by M. R. Hall
'I don't think so. I'll see you inside.'
She headed for the back door of the building.
'You won't. And if you send me a summons I'll stand mute. I've got sod all to lose, and now it's come round again I think I've probably got more interest in finding out what happened than you have.'
'Oh, really?'
'Yes, really. You see, I'm a man with not a few past sins that still need atoning for, Mrs Cooper - my alleged offence not one of them, by the way. So there's no way I'm going to put my hand on the Holy Bible and swear to tell you the whole truth when this inquest you're conducting's a fucking sham.'
She fought an involuntary urge to hit him, hard.
McAvoy said, 'I'm hungry. I'll be down the road at that bird place. Took the ex-wife there once, I recall - pink flamingos.'
'This had better be good.'
She found him in a corner of the restaurant by the floor-to- ceiling window overlooking a large, shallow pond in which a flock of flamingos huddled against the cold. On a dismal February afternoon the large dining room was almost empty.
McAvoy pushed aside his empty plate and reached for his coffee. 'You want something?'
'Just to know what the hell this is about.'
'What d'you tell the jury?'
'That they could have the afternoon off.'
'You'll be popular. How's Mrs Jamal?'
'She followed me all the way to my car insisting that Dani James was a whore who'd been put up to blacken her son's name.'
'Have her arrested for contempt. Can you imagine anyone barracking a Crown Court judge like that?'
'Yeah, right.'
McAvoy said, 'She always was a pain, poor woman. I expect she's right round the bloody bend by now.'
'She has her moments.' Jenny's eyes skipped around the room, checking no one was watching them. The tension of a court day had worn her medication thin. It wasn't yet three o'clock and she was feeling jumpy and raw.
'She should be grateful the poor wee bastard had a shag before he went. She'd have had him hanging off her teat until he was forty.' He nodded out of the window towards a clutch of chilly looking flamingos. 'D'you know they still don't know why those things stand on one leg. One of the great unsolved mysteries of science.'
'I heard it was so they still had one left if they got bitten by a crocodile.' She fetched a legal pad out of her case. 'Can we get on now?'
'I'm not making a statement.'
'Fine, we'll call it notes.' She uncapped her fountain pen. 'But this was your idea, remember?'
He grunted as if he'd rather forget. 'We can deal with Simon Donovan for a start. The cops were all over him from April '02 in a fraud investigation. He was a personal accountant back then: used clients' tax cheques to buy rental property and borrowed off the equity to pay the Inland Revenue. In a rising market it worked like a dream until he bought six flats off plan that never went up. One of my partners was defending his co-defendant, a mortgage broker. It was set down for trial in August. Next thing he knows Donovan's a witness for the prosecution against four of his tax-evading clients and he's made his statement about the missing boys. All the charges against him and the broker were dropped.'
'So he cut a clever deal on his case - why would IDing the boys be part of it?'
'Have you any idea how lazy coppers are? I've known them piss in a pint pot to save a walk to the gents.'
'Donovan just happened to be down at the station in the right frame of mind?'
'More than likely. Plus they'd have been desperate to get it off their patch. Get a statement putting them in London and it was someone else's problem.'
'What about the Security Services?'
'The police hate them - they make them do things.'
'You really think they'd give them a false statement?'
McAvoy grinned. 'What are you, born again every morning? I thought you'd bloodied your knuckles as a lawyer.'
'I was mostly involved with childcare proceedings.'
'Then there's nothing you shouldn't know about the shitty side of human nature. What you've got to remember about cops, Mrs Cooper, is that lying gets to be a way of life. They start off gilding the lily when they write up their first arrests and end up framing innocent lawyers.'
Jenny made a note, though she wasn't hopeful that it would be of much help. Neither Donovan nor the police were likely to admit to fabricating evidence, and Donovan's ID statement was disconnected enough from the fraud charges not to be obviously linked.
'Tell me about your involvement in this case,' Jenny said.
