The Inquiry Read online

  Her phone buzzed. She recoiled, then forced herself to click on it.

  Hope you’re enjoying it up North.

  An unfamiliar number, no name.

  She turned away, staring blankly through the window at the dark street, frightened. A few seconds later, the phone, still in her hand, shuddered. This time it was ringing. With a name.

  ‘Patrick!’

  ‘Hey, sorry, is it too late? You sound startled.’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. I was just in the middle of something.’ She hoped he wasn’t smelling her fear. ‘It’s kind of late to ring.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Just wanted to be sure you’re OK.’

  ‘Of course I’m OK.’

  ‘I didn’t like leaving you.’

  ‘I’m a big girl, Patrick.’ She imagined the grin. ‘How was the football?’

  She sensed him hesitating. ‘You know, Sara, I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this. It was cancelled. Could have stayed up North.’

  ‘Bad luck. But did you see him?’

  ‘Not even that, he remained with the enemy. Sorry, the nanny.’

  ‘What a waste.’

  ‘I know. We could have been having dinner together at the Savoy.’

  She forced a laugh. ‘Goodnight, Patrick.’

  ‘You too, Sara, and take care. See you in the morning.’

  She clicked to view the anonymous message, telling herself not even to try to respond this time – and failing. She hit reply and typed.

  Who are you?

  Ping.

  Message sent.

  A new, different terror – someone was there. She waited for a reply. Five, ten, twenty, thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing. She took deep breaths, steeling herself. She dialled the number.

  Half a ring, cut by a voice message. ‘The number you have dialled is unobtainable.’

  She put down the phone and buried her face in her hands. How was whoever this was doing it? How do you freeze a number just like that? Perhaps it was as simple as using a pay as you go phone – ‘burners’ she’d heard them called – and inserting and removing the SIM card. No trace – an anonymity switched on and off.

  Gent Street felt like alien territory. She started the engine, drove to its end and turned right.

  The figure who had walked past her stepped back into the shadows and watched her drive by.

  Morahan checked his watch. 2.30 a.m. The tape had finally ended – just over two and three quarter hours. He wound back to the time-code he had marked. He’d listened to it twice over at the time, then played to the end to see if the voice reappeared. It did not.

  He listened to the passage for a third time, just to make sure there was no mistake. As with all the conversations recorded, some parts could be made out, others not. The first voice was male, precise, clipped. He detected a vainness, a boastfulness perhaps, in it. The second voice was female, probably young, though, from both tone and expression, not a child or teenager.

  M: You were one person I had not expected to see.

  F: Why?

  M: I never forget what you said… INAUDIBLE…

  F: If you’re speaking of 9/11, my eyes have seen what followed… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… Of which you approve, I suppose.

  M: Or perhaps of which I was prophetic… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… The Bush and Blair folly of Iraq… INAUDIBLE…

  F: Our world?

  M: Of course, our world of Islam.

  F: INAUDIBLE… It may be yours… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… a world I want to share… INAUDIBLE…

  M:… I want you to understand me… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE…

  F: INAUDIBLE… What are you talking about?

  M: Can you not feel it all around you? Not just the Middle East… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… not just be part of the chorus…

  F: What is your play?

  M: Who can predict that?… INAUDIBLE… rain of death on our people… INAUDIBLE …

  F: INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… You even said it yourself. Time for me to leave.

  M: No… INAUDIBLE… Do you think I would I ever want to frighten you?… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE… INAUDIBLE

  F: INAUDIBLE… I’m so sorry, I’ve lost track of the time. I promised to be home for my father.

  Those last sentences were clear as a bell – as if she’d been announcing it to the table. The accent may have slightly changed, but not the voice.

  Morahan heard sounds above.

  ‘It’s late, Francis.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Sorry. I’ve just finished.’

  He packed the photograph and cassette back into the envelope, switched off the study light and climbed the stairs.

  Iona was standing on the landing. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘That’s unlike you.’

  ‘I was worried.’ She looked at the envelope. ‘Did you get that from him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s kept you up this long?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you in the morning.’ He looked at her. ‘It’s more sensitive than anything I’ve had before. For some reason, I don’t think locking it in my desk is a good idea. In fact I’m not sure having anything in my desk is a good idea.’

  She stretched out a hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll find a place for it.’

  Morahan handed her the envelope. ‘Thank you.’ She looked into his eyes and sighed.

  He went into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and splashed water over his face, rubbing his eyes. He must hold his nerve. He told himself again that he was the independent chairman of a public inquiry lawfully established by the government of a democratic, constitutionally upright nation.

  The mystery now was who she was – or had once been. Who had she known? What had she known?

  10

  A sharp Lancastrian morning brought a clear-mindedness which, Sara thought, had temporarily gone missing during the late-night trawl of the streets of Blackburn. Firstly, she must exert self-discipline over the anonymous texts – there was nothing to be gained from speculating about them and nothing in their words to alarm her. There seemed no way of tracing their origins.

  She must not allow their mere existence to scare her. There might be an explanation for them one day – there might not. Back to the knowable.

