The Disappeared (24 page)

'It
won't take a minute.'

'I
can't—'

'Do
you know what a coroner is?' Jenny said. 'You can talk to me now or receive a
summons to come to court. Your choice.'

The
assistant glanced nervously through the shop window at a colleague who was busy
serving a customer. 'I can't talk here.'

'No
problem. We'll go to my car.'

His
name was Fazad, one of Mr Hassan's many nephews. He was eleven when Rafi went
missing and said the family hardly mentioned him after that. He had never heard
anything about his cousin's disappearance other than the official explanation
that he'd gone abroad, nor had he ever been aware of any of his relations
speculating where he had gone to, or with whom. The subject was off-limits, he
said, as if it were somehow shameful. He remembered how as a kid Rafi was
always held up as the model student, the kind of young man he and his other
cousins should aspire to be.

Jenny
asked if he knew what had happened during the Christmas vacation.

A
queasy look came over Fazad's face. 'I don't want to disrespect my uncle. He's
my boss, too.'

'Just
between us,' Jenny said. 'It won't go any further.'

With
another nervous glance into the shop, Fazad said, 'Rafi gave me a ride in his
car when he came back from college, it was a little Audi A3. A few years old
but tidy. I asked did his dad buy it for him. He said no, he'd bought it
himself with his savings, but he didn't pay insurance or register it in his
name because those were all kafir rules that didn't apply to Muslims.'

'Kafirs
are non-believers, right?'

'Yeah
... I thought it sounded kind of cool, but looking back it was strange. He had
the beard and the prayer cap, but he was driving like a maniac, seeing how many
cameras could flash him because he wouldn't get a ticket.'

'What
did his father say?'

'That's
what the fight was about.'

'Fight?'

'It's
what I heard from my cousins - my uncle didn't like the way he was driving and
took the keys away. Rafi beat him up so bad he broke his jaw and busted three
of his ribs. His two older brothers took the car down the road that afternoon
and set fire to it . . . That was the end of Rafi's car.'

Anna
Rose Crosby was officially a missing person. Her picture was on page two of the
Post, together with an 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?'

'The
organization. The cause of bringing into existence a global caliphate. It's not
a conventional political party working for the short term, it sees itself as
doing God's will over as many generations as it takes. It has a three-stage
plan: to establish cells and networks of members, to build opinion amongst the
Muslim population in favour of an Islamic state, and finally to infiltrate the
institutions and governments of target countries to effect a revolution from
within.'

Jenny
said, 'One thing that puzzles me is why young men, let alone women, are drawn
to these ideas. I mean, who'd want to live in Iran?'

'We
all fantasize about removing the mess from our lives, cutting a swathe through
the chaos and replacing it with certainties,' Miah said. 'What more fearful
time is there in life than the threshold of adulthood? If someone were to offer
you a free pass to status and security and make you feel morally superior into
the bargain, it would be hard to resist, would it not? And if you already
believe yourself to be a stranger in your own land it would become almost
impossible not to be seduced: all men are conquerors by instinct, it's in our
DNA. One's own seed must prevail. All our complex Western political
institutions have evolved out of the need to check such impulses.'

'Both
these boys came from good families. Integrated, established, English-speaking—'

'The
parents were under no illusions about who they were - outsiders. It's their
offspring, neither outsiders or insiders who have to fight for their identity.'

'Did
you see that in Rafi Hassan?'

Having
had his fill of the snowdrops, Miah resumed his meander. 'I had very little to
do with him. I make clear to Asian students that I'm there for them if they
need me, but he never approached me privately.'

Jenny
tried to read him. There was something coded in his careful manner, a vague
sense that he was inviting a conclusion that he wasn't prepared to spell out.

'I
don't know if you've read about my inquest,' Jenny said. 'I've granted rights
of audience to an outfit called the British Society for Islamic Change. I think
Anwar Ali's involved with them.'

Miah
nodded. 'Essentially the same organization as Hizbut-Tahrir, or a branch of it.
They're very clever. They seduce the government into believing they're
moderates providing for the needs of disaffected Asian youth, and inculcate
themselves into the Establishment. It becomes racist to question them. But the
philosophy remains the same: Islam is the one and only truth and it must
prevail.' He gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes suddenly those of an
older man, telling the story of long years of fruitless struggle. 'We are at a
bad juncture in history, Mrs Cooper. Life has become too fraught and complex
for most of us to understand our place in it. The forces of liberal progression
offer only more uncertainty, more competition, more casualties. Is it any
wonder that fundamentalists emerge, saying we should drop anchor and stop the
ship before it dashes on the rocks?'