All she could think to write was: Things have got to change. Thinking's got me nowhere. From now on I simply go where my instincts tell me and hope I reach the other side.
Chapter 8
Ross noticed the upturn in her mood during their rushed breakfast and managed a semi-apology for his behaviour the day before. Jenny told him to forget about it, just hurry up and get ready - she had an inquest to get to. As he disappeared upstairs to gel his hair and spray on too much deodorant, she dashed to her study to swallow her pills. As the chemicals hit her bloodstream she lost the heightened sense of excitement she had woken with; her heart slowed, her limbs grew heavier and her scattered thoughts drew gradually back towards the centre. She told herself that Friday's panic attack had been a blip, a subconscious way of testing her resolve. She had seen it off and had grown stronger.
And now she had a job to do.
Alison had made limited progress working through the list of Bristol alumni from Nazim and Rafi's year. So far, only Dani James, the girl who had given a statement describing the man hurriedly leaving Manor Hall at midnight, had come forward as a witness. Dr Sarah Levin had agreed to make herself available on the second day of the inquest, but said she had nothing to add to what she had told the police at the time. All the others who had been contacted claimed to have little or no recollection of the two boys, let alone any information to shed light on their disappearance. It left Jenny with a very short list of witnesses for her opening day, but it would ease her gently into day two, when several police officers and a since retired MI5 agent named David Skene were listed to testify.
The room she'd been allocated as an office in Rushton Millennium Hall had an internal window overlooking the main meeting room, which also doubled as a gymnasium. Insofar as it was possible, Alison had arranged the furniture to resemble a court. Jenny took a perverse pleasure in looking down at the arriving lawyers who huddled together and shook their heads in disbelief at their incongruous surroundings. In the foyer there were notices advertising an over- sixties quiz night and photographs from the recent village pantomime.
As she seated herself behind the table at the head of the hall, she was pleased to see that there was only a handful of reporters in the two rows of seats which served as a press gallery. The presence of too much news media tended to frighten - or at the very least excite - witnesses to the point where they were no longer reliable. To their right sat a pool of fifteen jurors, from whom eight would be chosen. Mrs Jamal was sitting unobtrusively in the second row alongside another Asian woman, who looked as though she might be related. Both were dressed in black salwar kameez and head- scarves. The second woman held Mrs Jamal's hand tightly in her lap. A cluster of witnesses including Anwar Ali and a pretty young woman Jenny took to be Dani James sat in the front row. Tucked away discreetly in the right-hand corner of the hall behind the reporters was Alun Rhys, the young MI5 officer.
Once everyone had settled, Jenny introduced herself and invited the lawyers to do the same. Mrs Jamal was represented by Trevor Collins, a balding high street solicitor dressed in a shapeless suit which hung sadly off his narrow shoulders. He spoke in a nervous, faltering voice and gave the impression that he would much rather be spending the morning in his poky office drafting wills. A handsome and urbane criminal barrister, Fraser Havilland, whom Jenny knew to have featured in several recent high-profile inquests in London, had been briefed to represent the Chief Constable of the Bristol and Avon police force, and Martha Denton QC, a spiky, abrupt woman, who was normally to be found in the Old Bailey prosecuting terrorists, represented the Director General of the Security Services. Each barrister had assorted instructing solicitors sitting in the row immediately behind them, armed with textbooks and a battery of laptops: two hefty legal teams determined to put on a show of strength. For her part, Jenny had only a well-thumbed copy of Jervis on Coroners, a stack of fresh notebooks and the fountain pen her father had given her as a graduation present. Alison, who sat at a small desk to the right, operated the same cassette recorder that had kept the official record of Severn Vale District inquests since the early 1980s.
With the exception of Havilland, the lawyers were restless and fidgety as, assisted by Alison, Jenny called the pool of jurors forward and asked each in turn whether there was any reason why they couldn't serve. She took pity on two single mothers and released them, then selected eight from the remainder by lot. Those whose names were drawn took their places in two rows of four seats to Jenny's left. They were all white and six of them had grey hair. The one male under thirty wore grubby jeans and a hooded sweat top and already gave the impression of being bored to distraction. The youngest, a girl of nineteen or twenty, wore a bemused, uncomprehending expression that seemed to say, 'Where am I?'
Ignoring the lawyers' impatient sighs, Jenny told the jury to forget about the courtroom dramas they had seen on television and to understand that this wasn't a criminal trial. They would hear evidence about the unexplained disappearance of Nazim Jamal and his friend, Rafi Hassan. If, and only if, the evidence was sufficient to show that Nazim Jamal was dead, their task was to determine when, where and how that had happened. After thirty minutes of careful explanation she was satisfied that they had grasped the basic concepts. She asked if they had any questions. No hands went up.
Explanations complete, Mrs Jamal was making her way forward to the witness chair when the doors at the back of the hall swung open and a group of young Asian men burst in, followed by at least another half-dozen excited journalists. They had a hostile, intimidating air and made no attempt to move quietly, as those that could occupied the spare seats and the remainder lined up against the wall. The room felt suddenly cramped and oppressive. There was an atmosphere of simmering anger.
Jenny noticed Anwar Ali nod in recognition to one of the new arrivals. Alison shot her an anxious look.
'This is a public hearing,' Jenny said, trying to sound reasonable, 'but this room can only hold so many people. I'll allow everyone who's here now to remain for the rest of this session, but I may have to review the situation later.'
'May it please you, ma'am, I appear on behalf of the British Society for Islamic Change.' A Pakistani man in his early thirties approached the lawyers' table clutching a legal pad and several text books. 'Yusuf Khan. I am the society's legal representative.' He set his belongings down and handed Alison a business card. 'If you'll hear me, ma'am, I am instructed to seek the right to examine witnesses in this inquest.'
Jenny glanced at the card Alison had passed to her. Khan was a solicitor from a firm in Birmingham she had never heard of. 'On what grounds, Mr Khan?'
'Ma'am, rule twenty of the Coroner's Rules gives the coroner a wide discretion to allow any person who in your opinion is properly interested, to be represented. In this case I ask you to extend that privilege to Mr Khalid Miah, president of the society I represent. His organization has five thousand members in the UK, all of whom are young Muslim men and women aged between eighteen and thirty-five. It is the leading advocate for the community and has regular high- level meetings with politicians of all parties. It consults with the Home Office on matters of criminal justice and has representatives on several major think tanks.' He extracted a glossy brochure from between his books. Alison took it from him and handed it to Jenny with a suspicious frown.