by M. R. Hall
‘I can see why you’d like that,’ Jenny said, ‘but I think you may have forgotten some of the basic principles of justice.’
‘Let me put it this way, Mrs Cooper,’ Golder said. ‘We have lawyers briefed and ready to go the High Court this afternoon to seek an injunction that will ensure rule seventeen is correctly applied.’
Jenny felt the dead hand pressing on her. She had no doubt that Golder was serious and that the government lawyers would hint to a well-chosen judge that evidence of a highly sensitive nature – the significance of which a mere provincial coroner would not understand – might emerge to threaten national security. The judge, already used to closed hearings in terrorist cases, and inured to the denial of once inviolable liberties, such as the right to silence and a prisoner’s right to know the evidence against him, would have no problem with gagging a coroner. Jenny could fight all she liked, but it was a battle she would never win. She could appeal to Simon Moreton at the Ministry, but even if he could be persuaded to protest on her behalf he would be swept aside by his superiors. All that was left was for her to salvage what she could from the wreckage.
Jenny chanced her luck one last time. ‘There wouldn’t be any need to exclude the public if I were to impose reporting restrictions.’
‘In the days before the internet, perhaps, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be sufficient,’ Golder said. ‘We can allow immediate family to attend, but on the strict understanding that they mustn’t communicate any part of the evidence.’
‘I could tell you to go to hell.’
‘You could, but that wouldn’t help anyone, would it?’
TWENTY-THREE
ZACHARIAH JAMAL WAS AN ARRESTINGLY dignified man in his mid-fifties and bore an uncanny resemblance to his son. Strikingly handsome, he shared the same fine features and raven black hair. Jenny could see at once why he had parted company with his late ex-wife. He was self-contained, composed, the polar opposite of effusive and emotional. He sat alone at one end of the three rows of seats behind the lawyers, which the previous week had been filled with news-hungry journalists and the militant members of the British Society for Islamic Change.
Jenny had contacted him shortly after her last conversation with Gillian Golder and informed him of developments. She had asked him if he would like her to defy the request and fight for a full public hearing. He had answered unequivocally: no. She had ventured to ask him if he had any insight into what had led to his ex-wife’s death. ‘She was not a stable woman in recent years,’ was all he had said. He had sounded so remote and removed that Jenny hadn’t expected him to attend the hearing. However, according to Alison he was waiting outside the hall when she arrived shortly after eight a.m. Seeing him in the flesh, Jenny realized she had misread him over the telephone. The grief behind his stoical mask was palpable. Remarried with a second family he would have had few chances to mourn his first-born son. This was his opportunity.
Out of courtesy she had also called Mr and Mrs Hassan to tell them they would be welcome to attend. Mr Hassan told her flatly that they would not be present, reporters or not. There had been barely suppressed anger in his voice which Jenny read as guilt. Mr Hassan blamed himself for his son’s fate. If only he hadn’t fought with him that Christmas vacation, if only he’d been more attentive . . . She felt sure he and his wife would have liked to be there, but even after eight years they simply couldn’t face it.
Sitting at the head of an echoing village hall more accustomed to hosting dances and produce shows, she felt an almost unbearable sense of responsibility.
The morning had already proved traumatic. Jenny had arrived to find more than a dozen uniformed policemen surrounding the hall’s entrance. Their sergeant said he had been ordered to prevent journalists and members of the public from gaining access to the resumed inquest. Jenny had been remonstrating with him when several vanloads of BRISIC supporters arrived and angry, hostile scenes developed. While incredulous local residents looked on, name-calling and slogan-chanting tipped into violence. Punches were thrown at police officers, who eagerly responded with truncheons and pepper spray. Temporarily blinded and screaming in agony, several protesters were arrested and driven away. Most of the rest were dispersed. Only after Jenny had threatened the sergeant with multiple lawsuits if he didn’t comply, did he allow a remaining handful to mount a symbolic vigil.
