The Disappeared jc-2

by M. R. Hall

  Too much grumbling and protest, Jenny dragged Ross from his bed at seven and dropped him at a cafe near the sixth- form college, still groaning, before eight. She had planned to apologize for her outburst the previous evening, but he had insisted on sleeping for the entire forty-minute journey. It was becoming a pattern: during their increasingly rare moments together he would do anything but communicate with her.

  Sarah Levin's home address, gleaned from a sequence of early-morning phone calls to obstructive university officials, was a second-floor apartment in a large Victorian terraced house close to Bristol Downs: an expensive piece of property for a young woman. The label next to the doorbell said Spencer-Levin, and it was a man's voice that came over the intercom.

  Jenny announced herself and said that she needed to speak to Dr Levin immediately.

  'She's in the shower. And she's got a class at nine,' he said, with the self-important tone she associated with corporate lawyers or investment bankers.

  Irritable following her bad night, Jenny said, 'Didn't I make myself clear? I'm a coroner conducting an official inquiry.'

  There was a brief pause.

  'Don't you have to have a warrant or something?'

  'No. Now are you going to help me out or make this difficult?'

  She heard him curse. The buzzer sounded angrily.

  He didn't look like a lawyer or any sort of professional for that matter. He was wearing a T-shirt under a canvas jacket and trainers. His shoulder-length hair was tweaked and gelled and his jeans slung just-so across hips that were starting to fill out. Advertising or TV, Jenny guessed, a dress-down business that seems like a good idea when you're twenty-one but becomes embarrassing by forty. Spencer - she assumed that was his surname and he didn't have the manners to introduce himself - showed her into an open-plan kitchen- diner. It was a self-consciously stark affair: a polished wood floor and everything white, a single abstract print on the wall.

  'I've got to go. She'll be out in a minute.'

  He picked up a designer shoulder bag and headed out to ply his uncertain trade.

  Sarah Levin came in towelling her long blonde hair. She was tall and slim, effortlessly attractive in a way Jenny could only describe as refined. Spencer had struck exceptionally lucky.

  'Hi. What can I do for you?' she said, guardedly. 'It's Mrs Cooper, isn't it?'

  'Yes. Sorry to disturb you at home,' Jenny said, aware Sarah Levin's arresting beauty had temporarily distracted her. 'There are a few questions I'd like to ask you . . .'

  'Your office called the other day. I was told the inquest had been adjourned.'

  'Only until next week. I'm trying to fill in some detail on Nazim Jamal's first term at Bristol. I understand you and he were both studying physics?'

  'We were.' She placed the towel on the counter and pushed her hair back from her face. It reached nearly down to her waist.

  'Did you talk? Were you friends?'

  'Not particularly. Can I get you some coffee?'

  'No thanks. You go ahead.'

  Sarah flicked the switch on an electric espresso maker and fetched a stylish white cup and saucer from a glass-fronted cupboard. Jenny watched for a moment, sensing her tension. Not particularly. What did that mean?

  Jenny said, 'His mother died yesterday.'

  'Oh . . .' Sarah turned, unscrewing a jar of coffee, 'I'm sorry.'

  'I don't suppose you ever met her?'

  'No.'

  'She told me that she suspected Nazim had become friendly with a girl towards the end of that first term.'

  'I can't say I remember.'

  'So you were close enough that you'd have noticed?'

  'Not really . . . Obviously I've thought more about him since than I did at the time.' She leaned back against the counter waiting for the coffee maker to heat up. She seemed uncomfortable, on edge.

  'Did you ever call Nazim on his mobile?'

  She shook her head. 'I don't think so.'

  'Mrs Jamal answered a call on his phone that December. It was a girl - well spoken, English. She acted as if she'd been caught out, as if she knew Nazim's mother wouldn't approve. Any idea who she might have been?'

  'Sounds like half the girls at Bristol. Sorry. Not a clue.'

  'How close to him were you?'

  'We went to the same lectures and seminars. We partnered up in a few practicals. He was just one of the crowd, not a friend of mine, especially ... or of anyone's for that matter. He was pretty determined to set himself apart, as far as I remember.'

