far as they were able. According to centuries-old law, the
coroner's duty was to determine the who, when, where and how of a death. Jenny
had never understood how that was possible without getting your hands dirty.
Morfa
was a 1960s housing estate on the outskirts of Newport, thirty miles to the
north-west of Bristol on the Welsh side of the Severn; a neglected corner of a
largely forgotten city. Conceived at a time when coal mines and steel works
still employed the bulk of men in south Wales, the estate was a sprawl of
identical prefabricated concrete boxes built to house the workers and their
families. It now housed the non-workers. Groups of shaven-headed boys and
pasty- faced, overweight girls stood at corners; broken-down cars sat
wheel-less on bricks; a stray dog scavenged on a patch of litter-strewn
wasteland that had once been a park. It wasn't a neighbourhood, it was a
holding pen.
To
add to the estate's problems, it had also become a dumping ground for asylum
seekers. Here and there, as she drove through a disorientating network of
similar streets, Jenny saw Middle Eastern, Asian and occasional African faces.
In an arcade of shops there was an Indian takeaway protected by heavy steel
shutters, and next to it a burned-out and boarded up former off-licence.
She
drew up outside the address in Raglan Way, which, being near the end of a
terrace, at least had the benefit of a view of distant mountains. In contrast
with the neighbouring houses, the path and patch of grass at the front were
clean and swept and the front door had been recently painted. A small oasis of
pride in a sea of apathy.
She
rang the bell. There was no answer, though she thought she heard sounds of
movement from inside. She tried again and was met with silence. She looked for
a letter box to call through and found that it had been screwed shut. Resigned
to having to return later, she was turning to leave when she noticed a twitch
of one of the heavy net curtains in the upstairs windows. A veiled woman
retreated quickly behind it. Jenny returned to the front door and called
through. 'Is that Mrs Ali? My name's Jenny Cooper - I'm a coroner. I'd like to
speak to your husband. He's not in trouble, it's just a routine inquiry.'
She
waited for a response and thought she heard hesitant footsteps on the stairs.
'What
do you want?' a frightened female voice said from behind the door.
'I'm
investigating the disappearance of a young man in 2002. His name was Nazim
Jamal. I understand Mr Ali knew him.'
'He's
not here. He's still at work.' She sounded young, her accent a fusion of
northern British and Pakistani.
'When
will he be home?'
'I
don't know. He's got a meeting.'
'Is
this his wife I'm talking to?' There was no reply. Jenny took a visiting card
out of her wallet and fed it under the door. 'Look, this is my card. You can
see who I am. I'm not a police officer, but you are obliged by law to cooperate
with my inquiry. All I need to know is where I can find your husband to talk to
him.'
She
could feel the woman's panic and indecision. Eventually the card was pushed
back out again, a phone number written on it.
The
refugee centre was housed in a two-storey concrete building in the centre of
the estate. It had once been a pub. Foot-high letters had been unscrewed from
the front, leaving their ghostly impression in a lighter shade of grey: The
Chartists' Arms. Through the partially closed blinds covering the ground-floor
window, she could see a stick-thin Asian man with a wife and two small children
in tow gesticulating across the desk at a tired-looking white woman. Oblivious
to his remonstrations, the woman was straining to make sense of a large
envelope stuffed with papers he had handed her. The walls were lined with
ex-civil service filing cabinets, and there were steel bars at the windows to
protect the few shabby computers and an elderly photocopying machine.
Anwar
Ali answered the door himself. She placed him in his early thirties, though
coroner's duty was to determine the who, when, where and how of a death. Jenny
had never understood how that was possible without getting your hands dirty.
Morfa
was a 1960s housing estate on the outskirts of Newport, thirty miles to the
north-west of Bristol on the Welsh side of the Severn; a neglected corner of a
largely forgotten city. Conceived at a time when coal mines and steel works
still employed the bulk of men in south Wales, the estate was a sprawl of
identical prefabricated concrete boxes built to house the workers and their
families. It now housed the non-workers. Groups of shaven-headed boys and
pasty- faced, overweight girls stood at corners; broken-down cars sat
wheel-less on bricks; a stray dog scavenged on a patch of litter-strewn
wasteland that had once been a park. It wasn't a neighbourhood, it was a
holding pen.
To
add to the estate's problems, it had also become a dumping ground for asylum
seekers. Here and there, as she drove through a disorientating network of
similar streets, Jenny saw Middle Eastern, Asian and occasional African faces.
In an arcade of shops there was an Indian takeaway protected by heavy steel
shutters, and next to it a burned-out and boarded up former off-licence.
She
drew up outside the address in Raglan Way, which, being near the end of a
terrace, at least had the benefit of a view of distant mountains. In contrast
with the neighbouring houses, the path and patch of grass at the front were
clean and swept and the front door had been recently painted. A small oasis of
pride in a sea of apathy.
She
rang the bell. There was no answer, though she thought she heard sounds of
movement from inside. She tried again and was met with silence. She looked for
a letter box to call through and found that it had been screwed shut. Resigned
to having to return later, she was turning to leave when she noticed a twitch
of one of the heavy net curtains in the upstairs windows. A veiled woman
retreated quickly behind it. Jenny returned to the front door and called
through. 'Is that Mrs Ali? My name's Jenny Cooper - I'm a coroner. I'd like to
speak to your husband. He's not in trouble, it's just a routine inquiry.'
She
waited for a response and thought she heard hesitant footsteps on the stairs.
'What
do you want?' a frightened female voice said from behind the door.
'I'm
investigating the disappearance of a young man in 2002. His name was Nazim
Jamal. I understand Mr Ali knew him.'
'He's
not here. He's still at work.' She sounded young, her accent a fusion of
northern British and Pakistani.
'When
will he be home?'
'I
don't know. He's got a meeting.'
'Is
this his wife I'm talking to?' There was no reply. Jenny took a visiting card
out of her wallet and fed it under the door. 'Look, this is my card. You can
see who I am. I'm not a police officer, but you are obliged by law to cooperate
with my inquiry. All I need to know is where I can find your husband to talk to
him.'
She
could feel the woman's panic and indecision. Eventually the card was pushed
back out again, a phone number written on it.
The
refugee centre was housed in a two-storey concrete building in the centre of
the estate. It had once been a pub. Foot-high letters had been unscrewed from
the front, leaving their ghostly impression in a lighter shade of grey: The
Chartists' Arms. Through the partially closed blinds covering the ground-floor
window, she could see a stick-thin Asian man with a wife and two small children
in tow gesticulating across the desk at a tired-looking white woman. Oblivious
to his remonstrations, the woman was straining to make sense of a large
envelope stuffed with papers he had handed her. The walls were lined with
ex-civil service filing cabinets, and there were steel bars at the windows to
protect the few shabby computers and an elderly photocopying machine.
Anwar
Ali answered the door himself. She placed him in his early thirties, though
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