Many of the witnesses had arrived in the thick of the disturbance. Flanked by police, Alison had managed to shepherd them through to a side entrance. They were now corralled in a small committee room separated from the hall by a single door. Maitland and Tathum had yet to show their faces, but to Jenny’s surprise all the others had answered their summonses, including McAvoy.
Aside from Mr Jamal, the only other observer to the proceedings was Alun Rhys, Golder’s man in the field, tucked away at the end of a row at the back. She would have been within her rights to exclude him – the hearing was in camera and he had no legal right to be present – but an instinct told her to let him be. She wanted to read his face, to see when it registered surprise, alarm or even approval.
Extremely grateful for Dr Allen’s new medication, which was successfully holding her anxiety in check, she turned to the lawyers. Yusuf Khan, the solicitor representing BRISIC, was anxious to speak first.
‘Ma’am, I must protest most strongly at your decision to conduct this inquest in camera. The law clearly states that all coroner’s inquests are to be held in public unless it is against the interests of national security to do so. Those I represent can only conclude that it is their presence that you wish to avoid.’
‘Not at all, Mr Khan,’ Jenny interjected. ‘Obviously, you’ll respect the reporting restrictions which have also been placed on this hearing, so I can tell you without fear of it being repeated that I have made my order directly at the request of the Security Services.’ She glanced at Rhys. ‘What it is they fear, what evidence they anticipate will affect the safety of the realm, they have not seen fit to tell me. However, I decided that it was preferable to proceed under these circumstances than not at all.’
‘But this is preposterous,’ Khan said. ‘A coroner cannot be dictated to. This is an independent court, not a political tribunal.’
‘As we’re in camera I can again speak to you candidly and say that I entirely agree.’
Rhys’s face hardened in disapproval.
Jenny continued. ‘I’m more than happy for you to shout your objection from the rooftops, but if I let your supporters in now I can guarantee this inquest will not be allowed to proceed. It’s not what either of us think is right or just, but I suggest you save your energy for the witnesses.’
Unappeased, Khan jabbed his finger in the air. ‘I am serving notice now: my clients will fight through every court and do whatever it takes to make the transcript of these proceedings public. There is no such thing as justice conducted in secret.’
The two barristers, Fraser Havilland for the chief constable, and Martha Denton QC for the Director General of the Security Services, appeared vaguely bored and unimpressed with Khan’s performance. Trevor Collins, the unassuming and undistinguished solicitor representing Mrs Jamal’s estate, was the only lawyer to nod in agreement.
Jenny said, ‘Thank you, Mr Khan,’ and glancing at Alun Rhys added, ‘I’m sure if nothing affecting national security does arise your wish will be granted.’
Rhys was poker-faced. It occurred to Jenny that he was strangely emasculated: an observer to secret proceedings with no further sanctions to apply.
She turned to the jury and thanked them for their patience during the week they had been adjourned. So as not to alert Rhys or any of the lawyers to what they might hear, she explained in deliberately vague terms that the delay had been necessary to pursue further lines of inquiry, with the result that they would be hearing from several new witnesses. Unimpressed, the jurors responded with impatient looks.
As Jenny turned to Alison to request she bring in the first witness, Fraser Havil
land rose abruptly to his feet.
‘Ma’am, before we proceed to evidence, my learned friend Miss Denton and I would be grateful if you would furnish us with a list of who these witnesses may be, and, dare I suggest it, copies of their statements. It is customary practice in a modern coroner’s inquest.’
Sitting beside him, Martha Denton fixed Jenny with an impassive stare.
Sure of her ground, Jenny said, ‘Customary perhaps, Mr Havilland, but not obligatory. I suggest you take a look at R. v. H.M. Coroner for Lincolnshire ex parte Hay (1999). Disclosure of documents to counsel, even witness statements, is a matter in the coroner’s discretion.’ She turned to the jury. ‘A coroner’s inquest is not a trial; it is an inquiry on behalf of the Crown. The lawyers representing the interested persons are merely here to assist, and are granted the right to ask questions. They cannot require me to produce anything.’
