The Disappeared (35 page)

She
pulled into a filling station just short of the M4 motorway and made some more
calls. Eventually she tracked down a porter in one of the halls of residence,
who relished telling her it was more than his job was worth to give out the
private number of a member of staff. Jenny lost patience and told him that
unless he called back with it in five minutes he could expect a visit from the
police.

It
was Brightman himself who returned her call and asked tentatively how he could
help. Jenny apologized for disturbing his weekend and asked if they could
meet.

'What
is it you want to know, Mrs Cooper? I really have no light to shed on what
happened to those two young men.'

Jenny
said, 'Nazim Jamal's mother was found dead on Thursday.'

'Oh.
Poor woman.'

Jenny
paused, weighing her next move. What the hell, why not hit him with it? He'd
hear it sooner or later. 'It seems she may have had a visitor shortly before
her death. And there were traces of caesium 137 on her body. The block of flats
where she lived has been evacuated.'

He
was silent for a moment. 'Well, I really don't know what to say . . .'

Jenny
said, 'I've only a few questions. It won't take long.'

'Maybe
it's best if you come to my office.'

Professor
Brightman was waiting for her on the steps outside the physics department
dressed in a scruffy anorak and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Making
awkward small talk, Jenny followed him through cold, deserted corridors to his
office: a tiny, cluttered room on the second floor overlooking the street.
Clearing her a chair, he apologized for the temperature - economies meant that
the heating was turned off on Sundays. They sat on either side of the desk in
their coats. Jenny could barely feel her toes.

Agitated,
Brightman pushed his thick glasses up his nose. 'Do you mind if I ask what
manner of conversation this is, Mrs Cooper? My employers would normally expect
me to inform them if I were being questioned by the authorities.'

'You're
not under any suspicion, Professor. You can tell them anything you wish.'

He
tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk. 'I'd rather this remained between us
for now, if you don't mind. Obviously, if you need me to make an official
statement—'

'Let's
take it a step at a time, shall we? What brings me here today is a more recent
student of yours - Anna Rose Crosby.'

'I
remember her. You're not going to tell me — '

'No.
All we know is that she's missing. The only reason I'm interested in her is
because she works in the nuclear industry, and, as I told you, Mrs Jamal's body
shows signs of radioactive contamination.'

Brightman
frowned, perplexed. 'Caesium 137? You're sure?'

'The
Health Protection Agency confirmed it. One hundred and ten milliSieverts.'

He
shook his head in bewilderment. 'How on earth? Why?'

'I've
no idea. But with Anna Rose having been missing for ten days, her connection
with this department makes this an obvious line of inquiry, I'm sure you'll
agree.'

'I
hardly knew her, not personally - I only supervise postgrads these days - but
she was a perfectly ordinary student as far as I know. Caesium 137 ... ? We
don't have anything like that here. I don't know if you know how — '

'I've
got some idea. It's not the sort of thing you'd find lying around a university.
Am I right?'

'Correct.
Minute quantities for specific experiments, maybe, but very tightly controlled.
There's not been any here.'

'Anna
Rose Crosby was on the graduate-training programme at Maybury. Does that
surprise you?'

'Not
particularly. She was an average student from what I recall.'

'I
meant more from the point of view of her character.'

'Really,
I couldn't comment. Dr Levin would have more of an opinion.'

'I
tried, but she's not inclined to help.'

'Oh,'
Brightman said guardedly. 'You've already spoken to her?'

'Anna
Rose Crosby's mother says that Dr Levin helped her daughter get the job. She
formed the impression she used her influence.'

'I
suppose she may have contacts. We do have the occasional industry presentation
for the students.'

'You
seem uncertain.'

'No
. . . I'm just thinking about what you said. Dr Levin is still quite junior in
the department. I can't see that she would have much influence to exert. And
it's not really how we do things here.'

Jenny
studied his face. He seemed genuinely confounded and troubled at the direction
her questions were taking. He didn't strike her as a man who would lie
convincingly. He was a scatty academic, unworldly to the bone. There were
stains on his anorak, and signs of frequent shaving injuries on his neck. She
could imagine him misreading people, failing to notice all manner of things
happening right under his nose, but she couldn't see him orchestrating anything
underhand.

'Anna
Rose's parents think she may have had an Asian boyfriend last year. Salim
someone. Ring any bells?'

He
shook his head. 'Sorry. As I explained, I'm really not the person to ask.'

'Perhaps
you could check with one of your colleagues who might have been closer to her,
Dr Levin, even.'

'Yes
. . . Yes, of course,' he said distractedly, his mind clearly racing ahead to
the possible scandals that might engulf him.

Jenny
hesitated, feeling sympathy for him. He seemed helpless; plainly he wasn't a
political creature. She could imagine junior colleagues eagerly manoeuvring to
lever him out of his untidy office at the slightest suggestion of mismanagement.

She
struck a softer tone, moved by an urge to make him less anxious. 'Could I ask
you something purely in your professional capacity?'

'Of
course.'

'All
I know about caesium 137 so far is that it's dangerous, that it's a by-product
of the nuclear industry and there's a lot of it near Chernobyl. What could it
be used for, exactly?'

'You're
right to mention Russia,' he said, in rapid, animated staccato. 'That's where
most of the illegally held substance is suspected of having originated -
impoverished Soviet scientists making a few dollars in the early nineties. Yes,
from what I've read in the popular press it's the material of choice for a
dirty bomb. A small amount at the heart of a conventional device would scatter
over a city on the wind, rendering it uninhabitable for decades. Dreadful.'

