The Disappeared

fathom what it was. 'What issue?' she said.

'Commitment,' Steve said. 'What I stand for. What I feel.'

'I see.'

'I need to speak to you, Jenny. There's something you should know.'

'Steve, I'm very tired . . .'

'Jenny-'

'David took Ross away.'

'Oh. You're by yourself?'

'I'm no good to you right now. Don't come over ... I need to sleep.'

'Jenny

'Please, don't.' She set down the receiver and felt only relief.

She was tempted to destroy her journal, to throw it into the grate and reduce it to ashes. She carried it from her study to the hearth and reached for the matches, but was seized by an overwhelming curiosity to read her last entry, to glimpse into the madness that had brought the world crashing around her ears.

I don't know what happened tonight. That man ... he does something to me. I don't even find him attractive -he's so tired and used up. But when he looks in my eyes I know he's not afraid of anything. What does it mean? Why him? Why now? It's as if

She had a partial recollection of writing it, of sitting at her study desk seized with a sense of profundity which she couldn't transfer to the page. A nervous tap at the door. Ross had come in and told her it was late. She'd clasped the journal to her chest as he urged her up the stairs . . . Her shoulder had grazed the wall, she'd faltered, the climb too steep. And there her memory faded to black.

She snapped the notebook shut with a pang of self-disgust, but could only stare at the matches. She could hear Dr Travis back in the early days, warning her to rein in her imagination and not to let instability tempt her into believing nonsense, or finding connections where none existed. 'Stick to terra firma,' he had said, 'even the tiniest piece of land is better than all at sea.' For the recent casualty it was sound advice, but there had to be a time to move on, to strike out to new territory.

It's as if.. . It came to her now. She reached for a pen, turned back to the page and completed the sentence: . . . he's come to tell me something I need to know.

It was nearly midnight. She took the journal upstairs and hid it in her special drawer. As she climbed into bed and huddled against the cold, she realized that something had changed. For the first time in hours she felt a flicker of sensation, of fear and anger, and a hint, the faintest suggestion of excitement.

Chapter 20

She dressed in the black two-piece she normally reserved for formal occasions: an ivory silk blouse, a plain silver necklace and narrow, elegant shoes that squeezed her toes, dabbed perfume on her wrists and put on her best black cashmere coat. She swallowed a Xanax, checked her makeup and set out along the valley through drifting mist.

As she cleared the Severn Bridge she called the office number, knowing Alison would not yet have arrived, and left a message saying that she had a stop to make on her way in. She switched off the phone and tossed it into her bag. She drove past her usual exit, continued on to the next and headed towards the city centre and the Law Courts.

Outside on the steps tired lawyers and a cluster of slouching, hooded young men with their sulking, pinched- faced girlfriends smoked cigarettes and avoided each others' eyes. She picked her way through them, drawing stares, and pushed through the doors into the atrium, thankful that no one had spat at her. She cleared the security check and scanned the noisy crush of lawyers, clients, witnesses and court ushers. If it had been a County Court every other face would have been familiar, but she had never practised criminal law and the Crown Court - where criminal cases were tried - was an alien and daunting world to her.

She skirted through the crowd and looked into the steamy, crowded cafeteria but couldn't see McAvoy's face. She would have glanced into the solicitors' room but shyness held her back. Instead, she stood in line at the reception desk until, after a ten-minute wait, the heavy-set girl behind the desk came off the phone for long enough to bark out an announcement over the tannoy: 'Would Mr McAvoy of O'Donnagh and Drew please come to reception immediately.'

She hovered self-consciously by the desk, watching the barristers and their clients arguing and horse-trading. There was an atmosphere of barely suppressed anger: the air was filled with expletives and the police officers who passed through walked quickly, eyes fixed on the ground. Near to where she was standing a young woman suddenly wailed then swore violently at a lawyer who had delivered bad news. Two other girls held her back as she lashed out at him. She struggled, wrenched free and had dug her nails into his face before a court usher and an elderly constable came to the man's rescue. He stood dabbing incredulously at his bleeding cheek with a crumpled handkerchief as his ungrateful client was dragged away.

'It wouldn't be you taking an honest man from his work, Mrs Cooper?'

She looked round from the commotion to see McAvoy approaching, carrying an untidy bundle of papers under his arm.

'I've a man downstairs with his life in my hands - the barrister's proving himself a useless shite - so I can't be long.'

'Is there somewhere we can talk in private?' she said. 'A conference room?'

'At this time of the morning? You'll be lucky.'

'There's a cafe over the road.'

'I've a bail application in ten minutes. Fella'll have my guts on the floor if we don't spring him - he's got a plane to catch at lunchtime.' He glanced around the atrium then motioned her to follow him. 'Let's see what we can do.'

Jenny followed him through the shifting crowd that smelled of poor homes and stale sweat and into a small, empty courtroom. The advocates' benches were piled high with thick files and textbooks, suggesting a long-running trial was in progress.

McAvoy glanced up at the clock above the door. 'We've got five minutes.'

She'd prepared a speech which she'd spent the entire journey into town reciting. She was Her Majesty's Coroner, she was going to say, a judicial officer charged with a grave and serious task, and he had not only interrupted her investigation, he had misled her. He had failed to tell her that eight years ago he had discovered facts about Nazim Jamal that could have a material bearing on the case. If he didn't explain himself he would be fortunate not be charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice for a second time in his dubious career.

She steeled herself, but was torn from her moorings by a rush of anger. 'Who the hell do you think you are, McAvoy? What the fuck are you playing at? You spoke to Brightman eight years ago. You knew about Sarah Levin and Nazim.'

The smile faded. He glanced to the door, then looked back at her with a convict's eyes.

'There's nothing to know.'

'He saw them together. This teenage jihadi was screwing a white girl who was the only person to say anything about him going abroad.' She felt her face glowing with rage.

McAvoy shrugged. 'The boy was a hypocrite, or he got lucky. What of it? Hadn't his poor mother suffered enough? She was a very conservative woman.'

'His mother's dead.''

'I'm as shocked as you are.'

She took a step towards him. 'Why did you lie to me?'

'I told you. He was all she had. Why not let her believe he was the only woman he'd ever loved?'

'You bastard.'