‘With respect, ma’am,’ Havilland persisted, ‘the 2003 Bentley case did stress that it is preferable for a coroner to release witness lists, especially in complex cases.’
‘You’re not easily satisfied, are you, Mr Havilland? Not only are we sitting in camera, but your and Miss Denton’s clients now wish to know exactly what evidence this inquiry is going to call. I think that’s called wanting to have your cake and eat it.’
Several of the jurors smiled.
Havilland remained po-faced. ‘It’s called good practice, ma’am.’
‘I’m amenable but no pushover, Mr Havilland,’ Jenny said, feeling a swell of anger which she struggled to dampen. ‘You’ll get what you’ve a right to, no more.’
Havilland thought about retaliating. He was pre-empted by his instructing solicitor, who tugged at his sleeve and whispered to him to back down. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ Havilland said, and resumed his seat.
Martha Denton’s deadpan gaze didn’t waver. She was studying Jenny’s face, probing for her weaknesses, biding her time.
Elizabeth Murray was the first witness to make her way from the committee room to sit at the small table on Jenny’s left which served as a witness box. The eighty-six-year-old was frail and stooped but walked determinedly and unaided. Wearing a smart navy suit, her hair set for the occasion, she was determined to make the most of her moment in the spotlight. She read the oath clearly and solemnly. No one doubted she intended to tell the truth.
‘Mrs Murray,’ Jenny said, ‘do you have any reason to remember the night of 28 June 2002?’
‘I do,’ she said adamantly. ‘There was a large black car parked outside my house all evening, with two men in the front seats. The longer they were there the more suspicious I became. At about ten-thirty p.m. I decided to call the police. I’d just picked up the telephone when I heard the engine start up. I went to the window and saw they’d moved off.’
‘What sort of car was is it, do you remember?’
‘A people carrier, I think you call it.’
‘And did you call the police?’
‘No, I didn’t think it was worth bothering them.’
‘But you had a visit later in the year?’ Jenny prompted.
‘That’s right. A man knocked on my door in the December as I recall. He said he was representing the family of a young man who’d last been seen leaving a property further along my road that night. He was going from house to house trying to find witnesses. I told him about the car.’
‘You remembered the precise date you saw it, even after six months had elapsed?’
‘Yes. It was the last Friday in June. It must have been something about the two men – it just seemed to stick.’
‘What about them?’
‘They looked threatening somehow. I could see the one in the driver’s seat quite clearly. He was stocky with a shaved head.’
‘What about the passenger?’
‘I didn’t get a good look at him. I think he might have had longer hair.’
Jenny noticed Alun Rhys making a note – this seemed to be news to him.
Jenny said, ‘Did you see in which direction the car went when it moved off?’
‘The way it was facing – to the right.’
Jenny indicated to Alison, who distributed copies of a large-scale map to the jurors and lawyers. It showed Marlowes Road, the street where both Mrs Murray and Anwar Ali had lived at the time. Mrs Murray confirmed that she lived at number 102 on the south side of the street. Anwar Ali’s flat, where he hosted the halaqah, was approximately two hundred yards to the west of her house on the north side at number 35. The stop at which Nazim and Jamal would have caught the bus back to campus was thirty yards to the west of her house on the south side. Mrs Murray confirmed that an east-bound bus would have passed the parked car as it left the stop; however, when she was asked if a bus had indeed come past shortly before the car pulled off, she couldn’t remember.
‘Could you see how many people were in the car as it drove away?’ Jenny asked.
‘No. I was out of sight of the window at that point,’ Mrs Murray said.
‘And apart from the private investigator, has anyone else asked you about the events of that night?’
‘Never.’
‘You’ve never had a detective knock on your door?’
‘No.’
