by M. R. Hall
Jenny ended her examination with her niggling sense of doubt unresolved. As Havilland rose to confirm with Sarah Levin that all her contact with the police had been at her own initiative, Jenny wrestled with the fact that McAvoy had kept his inkling of an affair between her and Nazim to himself. She didn’t buy his explanation that he’d wanted to protect Mrs Jamal from shame and scandal. He had pushed her towards a complex and sinister conspiracy theory and away from the person with whom Nazim had been most intimate. It was as if he didn’t want Nazim and Rafi to have gone abroad. He wanted a grand struggle between good and evil; he wanted to place himself on the side of the angels and bid for redemption.
When Havilland had finished polishing the reputation of the police, Martha Denton stood to cross-examine for the first time that day.
‘Dr Levin, I’m sure we all understand your motives in not mentioning your intimate association with Nazim Jamal before now, but I’m sure you understand the importance of telling this court everything that could possibly cast light on what became of him.’ She spoke with a reassuring softness, without a trace of threat or impatience.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And, of course, any insight we can gain into his state of mind will help to shore up or indeed weaken the case for him having left the country for political or religious motives.’
‘If I could tell you, I would. I don’t know what Nazim was thinking.’
‘Did he not talk to you about his religious beliefs?’
‘Not in any detail. I knew he went to mosque, I saw that he had books on politics and history, but to be honest I wasn’t that interested.’
‘You didn’t get a sense that he was using you?’
‘Not really.’
‘You sound unsure . . . He was a young radical Muslim having sex with an unbeliever. That was a very compromising situation for him.’
‘I suppose it was.’
‘Did he suffer from feelings of guilt?’
Sarah Levin glanced at Mr Jamal, whose face was finally beginning to show signs of strain. After so many years of unanswered questions he was being forced to peer into the troubled mind of his son. ‘Yes, I think he probably did, but he was too considerate to share that with me. There was obviously a conflict.’
‘A conflict between extremes – was that your impression?’
‘He was a passionate person . . . You don’t appreciate the full depth of these things at such a young age, but thinking about it now I can see that’s what he was.’
‘And when he dropped you, did he end all contact?’
‘Completely.’
‘Why did you think he did that?’
‘His religion must have won out . . . I was hurt, but I tried to move on.’
‘You’ve been most helpful, Dr Levin,’ Martha Denton said.
As if to demonstrate his own immunity to Sarah Levin’s now wounded beauty, Khan proceeded to question her aggressively, seeking to attack the notion that Nazim suppressed sexual passion and transformed it into a zealot’s anger, even suggesting that the affair was a figment of her imagination. It was as if the Nazim Jamal he had imagined was beyond corruption, but at the very least – as a direct consequence of his spiritual purity – innocent enough to have been cruelly seduced.
Hearing Sarah Levin’s pained replies, it occurred to Jenny for the first time that she may have been genuinely in love with Nazim: the more battered she was by Khan’s invective, the more she seemed to expose her hurt. Perhaps she felt responsible for his disappearance; a beautiful and unwitting siren who’d propelled him onto a fatal course.
TWENTY-FOUR
JENNY WAS PICKING AT A soggy cheese sandwich in the small upstairs room when Alison knocked and delivered the news that their missing witnesses, Tathum and Maitland, had arrived. Maitland had requested to be heard early as he was due out on a flight to the Middle East the next morning. Jenny said she’d get to him that afternoon. She had decided to follow the chain of evidence from Elizabeth Murray’s sighting of the Toyota back to Maitland’s office before calling McAvoy. Only then would she call Pironi and Skene. The morning’s testimony had exposed a number of cracks in the official version of events: she wanted them to be as wide as possible before the detective and the MI5 officer were called to account.
‘I’ve also got a request from Detective Inspector Pironi,’ Alison said, a little embarrassed. ‘He’s asked if Mr McAvoy can wait somewhere other than the committee room – he’s behaving oddly, apparently.’