  'Because of his faith?'

  'The Muslim boys tended to hang out together. Still do.' She turned round to check the machine.

  Jenny said, 'So he was in your class, he set himself up as religious, separate - wouldn't you find it odd that he had a white girlfriend?'

  'Did his mother see her? There were plenty of Muslim girls who spoke without an Asian accent.' She pressed a button that noisily filled her cup. 'I hardly knew him, but people like me weren't exactly going to throw themselves at a guy with a beard and whatever you call those clothes.'

  Jenny watched her tap the spent grains into the waste disposal and wipe up the drips on the counter, thinking she didn't look much like a physicist. Back in her student days the scientists had been mostly lank-haired guys with bad skin. The few women among them were the kind that always looked as if they were about to set off on a hiking trip.

  Jenny said, 'What's your specialism, if you don't mind my asking?'

  'Particle physics, theoretical stuff. Looking for new forms of energy - that's the Holy Grail.'

  'Must be quite a man's world.'

  'My family were all scientists. I never thought of it that way.'

  But I bet you like the attention, Jenny thought unkindly.

  'You gave a statement to the police after Nazim and the other boy disappeared,' Jenny prompted. 'You said you'd once heard him in the canteen talking about "brothers" who'd gone to Afghanistan.'

  'That's right. . . He was with a group of friends. It seemed like a bit of bravado at the time. I only heard snatches - boys talking about how cool it would be to fire guns and kill people, that sort of thing. They were laughing, showing off to each other.'

  'You don't remember anything more specific?'

  'If I had, I would have told the police.' She sipped her coffee with a steady hand. 'It was a hell of a long time ago.'

  'No gossip around the department? Rumours, speculation?'

  'No.' Sarah Levin frowned and shook her pretty head. 'It seems just as weird now as it did then. He just. . . vanished.'

  Alison was in one of her tense, frosty moods, which had been become an increasingly regular feature in recent weeks. Annoyed and refusing to say why, she bustled noisily around her office and banged the cupboard doors in the kitchenette. Jenny had put them down to menopausal mood swings or the usual tussles with her husband - and doubtless the issue with her daughter was part of it - but this morning's atmosphere was unusually thick. The more Jenny tried to ignore her, the heavier Alison's footsteps became. Reading through the latest batch of post-mortem reports she tolerated it for nearly an hour. She was switching her attention to the list of black Toyotas when Alison entered without knocking and dumped a pile of mail on top of the document she was reading.

  'Your post. And some of yesterday's, too.'

  Holding her temper, Jenny said, 'Is something the matter?'

  'I'm sorry, Mrs Cooper?'

  'You seem out of sorts.'

  Alison forced a tight, patient smile, 'I'll be out of your hair in a minute. I've arranged to take a statement from Mr Madog.'

  The game was following its usual pattern: Alison would repeatedly deny anything was wrong until finally, as if she were conceding only to satisfy some irrational need of Jenny's, she would tell her what it was.

  'I'll get through all the outstanding files this weekend,' Jenny said. 'If there are consultants at the Vale hassling you for decisions you can tell them Monday at the latest.'

  'Last t
ime I checked we were no more behind than normal.'

  'Then is there something I've overlooked?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Anything I've done?'

  Alison's frown hardened.

  Jenny said, 'I sense I'm getting warmer.'

  Alison sighed. 'It's not for me to tell you how to do your job, Mrs Cooper, but I do sometimes get a little tired of being piggy in the middle.'

  'Between whom, exactly?' Jenny said.

  'I had Dave Pironi calling me at home last night asking what a coroner was doing interfering with a police investigation.'

  'Mrs Jamal's death impacts on my inquest.'

  'It's not just him. Gillian Golder has phoned more than once this week demanding to know what on earth is going on during this adjournment.'

  'It's none of her business . . . Why didn't you just put her through to me?'

  Alison gave her a look which said: isn't it obvious?

  'She's asking you to spy on me for her?'

  'It wasn't expressed in quite those terms.'

  'I'll deal with her,' Jenny said.

  'That puts me in a rather awkward situation.'

