that your partners took the lead role once it was
known they'd disappeared?'
'We
did what we could, within our resources. Whether others looked further, I
wouldn't know. We didn't receive any more information.'
'There
are very few police statements in the papers Mrs Jamal handed me. I presume
your officers made detailed observation logs.'
'We
did the job we were asked to,' he said and glanced at his expensive gold watch.
Jenny imagined him letting villains see it across the interview table, showing
them that a cop didn't have to go without.
'So
how about some names - people who knew these boys? They must have had friends
and associates you were looking at.'
Pironi
glanced out through the window. She knew he was treading a fine line. While
conducting a joint operation with the Security Services he and his officers
would have been warned time and again that secrecy was paramount, but she
sensed his vanity wouldn't let him leave her with nothing.
Pironi
said, 'You know the form. All I can tell you is which of the names in the
statements we made at the time we considered the most important. There was a
mullah, Sayeed Faruq - must've been about thirty at the time - disappeared to
Pakistan a couple of weeks later. Never spoke to us. Never came back. And there
was another guy, a radical we think set up this halaqah. His name was Anwar
Ali. He was a regular at the mosque, and held smaller meetings at his flat. I
investigated him myself, couldn't pin a thing on him, but I had a hunch he was
drawing kids in and passing them on to others. He was a post-grad at the
university . . . politics and sociology, something like that.'
'Any
idea what happened to him?'
Pironi
studied his well-kept hands. 'I agreed to meet you this morning because
Alison's a good friend of mine. We worked out of the same station for fifteen
years. She took her fair share of risks and this isn't the time of life for her
to be taking on any more. I'd be grateful if you didn't send her out to talk to
these people.'
'I
wouldn't make her do anything she's uncomfortable with.'
'That's
not what I asked.'
He
looked into her eyes. She felt like a suspect.
'Fine.
Understood.'
'Good.'
He
reached a scrap of paper out from his pocket and tucked it under his saucer.
'Nice
meeting you, Jenny.' He got up from the table.
'One
more thing,' Jenny said. 'Is this case still of any interest to anyone?'
'You
won't have to scratch far to find out.'
He
moved off towards the door.
She
watched him jog across the road and jump into an unmarked squad car that was
parked opposite, a junior detective at the wheel. She reached the folded
message out from under his saucer and opened it. Printed on it was the name
Anwar Ali and an address in Morfa, south Wales.
It
was late in the afternoon before she had processed the most urgent files on her
desk. Among the mountain of paper had been Dr Kerr's report on the Africans in
the refrigerated trailer. He'd found traces of paint under their nails, suggesting
they'd tried to scratch their way out before succumbing to the cold. The
youngest of the three was a fifteen-year-old boy dressed only in a Manchester
United football shirt. None had any papers or documents to identify them by.
They too would now be stored in the mortuary until the police, at some indeterminate
time, decided they had exhausted their inquiries.
She
chose her moment - while Alison was caught up in another tense, whispered phone
call with her husband - and slipped out of the office. Alison still coveted her
role as the investigator in their professional partnership, treating any
attempt by Jenny to speak to potential witnesses without her as an act of
trespass on her territory. It was true that most coroners chose to operate
largely from their desks, preferring to send their officers to collect
statements and gather evidence on the ground, but there was no reason - apart
from a misplaced sense of propriety - why they couldn't pursue their search for
the truth as
known they'd disappeared?'
'We
did what we could, within our resources. Whether others looked further, I
wouldn't know. We didn't receive any more information.'
'There
are very few police statements in the papers Mrs Jamal handed me. I presume
your officers made detailed observation logs.'
'We
did the job we were asked to,' he said and glanced at his expensive gold watch.
Jenny imagined him letting villains see it across the interview table, showing
them that a cop didn't have to go without.
'So
how about some names - people who knew these boys? They must have had friends
and associates you were looking at.'
Pironi
glanced out through the window. She knew he was treading a fine line. While
conducting a joint operation with the Security Services he and his officers
would have been warned time and again that secrecy was paramount, but she
sensed his vanity wouldn't let him leave her with nothing.
Pironi
said, 'You know the form. All I can tell you is which of the names in the
statements we made at the time we considered the most important. There was a
mullah, Sayeed Faruq - must've been about thirty at the time - disappeared to
Pakistan a couple of weeks later. Never spoke to us. Never came back. And there
was another guy, a radical we think set up this halaqah. His name was Anwar
Ali. He was a regular at the mosque, and held smaller meetings at his flat. I
investigated him myself, couldn't pin a thing on him, but I had a hunch he was
drawing kids in and passing them on to others. He was a post-grad at the
university . . . politics and sociology, something like that.'
'Any
idea what happened to him?'
Pironi
studied his well-kept hands. 'I agreed to meet you this morning because
Alison's a good friend of mine. We worked out of the same station for fifteen
years. She took her fair share of risks and this isn't the time of life for her
to be taking on any more. I'd be grateful if you didn't send her out to talk to
these people.'
'I
wouldn't make her do anything she's uncomfortable with.'
'That's
not what I asked.'
He
looked into her eyes. She felt like a suspect.
'Fine.
Understood.'
'Good.'
He
reached a scrap of paper out from his pocket and tucked it under his saucer.
'Nice
meeting you, Jenny.' He got up from the table.
'One
more thing,' Jenny said. 'Is this case still of any interest to anyone?'
'You
won't have to scratch far to find out.'
He
moved off towards the door.
She
watched him jog across the road and jump into an unmarked squad car that was
parked opposite, a junior detective at the wheel. She reached the folded
message out from under his saucer and opened it. Printed on it was the name
Anwar Ali and an address in Morfa, south Wales.
It
was late in the afternoon before she had processed the most urgent files on her
desk. Among the mountain of paper had been Dr Kerr's report on the Africans in
the refrigerated trailer. He'd found traces of paint under their nails, suggesting
they'd tried to scratch their way out before succumbing to the cold. The
youngest of the three was a fifteen-year-old boy dressed only in a Manchester
United football shirt. None had any papers or documents to identify them by.
They too would now be stored in the mortuary until the police, at some indeterminate
time, decided they had exhausted their inquiries.
She
chose her moment - while Alison was caught up in another tense, whispered phone
call with her husband - and slipped out of the office. Alison still coveted her
role as the investigator in their professional partnership, treating any
attempt by Jenny to speak to potential witnesses without her as an act of
trespass on her territory. It was true that most coroners chose to operate
largely from their desks, preferring to send their officers to collect
statements and gather evidence on the ground, but there was no reason - apart
from a misplaced sense of propriety - why they couldn't pursue their search for
the truth as
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