‘I can imagine it’s rather intense in there,’ Jenny said. ‘Fine. As long as he’s kept away from the hall while the others are giving evidence.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison said and dithered for a moment as if she wanted to say more.
Jenny gave her a look. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ Alison turned to the door.
‘You’ve not been speaking to Dave Pironi?’
‘No . . . I haven’t, honestly.’
‘But?’
‘I shouldn’t be giving you my opinions. He’ll give an account of himself. I just hope that worm from MI5 does the same.’ She hurried away before Jenny could push her further.
But there was nothing more Jenny needed to know: Alison was convinced that whatever shortcomings there had been in Pironi’s investigation were not down to him. Like all good policemen he’d only been obeying orders. He wasn’t brave enough to say so in court, so he’d filtered the message back through his old friend. Spineless bastard, Jenny thought, and cowardly with it. Being locked in the same room as McAvoy all morning must have been hell for him, like seeing his conscience in human form.
Madog stuttered through the oath and fidgeted with his glasses as Jenny led him through a few preliminary questions, a number of which she had to repeat. After several attempts she established that he was fifty-nine years old and had worked as a toll collector on the Severn Bridge for twenty-three years.
‘I appreciate it’s a long time ago, Mr Madog, but can you tell us if you remember witnessing anything unusual on the night of 28 June 2002?’
He glanced apprehensively at the lawyers, then back at Jenny. ‘The black car, you mean?’
‘If you could just take us through what you have already said in your statement.’
‘Well it was late, about eleven at night, like,’ he began uncertainly. ‘I was in the booth there when a black car pulled up. There were two white fellas in the front and two Asian lads in the back.’
His answer was met with a flurry of whispers amongst the lawyers. Martha Denton and Havilland turned to confer with their respective solicitors, then briefly formed into a larger, collective huddle. Alun Rhys, however, did not react.
Jenny said, ‘What kind of vehicle was it?’
‘A big seven-seater type. A Toyota I think. A black one.’
‘Can you describe the occupants in any more detail?’
With a little prompting, Madog limped through a description of the crew-cut driver, the man with the ponytail and the two frightened passengers cowering in the back seat. During this, Jenny noticed Mr Jamal’s eyes widen in alarm, his resolute composure giving way to an expression of outrage.
Jenny said, ‘You collect tolls from hundreds of vehicles every shift. What was it about this one that drew your attention?’
‘The driver had an attitude, you know. No please or thank you, virtually snatched the change out of my hand. And one of the lads in the back looked at me in a way I couldn’t forget. He had a beard like, but there was something about him – he looked much younger, like a kid.’
‘Usher, could you show Mr Madog photographs of Nazim Jamal and Rafi Hassan?’
Alison left her table at the side of the room and took two large photographs across to the witness. He peered at them both before nodding. ‘Looks like them.’ He pointed to the picture on the left. ‘That’d be the one I noticed.’
Alison checked the printed label on the back of the photograph. ‘That’s Nazim Jamal, ma’am.’
/> Mr Jamal was looking directly at Jenny now, horrified and expectant, waiting for the pieces to fall into place.
‘Did you ever see the occupants of this vehicle again, Mr Madog?’
‘I’m afraid I did . . .’
Still, Jenny noticed, Alun Rhys sat tight, showing not the slightest flicker of surprise. It was as if he knew what was coming next.
‘Go on, Mr Madog.’
Battling his failing nerves, Madog managed to recount his encounter with the ponytailed passenger the following Saturday. He told the jury how the man had sprayed paint on his granddaughter’s hair, and how he hadn’t even looked angry as he was doing it. He showed no feeling at all, Madog said.
‘Did you tell the police about this attack on your granddaughter?’
‘Didn’t dare. I wasn’t going to put her at risk, was I?’
‘Have you seen this man since?’
Madog shook his head.