McAvoy told her that Mrs Jamal and Mr and Mrs Hassan - shopkeepers from Birmingham - came to see him early in the October. They'd had moderately regular contact with the police in the first few weeks after their son's disappearance, but by early autumn it had tailed off. They'd written to MPs and councillors for help, but were referred back to the police, who wouldn't even pay for a missing poster. They had come to him in desperation. He wrote to the police and four weeks later obtained copies of the witness statements they'd taken. He picked up on Dani James's sighting of the possible intruder and wrote again asking what they were doing to follow it up. He never received a reply.
In December both families received their letters from DS Owens stating that the investigation was being shelved. McAvoy wrote back to protest and got nowhere. Over the Christmas holiday Mrs Jamal took to phoning him all hours of the day and night, obviously having some kind of breakdown; then at the start of the new year the Hassans wrote to say they had decided to end their retainer.
'Any idea why?' Jenny said.
'They were conservative people. Their boy had been gone six months. The way they saw it, he'd either deserted his family or he was up to no good.'
'And Mrs Jamal?'
She detected a trace of guilt in McAvoy's expression. 'To be honest, I was trying to avoid her. I like to give the benefit of the doubt, but even I was beginning to think they'd hopped off to a training camp somewhere.' He stared out of the window at the pond, as if confronting a painful memory. 'That's what I told her . . . She threw a fit, accused me of collaborating with all the forces of darkness, so I offered to get a private investigator onto it. She had five hundred pounds. It scarcely bought us two days, but this guy I knew - dead now - knocked on some doors down in St Pauls. He found a little old lady who said she'd spotted a black people carrier sitting outside her house on the night of the 28th. It was right along from the bus stop the boys used to get back to college, about two hundred yards from Anwar Ali's place. There were two white men in the front. From her description it sounded like a Toyota. It was late in the evening and she thought they looked suspicious. She was picking up the phone to call the police when she heard it take off.'
'That's it?'
'More or less. I phoned the bus depot and tried to find out whether the police had spoken to any of their drivers who might have spotted them that night. I was told they couldn't discuss it. I tried to be reasonable, assured them there was no legal reason why they couldn't, but it was a stone wall. I went back to the police to ask them what their problem was and got the same response. A week later a pretty girl came into my office saying she might be able to help out a client of mine who was up for armed robbery at the time. I took her alibi statement. Next morning I was dragged bollock naked from my bed and didn't see the outside of a cell for two-and-a-half years.'
'You believe the two things are connected?'
'I'll admit there were lots of reasons the cops wanted me out of the way. The fact I'd got two guys off a murder charge and had a DI nicked for perjury the previous year were two of them. In fact, for the best part of six months that's what I thought it was all about.'
It was McAvoy's turn to sweep the room with his eyes. Only when he was satisfied that none of their elderly companions were undercover detectives did he turn his gaze back to Jenny.
'Two things changed my mind. First, I remembered something. A couple of nights before I was arrested I'd been out w
ith a client; we were both drunk as hell. I got a call on my mobile, my private number, and this American-sounding voice said, "What do you know?" I was that lashed I could hardly make him out. He said it again, "What do you know, Mr McAvoy?" No threats, nothing. I took him for a crank and rang off.'
'And you remembered this when?'
'Sometime in the middle of '03. Lying on my bunk waiting for my room-mate to finish his business on the potty.'
'Nice. What was the second thing?'
'This phone call starts going round in my mind - you get like that inside. The Law Society's struck me off, my wife's fucking somebody else, I want to know what the hell's going on. I phoned the investigator again - Billy Dean his name was - and said could he have a scout around, try and get a lead on this call or the Toyota. Fine. He tried to trace the call first but had no joy - the incoming number was one of those unregistered pay and gos. He had more luck on the Toyota, though. If you think about it, there are only half a dozen major roads out of Bristol. Two of them go over the Severn. Billy talked to some guys in the toll booths and found a fella on the old Severn crossing who actually remembered seeing a black MPV, two stocky white guys in the front, two Asian boys in the back.'
'A year later?'
'It was an unusual sight, the man said. You don't get many dark skins heading over into Monmouthshire. He was from Chepstow - one Chinese takeaway and a French polisher.'
'Haven't they got cameras there that read the number plates?'
'All data's scrubbed after four weeks. The one time Big Brother might have been some use.'
'Did you follow any of this up?'