  'I won't mention your name.'

  Alison looked doubtful.

  'Honestly. Trust me. Anything else?'

  Alison sucked in her cheeks and agitatedly flicked some imaginary fluff from her lapel. 'You know I wouldn't normally say anything like this . . .'

  'Hello? Anybody home?' an unmistakable voice - McAvoy's - called through from the outer office.

  Alison flashed Jenny an accusing look. 'What's he doing here?'

  Jenny shrugged. 'I've no idea.' She got up from her desk.

  Alison stepped between her and the door. 'Please, Mrs Cooper - let me see to this. I told you you shouldn't have anything to do with that man.'

  'He's come up with the only new lead we've got.'

  'You can't trust him. He's poison. I sat in on his interviews.'

  There was a knock on the office door.

  'Mrs Cooper?'

  Jenny said, 'Hold on a moment.' She turned to Alison. 'At least let me see what he wants.'

  She stepped past and out into reception. McAvoy was standing in the waiting area idly leafing through Alison's church newsletter.

  'Mr McAvoy—'

  'Sorry to arrive unannounced,' he said, with a mock formality imitating hers. 'I wonder if we might have a quick word about Mrs Jamal.'

  Alison came to Jenny's shoulder. 'I really wouldn't advise it, Mrs Cooper. Mr McAvoy is a witness. You don't want to run the risk of tainting your inquest.'

  'Good to see you again, Mrs Trent,' McAvoy said, with more than a hint of irony. 'It's been a fair wee while.'

  Alison took a step forward, squaring up like the detective she had once been. 'You should know that Mr McAvoy was imprisoned for perverting the course of justice. He arranged a false alibi in a violent armed-robbery case - and that was just the time he got caught.'

  McAvoy smiled and tossed the newsletter back on the table. 'I've heard that your old boss Dave Pironi claims to have found Jesus. In my humble opinion it may be a little too late. He was one of the dirtiest, most corrupt policemen I ever met. He sent that wee lassie to me, and I think you know that.'

  Alison said, 'See what you're dealing with?'

  McAvoy said, 'Did you ever ask yourself why my office happened to be bugged on that day? Or why, when any sane person wouldn't touch CID with a shitty stick, that witness couldn't do enough to help them?'

  Jenny said, 'Can we stop this now, please?' She turned to McAvoy. 'Should you really be here?'

  McAvoy said, 'This case has already cost me my liberty and career—'

  Alison gave a dismissive grunt.

  He ignored her and continued. 'And if you remember, it was immediately I got on the trail of that Toyota eight years ago that your officer and her colleagues fingered me.'

  'That was nothing to do with it,' Alison said.

  'With respect,' McAvoy replied, raising his voice, 'as a DS you wouldn't have had a fucking clue, Mrs Trent. Pironi and whoever was working him put me away to stop that car ever being identified. And then this call the other day - the guy asking what did I know, and threatening to put me in a casket. And the call before I went down, the American with the same question: what did I know?' He looked at Alison. 'He makes this crap up for a living, that's what you're thinking. But what about Mrs Jamal? And look who's in charge again.'

  'Her flat's on his patch,' Alison said.

  'And how long's he been there? Three months I heard. Transferred about the same time she lodged her application to have her son declared dead. Now I don't like to accuse a fellow believer of a mortal sin, but it does start to make you wonder.'

  'He had nothing to do with Mrs Jamal's death,' Alison snapped.

  'I'm sure you're an intelligent woman, Mrs Trent, but even an ex-copper should have learned that evil bastards don't always go around in black hats.' He nodded to the newsletter he'd dropped on the table. 'I couldn't help noticing that you and he get a mention in the church news there —’

  Alison marched across the room, snatched her coat from the peg and thumped out of the office.

  McAvoy picked up the newsletter, turned to an inside page and handed it to Jenny. 'Adult baptism's a wonderful thing, but it kind of takes the shine off . . .'

  He pointed to the notices section. Mrs Alison Trent was listed as one of five new members of the Body of Christ baptized the previous Sunday. She had two sponsors - the adult equivalent of godparents - one of whom was named as Mr David Pironi.