Jenny’s stomach turned over. She glanced over at Alison, who gave a slight shrug. Madog had been sitting in the same room as Tathum for at least fifteen minutes before he came to the witness box. He must surely have remembered his face, even if he was now shorn of the ponytail. She could call Tathum into the court and ask Madog to identify him, but it presented a huge risk. The higher courts frowned on courtroom identifications – the circumstances in which they were made were considered artificial and dangerously pressured – and were prone to ruling them inadmissible. But unless Madog did single Tathum out, a vital link in the chain of evidence would be broken.
She decided to bide her time. She would ask Madog to remain in the hall after stepping down and recall him to the witness box after he’d watched Tathum give evidence.
Jenny invited counsel to cross-examine. Havilland deferred to Martha Denton, who rose to address Madog with a faintly amused smile.
‘You claim to remember the details of a single car and its occupants the best part of a decade after the alleged event.’
‘Not exactly . . .’ he glanced to Jenny. ‘A fella asked me about it after, must have been the following July.’
‘Oh, really? And who was this?’
‘Mr Dean, I think his name was. Said he was a private investigator.’
‘An investigator for whom?’
‘I can help you there, Miss Denton,’ Jenny said. ‘Mr Dean was instructed by Mrs Amira Jamal’s then solicitor.’
‘I see.’ Martha Denton’s instructing solicitor tugged at her elbow and whispered to her. She smiled, then turned accusingly back to the witness. ‘And this solicitor would be Mr Alec McAvoy? A man who in December of 2002 was imprisoned for an offence of attempting to pervert the course of justice? So presumably Mr McAvoy was in prison at the time?’
‘I didn’t know anything about that,’ Madog said.
Wishing she had kept her mouth shut, Jenny said, ‘You’ll be hearing from Mr McAvoy in due course. You can address that issue with him directly.’
‘I certainly will, ma’am. Did this investigator take a written statement from you, Mr Madog?’
‘I didn’t like to say anything at the time – because of my granddaughter.’
‘Why did he come to you of all people?’
‘He knew what kind of car he was looking for and that there would have been a couple of Asian lads in it. He wanted to know if any of the toll collectors had seen it.’
‘Ah. So he specifically asked you whether you had seen a large black vehicle containing two white men and two Asian youths?’
‘He did.’
‘Did he pay you, Mr Madog?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘And did he suggest the incident with your granddaughter and the paint?’
Madog shook his head firmly. ‘I never told him about that.’
‘I see. So when did you first recount that alleged incident?’
‘Last week, when I was asked to make a statement.’
Martha Denton adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Let’s be absolutely clear about this, Mr Madog. You claim to have been too frightened to tell the police about a vicious attack on your six-year-old granddaughter, yet you happily talked to a private investigator who turned up out of the blue.’
‘Not about my granddaughter. I told you, I didn’t mention it.’
Martha Denton stared into space, as if trying and failing to make sense of his answers. Then, with a dismissive shrug and a curt, ‘Oh well,’ dropped into her seat.
Jenny watched two jurors in the front row exchange a knowing look. Martha Denton had made them feel clever and made Madog look a fool.
Havilland had no questions, content to align himself with Denton’s attack. Sensing a breakthrough for his cause, Khan managed to repair some of the damage she had inflicted by establishing that Madog had no credible reason for lying about his sighting, and his subsequent encounter with the ponytailed driver, short of being bribed. Madog insisted he had never taken money and had told only the truth. Not all the jurors appeared convinced.
Collins had no questions for the witness. Madog stepped eagerly from the witness box, keen to escape as quickly as he could.
Halting him in his tracks, Jenny said, ‘If you could wait in the hall until the end of the afternoon, Mr Madog – you may be required to answer some further questions.’
Jenny watched for Rhys’s reaction. He remained impassive. Smug. She allowed herself a brief indulgent fantasy: perhaps she could still raise sufficient doubt, pose enough awkward questions to lead the jury to a brave decision that would shock him out of his complacency. Although the substance of the evidence would have to remain secret, the jury’s verdict could not be suppressed. And a coroner’s jury had the unique power to deliver their findings in the form of a narrative. If they decided Nazim and Rafi had been spirited away against their will and that the official investigation had been negligent or deliberately suppressed, they could spell it out.