  Samir’s story was, despite that misgiving about him she still couldn’t pin down, a breakthrough. There had been some kind of significant operation which Morahan’s source Sayyid was directing him to disinter – even if its exact nature remained unclear.

  As for the other four names on the Blackburn files, at least she now fully understood that they were a group and why they had been hauled in by Blackburn CID. Their apparently easy release without any charge or even caution struck her as odd. It raised the further question of whether Special Branch, or even MI5, had smelt an opportunity. Sami’s denial had not fully convinced her – even if he was covering for one of his former friends.

  She decided there was no need to await Patrick’s return before resuming her search. There was no answer at the file’s addresses for Farooq Siddiqi and Shayan al-Rehman. One of the houses appeared to have been empty for a while.

  Next was back to 24 Pond Street, the 2006 address of Sami’s friend, Asif Hassan. Sara heard a shuffling and sensed an eye peering through the spy hole. Then a retreat, followed by heavier footsteps. A burly man around sixty looked down on her suspiciously. Right colour, right age to be Asif’s father. Sara explained the Inquiry and her role; there seemed no further justification for subterfuge.

  ‘We can’t help you,’ he said in a strong Lancastrian accent.

  ‘I was hoping to contact a gentleman called Asif Hassan,’ she said. ‘I heard he was working as a chef in Birmingham.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  Sara kicked herself. Careless – she hadn’t prepared for that question. ‘I can’t remember to be honest,’ she said feebly, ‘must have picked it up somewhere.’

  He took a step nearer. ‘All right, kid. Now hear this. He’s not been seen nor heard
of this thirteen year now. Since the morning he disappeared. With time, wounds heal. There’s no giving false hope to his mother and sisters. So leave it. Understand?’

  Sara saw the grief etched in the lines mapping his face. ‘Yes, Mr Hassan, I understand.’

  ‘And don’t make that assumption neither.’ With that, he closed the door. Sara kicked herself. Why hadn’t she asked Sami the source of the rumour? How could he have heard something about Asif that was so clearly unknown to his family?

  The final chance was 113 Medlar Street, home at one time of Iqbal Jamal Wahab. His files suggested that, after returning home, probably from Syria or Iraq, he had disappeared again. If he was known to have died in conflict, the British government or jihadists themselves would have told his parents. If he hadn’t, where was he now?

  This time the door opened – accompanied by an unfriendly reception from a young man she assumed to be his brother. Overhearing the doorstep conversation, an older man stepped in. Sara explained as before her role and its confidential nature.

  ‘Yes, I’m Iqbal’s dad and it sounds good what you’re doing, love, but we can’t help you.’ His tone was polite but firm.

  ‘I realise he’s not here any longer,’ she said, ‘but could you just tell me when you last saw him?’

  ‘As I said, we’d rather not and I’d ask you to leave us in peace. He came home briefly but we haven’t seen or heard of him for four years now. We’ve not given up but we’d best not get involved.’

  ‘I understand.’ Sara shuffled her bag, began to turn and stopped mid-track. The father hadn’t closed the door and was still watching her. She detected a yearning within him; it was worth a try. ‘I don’t want to intrude but might you consider taking my contacts?’ This time, Sara picked out her card from Knightly Court. ‘It’s where I was working before I started this. You can always get me through them or on my mobile. No need to go near the Inquiry. Just me. Nothing official. You never know, you might need a lawyer sometime.’

  He looked down from her eyes to the card she held. She felt her heart thumping.

  ‘All right, love.’ He took it, smiled and closed the door.

  It was midday – Patrick’s train was due at Preston in twenty minutes. Blackburn had for the moment yielded its secrets; there was no point in hanging around. She would meet him at the station, dump the hire car and jump on the next train south. She felt a touch of glee at the pointlessness of his journey wiping the grin off his face.

  ‘You can turn round,’ she said, stepping out of the car to greet him. ‘We’re done here. Time to go home.’

  ‘Let’s drive down!’ beamed Patrick, not in the slightest put out. ‘We can return the car in London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Point one. Cars are better for talking – you can’t bury yourself in that laptop. Point two. As I say to my boy, once I’ve got you in the car, you can’t get out. Point three. I didn’t come all the way up here on one train to go straight back down. Point four. We have the pleasure of each other’s company. Point five—’

  ‘OK, Patrick,’ she laughed despite herself, ‘I’ll accept point one. And you can do the driving.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He doffed the imaginary cap, chucked his bag in the back and glided into the driver’s seat with apparently effortless elegance. Heading out of the town, she described her brief encounters with Iqbal Jamal Wahab’s father and the man who must be Asif Hassan’s father – unless his mother had remarried. She doubted it – the man’s grief was too apparent.

  ‘Strange,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, why would Sami hear something they didn’t?’

  ‘Probably trivial. A rumour’s just a rumour.’

  ‘Iqbal seems more tangible somehow. If he’d gone abroad to fight or been killed, I’m sure his family would know. What’s odd is that he seems to have returned, been reunited with the family, and then gone off again without giving them any clue where.’

  ‘Can’t read much into that,’ said Patrick.

  ‘OK, what about Sami’s story?’

