article stating that the 'brilliant young nuclear scientist' had been missing for a little over a fortnight. Her mother was described as having been tearful and desperate as she made a moving plea from the front steps of her exclusive Cheltenham home. Jenny found herself unwittingly sucked into the dark, yet somehow thrilling, fantasy the picture editor had created. The colour photograph showed Anna Rose beaming, blonde and innocent: the perfect, unsuspecting bait for a violent sexual predator.
A document landed on her desk. 'The Toyotas,' Alison said. 'Forty-three of them registered in the areas you were interested in. What do you want to do with them?'
'I'll have a look through, tick the ones I'd like you to follow up.'
'The police haven't got anywhere with those poor Africans in the refrigerated trailer. That'll be back here tomorrow needing a full inquest. I can't imagine how I'm going to manage - all the witnesses in Nigeria or wherever they came from.'
'We'll cope. Did you get a statement from Madog yet?'
Alison raised her eyebrows.
'Well, could you do it today?' Jenny said, straining to remain calm.
'I can try, but if you remember I've got a meeting today - I did tell you.'
'You did?'
'Last week. It's a church event.'
'Oh—'
Alison said, 'Don't worry, I'm not deserting you. I'll be back by two.'
Curiosity got the better of her. Once Alison had left the room, Jenny clicked onto a search engine and typed in New Dawn Evangelical Church, Bristol. She followed the link and brought up an expensively produced website complete with a news ticker: 'Over four hundred attend family Eucharist - a new record!' The church proclaimed itself ordained by the Holy Spirit to carry God's word to the people of Bristol. Beneath his grinning photograph, Pastor Matt Mitchell wrote that New Dawn had been newly anointed to perform the ministry of healing. A number of miracles had taken place in recent months: a heroin addict had been made clean, a woman with multiple sclerosis had risen from her wheelchair, a child with leukaemia was in remission and a teenage schizophrenic had been completely cured. Dedicated healing services were being held every Sunday evening and Thursday lunchtime.
At the foot of Pastor Matt's inspiring message was a link to a page on which church members were invited to leave their prayer requests. Jenny clicked. One of the posts leaped out at her the instant the page appeared. It read: 'Please pray for my daughter, who has fallen into a 'relationship' with a woman. Her father and I love her very much.'
She heard Alison's footsteps on the other side of the door and fumbled with her mouse to collapse the page. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as her officer reappeared in the doorway.
'Rafi Hassan's law tutor emailed back,' Alison said. 'He's on study leave. He can see you at one.'
Jenny was pulling on her coat and heading out for her appointment at the campus when the phone on Alison's desk rang. She craned round to glance at the caller display on the sleek new console: Mrs Jamal. Jenny hovered in an agony of indecision, struggling with her conscience. Alison had already left for church, so it was down to her. Resolving to make it quick, she was reaching for the receiver when her mobile chimed. An instinctive reflex made her answer it first.
'Hello?'
'Mrs Cooper,' a familiar voice said. 'I was wondering how you were getting on looking for that car.' It was McAvoy.
'Oh, hi,' Jenny said, surprised at the flutter she felt on hearing his voice.
The landline stopped ringing. Relieved, Jenny went out into the hall and locked the door behind her, fielding the call on the move. Mrs Jamal could leave a message.
'We've gathered a list of possibles,' she said.
'Well done. I was worried the cops would stymie you.'
'I've got ways round them.'
'I'd like to hear.'
'Trade secret, I'm afraid.' God, what did she sound like?
As she stepped out onto the pavement she dimly heard the office phone start ringing again: Mrs Jamal refusing to take no for an answer.
McAvoy said, 'I was wondering if you might let me buy you that drink later, toss around a few ideas.'
'Oh? What drink was that?' She couldn't help herself. She was flirting with him like a simpering schoolgirl.
'The coffee you didn't have time for, but come evening it'll be a wee glass of something I shouldn't wonder.'
She got a grip. 'Thanks, but I really shouldn't until you've given evidence.'
'It's a bit late to stand on that rule, isn't it?'
'Alec, you know the issues — '
'I've been reading my law books, come up with a few ideas for you - like how to make those MI5 bastards cough up their files. If you get before the right High Court judge you might just swing it - there are still a few good ones left.'
'Friends of yours, are they?'
'I have my methods too.'
Jenny imagined the brown paper bag passing to the minor official in the Court Service in exchange for a favourable listing. McAvoy would take the credit and doubtless call in the favour. And what would he want in return? she wondered.
She knew she should put him off, have nothing to do with him until after the inquest, but couldn't summon the words to turn him down. Ignoring the chorus of warning voices in her head, she agreed to meet him at five- thirty in a wine bar by the law courts.
'I promise I'll behave myself,' he said.
Tariq Miah met Jenny outside the School of Law and took her behind the building into a formal garden - stark and bare in early February with a hint of frost still hanging in the air - but free from prying eyes. He was in his late thirties, the first threads of grey showing in his black hair and closely trimmed beard. His features were Middle Eastern: copper skin and dark eyes. From a brief glance at the faculty's website Jenny had learned that he was working his way steadily through the hierarchy. A specialist in constitutional law, he had joined as a junior research fellow in the late 1990s.
As they strolled along the narrow gravel paths, she explained that she was looking for an insight, anything to shed light on who or what Rafi Hassan and Nazim Jamal had become involved with. She mentioned Anwar Ali and the elusive mullah at the A1 Rahma mosque, Sayeed Faruq, and asked if he knew them.
'Only by reputation,' he said, speaking in the overly precise manner of academic lawyers shieldeded from the day-to-day stresses of practice.
'And what was that?'
'I heard it said the mosque was a recruiting ground for Hizb ut-Tahrir. You're familiar with that organization?'
'I've read a little, but I'm still confused. The Security Services seem to associate it with terrorism, but it claims to be peaceful.'
'It doesn't advocate violence, but individuals within it obviously do.'
'Are you thinking of anyone in particular?'
'No. It's just to say that I wouldn't be surprised if the A1 Rahma mosque acted as a conduit to others without a public profile.'
'You think it was a base for recruiters?'
'Perhaps.' He stopped to admire a bank of snowdrops. 'I would be surprised at Jamal and Hassan being assimilated so quickly, however. Hizb tends to indoctrinate new members over several years before asking them to swear an oath of allegiance.'
'Allegiance to what, exactly?'