Neither Fraser Havilland or Martha Denton had any questions for the witness. Trevor Collins also declined to cross-examine. Khan, who had grown increasingly excited during her testimony, grilled her for several minutes attempting to extract any identifying detail of the mysterious occupants of the car. Elizabeth Murray did her best, though she said little that Jenny hadn’t already gleaned. After fifteen minutes of fruitlessly repeating the same questions, Khan sat down disappointed. He’d had a taste of conspiracy and was hungry for more.
Detective Sergeant Watkins (retired) was the next in the witness box. A grey-haired man who looked older than his fifty-seven years, his beer drinker’s stomach sagged over the waistband of his suit trousers. He read the oath card with the tired resignation of a long-serving officer for whom the world could offer few more surprises.
‘Mr Watkins, you made a statement on 3 July 2002 following your inspection of the rooms of Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan. Have you read that recently?’
‘Yes. Your officer gave me a copy.’ Watkins spoke in a thick Bristol accent, and nodded to Alison in recognition.
‘Do you recall making those inspections?’
‘Vaguely. I’d been on the obbo with DI Pironi, so he asked me to pop over when we’d had word the boys had gone missing.’
Jenny referred to his statement. ‘And you found signs of forced entry. Laptops and mobiles were missing from both rooms, but other valuable items such as an MP3 player in Rafi Hassan’s room were still there.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘What did that indicate to you?’
Watkins breathed out heavily through closed lips, making a noise like a weary old carthorse. ‘Could have been a break-in, I suppose, but the impressions on the door frames were the same on both rooms. It was a bit of a coincidence. Could be they were trying to make it look as if the doors had been forced.’
‘On the day you wrote your statement you had no idea what had happened to the two boys – the witness who claims to have seen them on the London train didn’t come forward until 20 July.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So what was the police response to your discoveries?’
‘I gave my statement to the DI, that was it.’
‘Detective Inspector Pironi?’
‘Yes.’
‘You weren’t asked to investigate a potential break-in?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Were you aware that on 8 July another student living in Manor Hall, Miss Dani James, gave a statement saying she’d seen a man in man in a puffy anorak and baseball cap leaving Manor Hall quickly on 28 June at around midnight – the evening the boys went missing?’
‘A couple of colleagues and myself had been going round the halls speaking to the students,
so I’d heard it mentioned.’
‘What steps were taken to find this man?’
Watkins shook his head. ‘I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. It wasn’t much of a description, so I don’t suppose very many.’
‘Enlighten me, Mr Watkins, was there a sense that this was a major investigation? Were you concerned for the whereabouts of these two young men?’
‘As far as I knew there’d been no crime as such. Of course, we knew they’d been keeping bad company if you like – we probably thought it was more likely they’d hopped off somewhere.’
‘Did you form that opinion, or was it suggested to you?’
‘I think DI Pironi might’ve said it. We were still on the obbo like, seeing who was coming and going down at the mosque and at Anwar Ali’s place.’
‘When you say “bad company”, what exactly did you think Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan had been exposed to?’
Watkins shrugged. ‘The DI would have been the one reading the intelligence reports. My colleagues and I were just keeping a note of the movements.’
‘Did you believe you were observing potential criminals?’
‘Yes. Especially at that time. We didn’t know what might go off.’
‘All the more strange, then, that there wasn’t a major manhunt.’
With a half-smile and a glance at Alison, Watkins said, ‘I’ll leave that one to the DI, I think. I was just one of the foot soldiers.’
Not content, Jenny pressed him. ‘What reason were you given for there not being a more concerted effort to find them?’
‘I wasn’t, ma’am.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t think it’s any secret that MI5 got involved, but I never had anything to do with them.’
Jenny reached for the file containing the police observation logs. She turned to the page she had already flagged. ‘Were you on observation in Marlowes Road on the night of 28 June?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘There’s an entry saying: “Subjects NJ and RH seen leaving 35 Marlowes Road 10.22 p.m. Subjects walk off in easterly direction towards bus stop.” It’s not initialled.’