  McAvoy said, 'It's pretty low, even by his standards. How'd he pull that off? She hasn't got a terminal illness or something, has she?'

  'No,' Jenny said, 'just some family troubles.'

  They talked in Jenny's office. McAvoy said a long-running trial he was involved with had been adjourned for the day because the judge had to conduct an all-day sentencing hearing: eight members of a paedophile ring each claiming they were tricked into it by the others. Thinking about Mrs Jamal had kept him awake most of the night. It was deep in the small hours, when he was running low on cigarettes, that he had started to put the pieces together. He'd called an old contact inside the police who'd told him about Pironi's recent transfer to New Bridewell. The same detective had also tipped him off about Pironi's church-going - he'd been at it since his wife died, apparently, still fitting up and whoring on weekdays like he always had, but born again afresh every Sunday.

  Speaking with McAvoy like this, businesslike, across a desk, Jenny's doubts about him began to recede. He was measured, logical and always gave a self-aware smile after he'd lapsed into hyperbole. She didn't feel he was pulling conspiracies from the air: like her, he was simply trying to arrange the pieces into an order that made sense. After she had gone with him to see Madog, Jenny had been almost convinced by Alison's insistence that he was inventing evidence to further his own agenda and prise his way back into the solicitors' profession. Looking him in the eye, she couldn't believe it. How did Alison's theory fit with Mrs Jamal's death? Would she argue that McAvoy was involved, that he'd persecuted her with late-night phone calls? And for what - merely to discredit Pironi?

  No. The man now leaning towards her open window smoking a cigarette was no monster. He was too edgy, too weathered and grooved by life, too obviously worn down by conscience to be a psychopath of the kind Alison imagined. Ruthless people had charm; McAvoy had warmth. It was of an erratic and slightly hazardous kind, a naked flame which guttered then flared, but she could feel it burning in him nonetheless. She was convinced that his passion for justice, or his brand of it at least, was real and heartfelt.

  Jenny showed him the list of Toyotas Alison had produced and the ones she had circled. He ran through them with the criminal lawyer's eye. If you were going to spirit someone away, you wouldn't do it in a privately registered car, he said. You'd most likely hire a vehicle using false documents, a trail you could cover. On the list there were only two ca
rs registered to hire companies. One was in Cwmbran, south Wales, the other was thirty miles to the north in the small city of Hereford on the English side of the border.

  Jenny reached for the phone, intending to call them.

  McAvoy said, 'Do you think that's a good idea? You never know who's listening.'

  Jenny said, 'You're right. I'll pay them a visit.'

  It was time to draw the meeting to a close. McAvoy met her gaze as she tried to find a tactful way of saying so.

  Before she spoke, he said, 'If I didn't want to upset your officer any more I'd ask if I could come along for the ride.'

  'You think I need my hand held?'

  'Mrs Jamal could have done with it.'

  Jenny tried not to let the shudder she felt pass through her show on her face.

  Chapter 16

  McAvoy smoked and dozed during the hour-long journey to the former coal-mining town of Cwmbran. Once or twice Jenny tried to make conversation, but he barely responded. With eyes half-closed, he stared out at the grey landscape, the ever-present drizzle turning to sleet as they headed deeper into south Wales.

  She asked if there was something on his mind. He responded with a moody and disconcerting 'Mmm.' His mood was impenetrable.

  The car-rental franchise was on the edge of town, on an industrial estate in sight of evenly sloped hills which had been fashioned from the slag heaps formed when the former mines turned the earth inside out. McAvoy woke as she pulled up, and followed her inside. There were no customers, only a fleshy desk clerk chewing a sandwich. He wiped crumbs from his mouth as they came through the door. McAvoy ignored his corporate hello and fetched himself a free cup of coffee from the machine while Jenny dealt with business.

  She produced one of her calling cards and told the clerk she needed to know who, if anyone, was renting the Toyota on the night of 28 June 2002. The clerk said he didn't have access to those kind of records. It was a matter for head office in Cardiff. He searched his computer for the right number to call and said he didn't hold out much hope - the company only kept their vehicles for a year, two at the most.