The Disappeared (37 page)

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.

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
.'

She
went to hit him. McAvoy dropped his papers, caught her wrist and gripped it
hard.

'Are
you crazy?'

'Fuck
you.'

As
if by reflex, she grabbed a ballpoint from the desk to her right, swung her arm
wildly and stabbed it hard into the side of his shoulder. McAvoy exclaimed in
pain, releasing her wrist as he clutched at his shoulder.

'
Je-sus
.'

Jenny
stepped backwards, breathing hard, the pen still gripped tight in her left
hand. McAvoy looked up at her, jaw clenched. He flicked out a hand, smacking
her smartly across the face and sending her tumbling back against the rail of
the dock. She caught hold of it and pulled herself upright, more stunned than
hurt. She turned to see him straightening, catching his breath. She flinched,
expecting another blow, but he stooped and gathered his scattered papers from
the floor.

Holding
a hand to her stinging cheek, she watched him sifting and checking the disordered
documents as if she wasn't there, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. There
was something obsessive, pathetic almost, in the way he fussed over them.

'I
shocked you, didn't I?' Jenny said, feeling a pulse of adrenalin coursing
through her veins. 'You weren't expecting that.'

'I
think you shocked yourself,' he said, without looking up.

'I
knew you'd be an unrepentant liar.'

'You
know what you are? A danger to yourself.'

'And
what are you? A coward? Are you frightened I'm going to have you put in jail?'

McAvoy
shuffled his papers against the surface of the desk and turned to face her.
'And why would you do that?'

'For
trying to hijack my inquest. Trying to use it to reinstate your tawdry career.
I can't imagine how humiliating it must be going from big-shot partner to
outdoor clerk.'

'At
least I never cracked in court,' he said. 'No one could ever say I flinched.'

Jenny
had wondered when he would reveal the fact he'd dug the dirt and use her past
against her. It was a relief. She could see him for what he was now.

'You
lied with a straight face - is that the best you can say about yourself?'

'I've
never lied to you. I tried to push you towards the truth.'

'Oh,
really?'

'I
gave you leads, evidence you wouldn't have got anywhere else. I got you Madog
and Tathum.'

'How
can I trust you? How do I know Madog is for real? He could just be another one
you've bought.'

'You're
the coroner, Mrs Cooper. Work it out. I've got a hearing to get to.'

As
he stepped past her, Jenny said, 'You look terrified.'

He
paused at the door and looked back at her. 'Maybe if you'd been a stronger
woman I might have found a little more courage, but you're really quite a
fragile flower, aren't you, Jenny? Damaged, I'd say. So why don't you let
yourself off the hook. You're out of your depth.'

'You're
full of shit.'

McAvoy
said, 'I'm sorry. I made a mistake upsetting you. And as you said, Mrs Jamal's
gone, so what does it matter any more?' He smiled faintly and turned to go.

Jenny
said, 'You still haven't explained why you hid things from me.'

He
hesitated a second time, then dipped his head. He addressed his quiet words to
the door. 'I drink, Jenny. It eases my burden but it makes me trust others even
less than myself. I look at people I've known for years and they change before
my eyes.'

'What
were you
thinking
? What do you want from me?'

'It's
of no interest to you.'

'Try
me.'

He
shook his head.

'Tell
me, Alec. Let
yourself
off the hook.'

A
pause. 'Proof, I suppose . . .'

'Of
what?'

'That
He hasn't completely got me yet.'

'Who?'

'The
author of all this sadness.'

'You're
not making sense.'

'No
. . .' He glanced back at her briefly with pale, red- rimmed eyes. 'What
happened at her flat? I heard there were men in white suits there all weekend.'

She
hesitated. 'Something was found on her body, a substance.'

'You
trust them? Who knows what dirty tricks they'd play. She was a very
inconvenient woman, Mrs Jamal.'

'I'm
not sure who to trust.'

He
nodded with a heavy sadness. 'Maybe you are better off out of it. If they'll
bury the truth, they won't worry about burying you.'

He
pushed out into a busy corridor.

'Alec
— ' Jenny called out after him, but he was gone.

McAvoy's
expression lodged behind her eyes like a vision of a drowning man. She was left
with the unsettling feeling that she had got barely to the threshold of
something; that he had darker secrets to tell but had spared her for fear of
dragging her down with him. She had gone to him hoping to exorcise one ghost,
but had come away pursued by several. She should have felt shock or humiliation
at her behaviour - no better than the girl lashing out at her lawyer - but the
sense of disjuncture she felt was overwhelming. Her mind, body and emotions
seemed to occupy three separate spheres that were tugging apart.

Alison
looked up from her desk as she entered and spoke in an urgent whisper.

'There
you are, Mrs Cooper. Mr Moreton's here to see you. I sent him through.'

'Moreton?
What does he want?'

'He
wouldn't say. He's been waiting nearly an hour.' There was a definite note of
censure in her voice.

'I
was busy.'

'Wait
till you see what's come in over the weekend.' Alison pointed to a thick pile
of fresh death reports.