  ‘Yeah, I was thinking about that,’ he said with an untypical lack of enthusiasm. ‘Doesn’t really fit, does it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Al Qaeda and ISIS recruiting in the UK was uncoordinated. Young men initially, then women too, come under the spell of a shouty imam, sometimes get money, sometimes self-fund, then head abroad solo or in small groups. Maybe a bit of training in Pakistan or Afghanistan. Those who come back only attempt to operate in small independent cells. Or as loners. Since 7/7 that’s always been the pattern.’

  ‘I know. That’s why Sami’s story is significant. This so-called “Adviser” may be leading some kind of centralised operation in the UK.’

  ‘But his account’s a one-off.’

  ‘We have more names than one.’

  ‘Only a handful. And none of those have corroborated Sami’s version.’

  ‘Morahan told me the Blackburn files were the tip of an iceberg. The trigger. The inception. Everything, whatever it is, follows on.’

  He shot her a caustic look. ‘You didn’t tell me that. How did he know?’

  She searched for an answer. ‘He didn’t say.’ She paused. ‘I assume it came from his informant.’

  A strained silence fell. ‘I’ve said before you can trust me.’ As he concentrated on the road ahead, she saw a smile forming. ‘Know something, Sara? When you’re caught on the hop, you’re a rubbish liar.’ He paused. ‘That’s a compliment, by the way.’

  They were approaching the junction with the M40. ‘Two and a half hours or so, Blackburn to here,’ said Patrick. He was offering an olive branch. ‘Say they’d headed south, another half an hour and they could be turning off the motorway towards some hills. Sami remembered a road winding up, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t imagine they’d have found the landed aristocracy of the Cotswolds too congenial so it’s got to be south Wales.’

  ‘Unless they were heading north to the Trossachs,’ chipped in Sara.

  ‘A fellow route bore!’

  ‘Patrick, even I can circle a four-hour driving range around Blackburn. You hardly need to be in a car.’

  ‘Then we wouldn’t be having the fun of each other’s company.’ They passed a motorway services sign. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Prayers first.’

  Sara reappeared a quarter of an hour later. Patrick wondered how she found a place of calm – or whether that was even necessary. Maybe she had the skill of compartmentalising the mind and excluding the extraneous. Perhaps that was what regular daily prayer could do though. He thought of the regular Sunday services he’d been taken to as a child and the daily rituals in boarding school chapels. Even if his days of God, Paradise, Heaven and Hell were long gone, he felt a pang of envy.

  She sat down opposite him and he slid a coffee and a couple of sachets of long-life milk across the tabletop.

  ‘You’re not vegan, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Why on earth would I be vegan?’

  ‘Your blooming complexion, I guess.’

  ‘You can’t wind me up, you know.’

  ‘No, sorry. But I’m allowed to notice a beautiful woman when I see one, aren’t I?’

  She shook her head and tipped some milk into her polystyrene cup. ‘What about your wife. Was she beautiful?’

  He sipped and set down his coffee cup. ‘Actually, the answer to that is yes. Blonde, slim and entirely gorgeous.’

  ‘And you tall, handsome and exotic.’

  ‘Ha ha, if you insist. In a weird way I was a trophy husband. A sort of exotica.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I was a safe black boy. Son of a rich Ghanaian, educated at English public school, then Oxford. Her father was a Lloyds insurance broker. Bankrupted some of his clients but kept his own money. Country pile, London penthouse. She was into fashion, did some modelling…’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘She came up for a Balliol ball.
My last one. One of my law mates was in her circle, they were a pretty posh lot. Did drugs and lost their virginities at places like Marlborough.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We were attracted. I mean I was gobsmacked, this goddess wanting me. I think she married me to show the world “I can do what the eff I want”.’

  ‘What did your parents say?’

  ‘They swooned over her.’

  ‘And hers?’

  ‘Kept their mouths shut. Always civil to me. When it was falling apart, I once overheard her mother say “told you so.”’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You are the inquisitor!’ Sara gave a baleful shrug. ‘We rubbed along for a while,’ Patrick continued, ‘then Nathan coming along changed it all, as I suppose kids tend to do. Within a year, she’d had fling number one. And then number two, who she went off with. He had a Ferrari then, I seem to remember. Still together though. Helps that he’s loaded.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll stop digging.’

  ‘What about you?’

  She laughed. ‘Another time. Let’s go. You can put your foot down, I want to put in an evening shift at the office.’

  ‘You’ll be on your own doing that.’ A thought struck him. ‘Although Morahan usually works late Thursday. Calls it his catch-up time.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll try not to disturb him.’

  A couple of hours later, they drew up outside the Inquiry’s Vauxhall office. She heard a clock strike the quarter hour – 6.15 p.m. Chronology was about to matter.

  At that exact moment Sami Mohammed was nearing the main gates of the Rovers’ ground at Ewood Park – not for work, but for the return meeting with the man. He’d walked all the way from home with his hand in his pocket wrapped around the device. Fifty yards short of the gates a car door opened to break his stride, followed by an arm waving him round to the front passenger seat. He got in, removed his hand from his pocket and dropped the recorder into an outstretched palm. Without a word, the man locked all doors and started the engine.