Jenny to step willingly into her trap. She remained silent.
‘This is what we propose: rule seventeen of the Coroner’s Rules enables a coroner to hold an inquest in camera if it’s in the interests of national security. I don’t know what evidence you intend to call, but Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan were suspected by us of having extremist sympathies. In the light of the fact that Mrs Jamal died in circumstances which suggest she came into contact with a substance which can only be of interest or use to a terrorist, we think there’s a compelling argument, if not a necessity, for your inquest to be held in secret.’
