The Disappeared

'No,' the girl said, sensing danger. 'He's out of the office today, I'm afraid.'

'Tomorrow?'

'I think he may be back.' The second lie was less assured than the first.

Jenny reached into her coat pocket and brought out the envelope containing the summons and a form of receipt.

'This is what's called 'personal service'. This is a witness summons for him to attend my inquest tomorrow. I've even included the taxi fare - it's a legal requirement. If he really can't attend he can contact my office today to make further arrangements. If I could just ask you to sign the receipt?'

'Well, I—'

Jenny pre-empted her evasion. 'If you don't, you'll become a witness to the fact that I've served the document -' Jenny checked her watch - 'at eight forty-two a.m. on Tuesday, 9 February, and you'll be coming to court with or without him.'

She passed the girl a pen. She looked at it for a moment, then took it and hurriedly scribbled her signature on the receipt. It was illegible.

'If you could print it as well.'

She did as she was told, reddening with either anger or embarrassment, Jenny couldn't tell. As she completed the task, Jenny said, 'One last thing, I just need to confirm the up-to-date address for your employee, Mr Christopher Tathum.'

The girl's eyes flicked uncertainly to her computer.

'You're going to tell me you can't give out private addresses, right?'

'Yes,' the girl stammered.

'Technically I could force you, but let's do it this way - I'll tell you what it is, you tell me if I'm wrong.'

Jenny repeated Tathum's address. The girl hesitated for a moment, then tapped on her keyboard. Sideways on, Jenny saw a list of addresses scroll up.

'Anything to say?' Jenny said.

She shook her head.

'Good. You'll make sure Colonel Maitland gets his letter this morning, won't you?'

Jenny drove back to Bristol with a weight lifted from her shoulders. McAvoy hadn't lied to her. Tathum was employed by Maitland and if needs be she had a witness who could be persuaded to confirm it. There were many obstacles to be overcome in court, but for the first time in days she felt she was standing on something approaching solid ground. She trusted McAvoy again, and was beginning to trust herself.

She arrived at her office feeling big enough to deal with Alison and ready to heal the jagged edges. Since her painful faux pas the previous day they'd hardly spoken, except to exchange a few words as Jenny had hurried out to her emergency appointment with Dr Allen. She braced herself for a frosty reception and prepared a conciliatory speech.

'Good morning, Mrs Cooper,' Alison said with pointed formality as Jenny entered.

She noticed the room was unnaturally tidy: the magazines on the table were neatly arranged, there were fresh flowers in a vase, the inspirational messages had been removed. It felt . . . sanitized.

'Good morning, Alison,' Jenny said with a note of contrition and took her mail - stacked in size order - from the tray on her desk.

'You got to your son on time, did you?'

It took Jenny a moment to recall the excuse she'd muttered as she bolted from the office an hour earlier than usual.

'Yes, thank you. Just.'

She flicked through the envelopes bracing herself to make an apology. If she left it any longer it would become impossible: they would pass the whole day in frigid silence.

'Look, Alison, I'm sorry for what I said yesterday ... I had no business mentioning your daughter, or passing judgement on your personal life. I was angry with Simon Moreton, not with you. He had no right to ask for confidential information.'

'Apology accepted, Mrs Cooper,' Alison said, her eyes fixed firmly em the desk.

'You didn't have to take the cards down.'

'They're not appropriate in the workplace. They wouldn't be tolerated in the police. Not nowadays.'

'Whatever you think best.'

There was an awkward silence, neither sure how to end their exchange.

'I know I fly off the handle sometimes, but we both know I wouldn't get very far without you.'

Jenny offered a smile. Alison's jaw remained rigid with tension.

'I may have made a fool of myself over Harry Marshall,' Alison said, referring to the former coroner, her ex- boss, 'but it's different with David. Not that there's anything improper between us,' she added hurriedly. 'I've seen him go through some of the most trying situations a person can face. He's not a liar, Mrs Cooper. He's doing his duty.'

'I respect that, of course, but the coroner's duty is different from a policeman's. No one else seems to get it, but my duty, my legal duty, is to do whatever it takes to get to the truth no matter who would rather I didn't. Until the Lord Chancellor picks up the phone to tell me I'm fired, I have to keep on digging.'

Alison nodded, but without conviction. She was still a dutiful detective at heart. Legal distinctions and high ideals weren't for her. She preferred the comfort of belonging to a powerful tribe and was fearful of being out on her own. But she kept Jenny's feet on the ground, which is why they were still together after eight often turbulent months. Jenny had come to need her like a tree needs roots.

Alison said, 'There's a message from that woman at MI5. She wants you to call. I expect it's about the report from the Health Protection Agency - it came last night.' She handed Jenny a print-out of a document headed, 'Radiological Assessment'. It was stamped 'Highly Confidential'.

Jenny turned to the final paragraphs:

The caesium 137 particles taken from the address were chiefly concentrated in the fabric of an armchair. Several particles were also found in the common parts of the building and on the skin of the deceased, Mrs Amira Jamal, notably on her lower back and buttocks. It is safe and indeed logical to conclude that the deceased was contaminated through contact with the armchair in the period shortly before death. It is not possible, however, to say for how long the particles had been present on the armchair or in the building. Circumstantial evidence suggests a recent contamination: there were no traces of contamination in either the vacuum cleaner in Mrs Jamal's premises or in that used by the caretaker of the building in the common parts.

In conclusion, it is suggested that contamination occurred at some time during the days immediately preceding Mrs Jamal's death.

Alison said, 'If it's any comfort, the police haven't got a clue. They're guessing it was someone her son was mixed up with. Some of them are even saying it might have been him coming out of the woodwork. There are all sorts of wild ideas flying about.'

'On an armchair? It's as if someone who was already contaminated sat on it,' Jenny said.

'Imagine if it was Nazim,' Alison said. 'That would have shocked her - seeing him back from the grave.'

Jenny shook her head. 'No. That doesn't make any sense.' 'Why not? There's no proof he's dead. All we've got are two contradictory sightings of him alive and heading in different directions. He might even have come back to shut his mother up. They don't care about life, these jihadis - if you die a martyr's death, you and seventy of your relations get a free pass to paradise anyway.'

Jenny could tell Alison had been in the thick of the police- canteen gossip and had soaked it up. And as usual the police had concocted theories to suit their prejudices: an all-Asian affair with a matricide thrown in would absolve them entirely; no need to feel guilty for caving in to the Security Services and letting two young men vanish into thin air.

Jenny said, 'You haven't mentioned Madog's statement to anyone?'

'Of course not, Mrs Cooper,' Alison said, affronted. 'I do talk to my ex-colleagues, but I'm not indiscreet.'

'I wasn't suggesting—'