McAvoy shook his head. 'I put it out of my mind. Billy took a stroke, and the blessed Father O'Riordan helped reconcile me to my fate. The spirit seemed to be moving against it.'
'Mrs Jamal didn't tell me any of this.'
'I didn't trouble her. What would she have done, except go even nuttier? Wasn't even anything solid. To tell you the truth, I'd almost convinced myself it was nothing until I heard about your inquest.'
'What changed your mind?'
'Now you're asking.' He thought for a moment. 'I suppose you could say I felt the spirit moving the other way. My client with the missing daughter for one thing, and thinking back again - whether those poor families wouldn't have found some peace if they hadn't fetched up with an unholy bastard like me.'
'Right.' She glanced over her notes - there weren't many of them. 'Your bid for redemption consists of an untraceable phone call - possibly, possibly not, relevant - and a fleeting glimpse into a car, nearly eight years ago, by a toll booth operator.'
'I still remember the guy's name: Frank Madog.'
Jenny wrote it down. 'I'll see if we can get him along to give evidence.'
'I don't think that's a good idea. Why don't you adjourn for a few days and talk to him, see if it goes anywhere? I can make the approach, if you like.'
'I see.' She closed her notebook. 'Any particular reason you feel entitled to tell me how to run my inquest?'
'Yes,' McAvoy said. 'I had a call at home this weekend. Yesterday morning, ten a.m. - caught me sober. It was like a robot, through one of those voice distorters. I assume it was a man's voice, "Tell me what you know, McAvoy, or you're a dead man."'
'Know about what?' Jenny said, with a note of scepticism.
'That's what I asked. He said, and this is actually what the man said, in this robot voice: "I wouldn't even take a shit in the cheap casket you're going to hell in." "Casket", not "coffin". Who says that this side of the Atlantic?'
'Then what?'
'I hung up.'
She nodded with what she hoped was a neutral expression, an insistent voice in her head telling her to walk away now without a backward glance.
McAvoy said, 'Before you get into any of this, there's something else you should know.'
'I might as well hear it all.'
'Your officer, Alison Trent - she was one of the CID that put me away.' He gave a forgiving shrug. 'So, do you want me to get in touch with Madog?'
She heard Alison's raised voice as she opened the front door to her office. It sounded as if she was on the telephone.
'Of course she's welcome, she's my daughter, I just don't see why she has to bring her.'
Jenny stopped outside the outer office door, guilty at eavesdropping, but it didn't feel right to interrupt mid-conversation. And she was curious.
'How many times have I got to say this? It's not her I disapprove of, it's the situation . . . Because I don't believe it's real, that's why. She's had plenty of boyfriends for goodness sake.' Alison sighed loudly. 'Fine. You deal with it your way, I'll cope with it mine. Just don't expect me to welcome her with open arms. Whatever else you might accuse me of, you can't call me a hypocrite.' She slammed down the receiver and thumped over to the kitchenette.
Taken aback, Jenny mulled over what she had heard. Was Alison's daughter in a relationship with another woman? It would explain the scratchy moods and the New Dawn Church. Its slickly produced newsletter, which Alison had taken to leaving out on the coffee table, was full of stories of drunks, junkies and homosexuals who had been brought back to the straight and narrow by the power of prayer. Some of the testimonies, she had to admit, were very moving.
'Hi,' Jenny said, as she came through the door. She went to Alison's desk to check the message tray.
There was a moment of moody silence before Alison came to the kitchenette door.
'Mrs Jamal called - three times. She thinks someone's been in her flat.'
'I've got to speak to her anyway. I'm going to adjourn until next Monday.' Jenny flicked through three death reports that needed immediate attention. A previously healthy man of thirty-two had dropped dead while jogging on the Downs and a van had plunged down a motorway embankment killing both occupants. Neither had been wearing a seat belt. Alison had printed off the emailed police photographs of the wreck: two bloody snowflake shatter-patterns on the windscreen where their heads had impacted.
'Oh? Any particular reason?' Alison asked, disapproving.
'Alec McAvoy, that legal executive, came forward with a few pieces of information. I'd like to follow them up before I call any more live witnesses.'
'I know who McAvoy is. He's one of the most corrupt lawyers this city's ever produced.'
