will get my full
attention, but if you could bear in mind the fact—'
The
receiver was snatched up at the other end. Mrs Jamal spoke in an urgent
whisper. 'They've been watching me, Mrs Cooper. I know they have. They can see
my flat from over the road. There are men in a car. One of them tried to break
in last night. I heard them trying the door.'
'I
know this is a very anxious time for you, Mrs Jamal, but you really will have
to trust me to —'
'No,
Mrs Cooper, it's true. They went away for years, and now they're back. I can
see them from my window. Two of them. They're out there now.'
Dismissing
her would do no good and probably provoke another flurry of calls. Jenny
decided to humour her. 'OK.
Maybe
you could go to the window and tell me what they look like, or what kind of car
they're driving.'
She
heard the receiver being set down and the sound of feet shuffling across the
room, a curtain sliding back, then an exclamation of mild surprise.
Mrs
Jamal returned to the phone. 'They've gone. They must have heard us.'
'I
see,' Jenny said patiently. 'This is what I want you to do. By all means
contact me with any piece of evidence that you think I should have which you
haven't already given me, and as soon as I've carried out a few inquiries I'll
open an inquest.'
'When?'
'I
can't say exactly. Soon. In a week or two. But in the meantime, if there's
anything else that's bothering or frightening you, you must call the police.'
'Huh!
Do you think I haven't? I call them all the time, and always the same answer:
name, address, crime number. What good is it calling the criminals?'
Jenny
held the phone away from her ear while Mrs Jamal launched into a lengthy
tirade. When, after some time, she showed no sign of letting up, Jenny spoke
calmly over her, promising to be in touch as soon as she had anything to
report.
Alison
came through from the outer office wearing a wry smile. 'I'll screen her out if
you like.'
'She'll
calm down.'
'Are
you sure you want to take this one on, Mrs Cooper? It's not that I'm
unsympathetic, but there are some you just get a feeling about.'
'And
what is your feeling?'
Alison
wore a pained expression. 'We're both mothers, you know what it's like - if
someone told you something you didn't want to believe about your child, how
would you feel?'
It
was one of the few times Alison had mentioned Bethan, her daughter and only
child. All Jenny knew about her was that she was twenty-three and lived in
Cardiff. Sensing that she was speaking from personal experience, Jenny said,
'I'll catch her in a lucid moment and try to explain that a coroner's inquiry
is impartial, not there to validate her theories.'
'Good
luck.' Alison handed her a note containing a name and telephone number.
'What's
this?'
'DI
Dave Pironi, an old friend and colleague of mine,' Alison said, implying that
it was a relationship not to be sullied or betrayed. 'He was heading up the
obbo at the Al Rahma mosque.'
'Thanks.
Anything I should know about him?'
'He's
a good man, lost his wife to breast cancer a couple of years ago. His boy's a
corporal in the Rifles. Just started his third tour in Afghanistan.'
Jenny
nodded. She got the message.
They
arranged to meet on neutral territory - a coffee chain halfway between the
office and New Bridewell, the police station at which Pironi was currently
based. Jenny arrived first and found a table as far away as possible from the
stereo speakers that were pumping out an old Fleetwood Mac number.
From
his abrupt telephone manner, she had expected DI Pironi to be gruff and
taciturn with a detective's jowly face and dead, unshockable eyes. The man who
wandered over with an espresso and a tumbler of water looked more like a
businessman who'd just signed off an unexpectedly lucrative deal. He was in his
early fifties and trim. His smart-casual clothes looked Italian and stylish:
black knitted polo shirt beneath a wool blazer. She noticed his nails - filed
and buffed.
'Mrs
Cooper?' He had
attention, but if you could bear in mind the fact—'
The
receiver was snatched up at the other end. Mrs Jamal spoke in an urgent
whisper. 'They've been watching me, Mrs Cooper. I know they have. They can see
my flat from over the road. There are men in a car. One of them tried to break
in last night. I heard them trying the door.'
'I
know this is a very anxious time for you, Mrs Jamal, but you really will have
to trust me to —'
'No,
Mrs Cooper, it's true. They went away for years, and now they're back. I can
see them from my window. Two of them. They're out there now.'
Dismissing
her would do no good and probably provoke another flurry of calls. Jenny
decided to humour her. 'OK.
Maybe
you could go to the window and tell me what they look like, or what kind of car
they're driving.'
She
heard the receiver being set down and the sound of feet shuffling across the
room, a curtain sliding back, then an exclamation of mild surprise.
Mrs
Jamal returned to the phone. 'They've gone. They must have heard us.'
'I
see,' Jenny said patiently. 'This is what I want you to do. By all means
contact me with any piece of evidence that you think I should have which you
haven't already given me, and as soon as I've carried out a few inquiries I'll
open an inquest.'
'When?'
'I
can't say exactly. Soon. In a week or two. But in the meantime, if there's
anything else that's bothering or frightening you, you must call the police.'
'Huh!
Do you think I haven't? I call them all the time, and always the same answer:
name, address, crime number. What good is it calling the criminals?'
Jenny
held the phone away from her ear while Mrs Jamal launched into a lengthy
tirade. When, after some time, she showed no sign of letting up, Jenny spoke
calmly over her, promising to be in touch as soon as she had anything to
report.
Alison
came through from the outer office wearing a wry smile. 'I'll screen her out if
you like.'
'She'll
calm down.'
'Are
you sure you want to take this one on, Mrs Cooper? It's not that I'm
unsympathetic, but there are some you just get a feeling about.'
'And
what is your feeling?'
Alison
wore a pained expression. 'We're both mothers, you know what it's like - if
someone told you something you didn't want to believe about your child, how
would you feel?'
It
was one of the few times Alison had mentioned Bethan, her daughter and only
child. All Jenny knew about her was that she was twenty-three and lived in
Cardiff. Sensing that she was speaking from personal experience, Jenny said,
'I'll catch her in a lucid moment and try to explain that a coroner's inquiry
is impartial, not there to validate her theories.'
'Good
luck.' Alison handed her a note containing a name and telephone number.
'What's
this?'
'DI
Dave Pironi, an old friend and colleague of mine,' Alison said, implying that
it was a relationship not to be sullied or betrayed. 'He was heading up the
obbo at the Al Rahma mosque.'
'Thanks.
Anything I should know about him?'
'He's
a good man, lost his wife to breast cancer a couple of years ago. His boy's a
corporal in the Rifles. Just started his third tour in Afghanistan.'
Jenny
nodded. She got the message.
They
arranged to meet on neutral territory - a coffee chain halfway between the
office and New Bridewell, the police station at which Pironi was currently
based. Jenny arrived first and found a table as far away as possible from the
stereo speakers that were pumping out an old Fleetwood Mac number.
From
his abrupt telephone manner, she had expected DI Pironi to be gruff and
taciturn with a detective's jowly face and dead, unshockable eyes. The man who
wandered over with an espresso and a tumbler of water looked more like a
businessman who'd just signed off an unexpectedly lucrative deal. He was in his
early fifties and trim. His smart-casual clothes looked Italian and stylish:
black knitted polo shirt beneath a wool blazer. She noticed his nails - filed
and buffed.
'Mrs
Cooper?' He had
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