'I
see.' A clearer picture began to form in her distinctly unscientific mind.
She'd had a vague idea that it might be used for poisoning, or even in a
localized bomb, but had never conceived of a target as vast as an entire city.

They
looked at each other across the unruly stacks of books and papers, and for the
first time Jenny understood the true depths of his concern.

'Do
you have any idea how Mrs Jamal came to be contaminated?' he asked. 'I can't
think of anything more worrying for the anti-terrorist people.'

'No,'
Jenny said. 'But a man was sighted at the scene. Tall, white, slim, around
fifty years old. He bears some resemblance to a figure seen leaving the hall
of residence where Nazim Jamal was living on the night he disappeared.'

Brightman
gazed into space. 'I remember the police mentioning someone like that at the
time. One of the students claimed to have seen him.'

'Her
name's Dani James. She gave evidence at the opening of my inquest last week.
She also claims to have slept with Nazim during the week before.'

'I
saw a press report. . .' His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of
these disjointed fragments.

Jenny
said, 'There's a hint that Nazim might have been seeing another girl at the end
of his first term; someone well spoken. I don't suppose you're able to say if
that was Dr Levin?'

Brightman
swivelled his eyes towards her. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I
just wondered if she and Nazim had been an item?'

'What
gives you reason to ask that?' His pupils, dilated with surprise, were grossly
magnified by his thick glasses.

Jenny
said, 'His mother accidentally took a phone call from a girl. It's a long shot,
but whoever she is might still know something about him we don't.'

Brightman
swallowed uncomfortably.

She'd
hit on something, she could tell.

'As
a matter of fact I did once see them together,' he said. He cleared his throat.
'The reason I remember is that I was asked this question once before - in late
2002 it must have been - by Mrs Jamal's solicitor, I think it was.'

Jenny's
heart started to race. 'Alec McAvoy?'

Brightman
frowned. 'Yes - Scottish.'

'He
asked you if you thought Nazim and Sarah Levin had had a relationship?'

'He
did,' he said, guiltily. 'And all I could remember was the one incident. It was
in the lab along this corridor. One gets used to it among students . . .'

Jenny
could barely speak. 'What did you tell McAvoy?'

'That
I walked in on them. They stepped apart as if they'd been kissing. I remember
they both looked rather flustered.'

'Have
you ever spoken to Dr Levin about this?'

'It's
not the sort of thing that comes up,' he said, adding defensively, 'She's very
able. She went to Harvard on a Stevenson and came back with the most superb
references.' His expression was almost tortured. 'Sarah wouldn't be mixed up
with anything untoward. It's unthinkable.'

Jenny
took a breath. 'If you don't mind, I'd like you to make a statement.'

Her
body was burning; she no longer felt the cold.

People
had always remarked on how calmly Jenny accepted bad news. While others
succumbed to tears at the announcement of a sudden death or unexpected tragedy,
her outward response was invariably the opposite. An unnatural serenity would
descend, her eyes would remain stubbornly dry as the emotional ones gravitated
towards her seeking reassurance. She had such profound perspective, they would
say, she was such a steadying presence. For many years she had believed that
she did in fact possess a unique immunity to grief; that she was simply
stronger than most. It took until her thirty-ninth year and her 'episode' (she
had always refused to call it a breakdown) to realize the truth. Dr Travis, the
kindly psychiatrist who had patiently and confidentially nursed her through the
acutely painful months that followed, had helped her to understand that beyond
a certain threshold her emotions internalized, failing to break the surface.
They existed, powerfully so, but were confined to a strongroom somewhere deep
in her subconscious. The trick was to open the door inch by inch to let the
stored-up trauma - whatever that was - seep out to be processed. But try as she
might, she hadn't yet found the key.

Alec
McAvoy had deceived her. He had known all along that there had been something
between Sarah Levin and Nazim, but he hadn't told her. Why? He had come to her
inquest, sought her out when she was alone and quoted poetry to her.

Who
was he, this crooked lawyer and convict who knew how to reach inside and touch her,
this man, who, like no one else, made her feel that she wasn't alone? What did
he want from her? Could Alison be right - was he hijacking her inquest in the
hope of salvaging a wrecked career? Or were his motives even darker than that?

She
didn't know. She couldn't know. Her instincts had dried up, her responses
dulled. The rage and fury and betrayal that should have poured out of her were
locked deep inside, leaving her nothing to cleave to except a flimsy layer of
logic. Was he angel or devil? Floating in limbo, she had no means of knowing.

With
the dry sliver of consciousness left to her, she resolved to retreat to solid
ground. She would trust only her intellect, resist all speculation and conduct
her inquest strictly by the rules. Her mistake had been to allow that precious
rational part of her that withstood every assault to be undermined. Dig deep
enough foundations, Dr Travis had told her, and you might shake, but you'll
never fall down.

Winding
the final mile up the lane to Melin Bach she became aware that forty minutes
and twenty miles had passed in an instant. The fears and imaginings that often
plagued her during these dark journeys home had dissolved. Her eyes followed
the headlights and her mind turned as dispassionately as a clockwork mechanism
as she planned her strategy. She would schedule the inquest to resume mid-week.
She would issue witness summonses first thing in the morning and prepare
detailed cross-examinations that would tease out every flaw in the evidence.
She would make no judgements and reach no conclusions other than those
precisely justified by what she heard. She would place herself beyond influence
or criticism and deliver justice according to the law. That was how to build
foundations and win back the confidence that, McAvoy had so effortlessly and
astutely observed, had been knocked out of her.