The Disappeared

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