The Disappeared (19 page)

'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 with 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 of 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
.