The eight very unsuspecting men and women, currently suffering varying degrees of boredom and annoyance at having to perform their obscure civic duty, had the power to whip up a storm.
The next witness was David Powell, the proprietor of the vehicle-hire firm Jenny and McAvoy had visited in Hereford. Short and heavy-set, he spoke in a broad borders accent and made no attempt to disguise his impatience at being prised away from his business. He glowered at Jenny with the same suspicious disdain with which she imagined he greeted all officials.
Yes, his firm had owned a black Toyota Previa in June 2002 he said, but his records showed it had been rented from 20 to 23 June and not again until 6 July. It would have been sitting in the yard out front on the 28th. When Jenny suggested that he might have hired it out without keeping a paper record, Powell answered with an adamant no and wouldn’t be moved. If the records said it wasn’t hired, it wasn’t. No argument.
Jenny changed tack. ‘You have a regular customer called Mr Christopher Tathum, don’t you?’
‘Not that regular,’ Powell grunted.
‘Have you brought details of the cars he’s hired?’
He nodded and unfolded a sheet of paper which he produced from his jacket pocket. Alison took it from him and handed it to Jenny. Printed on office stationery, it was a computer-generated list of transactions conducted with Tathum, C. Mr. The first was for the hire of an Audi saloon in December 2001. Running her eyes down the list, Jenny saw that Tathum had rented the same vehicle half a dozen times over the next two years, usually for week-long periods. There was only one hire of the Toyota listed: in March 2003.
Jenny said, ‘Are you friendly with Mr Tathum?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘You wouldn’t do him any special favours – a cash deal, for example?’
‘No.’
Jenny fixed him with a look as she asked her next question. ‘Has he or anyone else spoken to you or your staff about this vehicle?’
Avoiding her gaze he muttered, ‘No, ma’am.’
It was little to go on, just a hint that he was lying, but it
stoked her anger. She couldn’t resist making a point for the jury. ‘Are you quite sure you’ve told this court the whole truth, Mr Powell?’
‘Quite sure.’
After Khan had probed with a few speculative questions, all of which met with denials, Jenny asked Powell to join Madog in the empty public gallery. It was a piece of theatre – lining up the links in the chain to keep the story vivid in the jurors’ minds – but one Jenny felt justified in using. Since Donovan had given his implausible evidence, she’d been fighting a growing suspicion that events were being managed. She had been scrupulous in keeping Elizabeth Murray, Madog, Tathum and Maitland’s identities secret until they had reached the witness box, but none of them had raised Alun Rhys to even a moment of visible concern. She needed to push harder. Her chest tightened at the prospect. She had to fight panic with determination.
Tathum took his time walking from the committee room to the witness box. Dressed in a suit and tie, he could have been a business executive. All that gave him away as a former military man was the solid squareness of his shoulders and a certain predatory quality to his narrow gaze. Jenny glanced over at Madog, hoping to detect signs of anxiety: he touched his cheek, scratched his neck. Tiny clues, but not sufficient to reassure her.
Tathum took the Bible and read the oath with the relaxed demeanour she imagined he might have adopted while leaning through Madog’s car window. She felt an instinctive and visceral dislike for him, an irrational loathing which she knew would only weaken her if she let it show.
‘Mr Tathum,’ she said, having confirmed his name and address, ‘can you tell the court who you were working for in late June 2002?’
‘As far as I can remember, ma’am, no one.’
‘Then how were you supporting yourself?’
‘I’d left the army the year before. I had a military pension and I did occasional contract work. I still do.’
‘What kind of contract work?’
‘Close protection is the technical term.’ He aimed his explanation at the jury. ‘A bodyguard in layman’s language.’