'He mentioned that you were part of the team that brought him to justice.'
'I'm sure that's not how he put it.' Alison scowled. 'He fabricated evidence. It's what he did for a living. I heard it straight from the mouths of his ex-clients. Anything he told you this afternoon I should take with a shovelful of salt, if I were you, Mrs Cooper.'
'I appreciate there's a history. I won't ask you to get involved.' She tucked the reports under her arm. 'If you wouldn't mind putting the word out that we're reconvening next Monday—'
'Do you mind my asking what this information was?'
Jenny told half the truth. 'It's about a suspicious vehicle that was seen near Anwar Ali's flat the night of the disappearance. It just seems odd the police didn't pick up on it, seeing as they had an observation team nearby.'
'Why not ask Dave Pironi? He'll give you a straight answer.'
'Didn't you tell me that the Security Services were calling the shots?' Jenny said. 'He's not going to want to talk about that, is he?'
Alison didn't respond.
Gently, Jenny said, 'Is everything all right?'
'Perfectly, thank you, Mrs Cooper. I'm just concerned you don't get taken in by a professional conman, that's all.' Alison turned at the sound of the kettle coming to the boil and hurried back to her tea-making.
Jenny retreated to her office and closed the door behind her. A fresh pile of unread post-mortem reports sat on her desk alongside the growing heap of correspondence she had been avoiding for several days. She slumped into her chair and clicked onto her emails, anything rather than start into work. Amidst the trivia and spam there was a message from DS Murphy asking her for further details of some o
f those who had come to view the Jane Doe, the latest turgid round robin from the Ministry of Justice - this one instructing coroners to refrain from emotive or potentially headline- generating language in court (the duller and more mechanical they could be the better) - and a brief request from Gillian Golder to call her on her direct line.
Jenny bit the bullet and dialled her number.
Gillian Golder answered on the second ring. 'Jenny. Thank you so much for calling.' She sounded delighted.
'No problem. How can I help?'
'Look, obviously we don't want to interfere, but Alun told me that you've allowed the BRISIC lawyer rights of audience.'
'It's a matter in my discretion. I took the view his client has a legitimate interest.'
'Of course. But it's only right you should know that their agenda is far from benign. This is a political Islamist organization that peddles malicious conspiracy theories. Take a look at the message boards on their website - they accuse the British state of everything from black propaganda to murdering its own citizens. I'm afraid I'd have to disagree that their interest is legitimate.'
Refusing to be cowed, Jenny said, 'I'm sure I can keep them under control.'
'I understand you've adjourned already. One of our people was due to give evidence tomorrow . . .'
'It's nothing sinister.'
'Not according to our friends' news interviews. You're already orchestrating a cover-up as far as they're concerned.'
'And how are you suggesting I should be influenced by this information?'
'I'm not suggesting anything,' Gillian Golder said. 'I'm merely forewarning you. Dangerous nonsense can sound very credible, even to a perfectly sound and rational mind.' She drew out this final phrase, giving Jenny a message that needed no further articulation: embarrass us and we'll rubbish you.
Chapter 11
The wind came up in the late evening, a cold northerly that found new cracks and crevices in the fabric of the cottage to penetrate. When it gusted, the back door rattled on its hinges, making Jenny start and long for a drink to soak up the childish fears that the creaking building stirred up in her. Ross was staying over at a friend's in Bristol, and she was too embarrassed to phone Steve to say she was scared of being alone in her own home. She spent the evening locked in her study becoming steadily more jittery. Late in the afternoon the police photographer had emailed more images from inside the wrecked van and they refused to leave her: two men in their early twenties with exploded foreheads, one twisted across the bench seat, the other lying face up in the footwell, his broken features grossly swollen. A partially eaten burger lay on top of the dash. They were tree surgeons, men who earned a living clambering on rotten branches with chainsaws, but it seemed that something as tiny as a faulty tyre valve had sent them into oblivion. Her work was a constant reminder that every day, and without notice, life was snatched away from even the fittest and healthiest. And where did they go, these poor souls catapulted into the afterlife with a mouthful of flame-grilled and onions? To think it could be as simple as switching out the lights would be comforting, but she couldn't believe that for a moment.
