The Inquiry Read online

  ‘Where we going?’ asked Sami, failing to hide his fear.

  ‘It’s OK. Just you and me.’

  He headed down the A666 from Ewood towards Darwen, left at the junction with the M65 but, rather than joining it, peeled off to the motorway services, parking amid a crowd of cars. ‘This’ll do, protection in numbers.’ He swivelled. ‘For you too, young man.’ Sami saw a meanness in his face and the greased flat strands of dark hair, greying at the edges. He tried to make out the accent – it was unfamiliar, some sort of strong Irish maybe.

  The man plugged the machine into a socket by the radio/CD player, thumbed a couple of markers and within seconds they were hearing a good quality recording of Sami’s conversation with Sara. ‘You can’t get one of these commercially,’ said the man. ‘A fool couldn’t fuck it up. Not that you are, are you, young man?’

  For the next hour and a quarter they listened. Sami didn’t see why the man needed to make him share the ordeal – couldn’t he have done it alone through earphones? He hadn’t dared suggest it.

  At the click of the front door and echo of Sara’s parting footfalls, the man cut the playback. ‘You did well. Enjoy it?’

  Sami, heart beating, stomach churning, could only murmur. ‘I done my best.’

  ‘You said it nicely about Asif.’

  Sami didn’t know how to respond. ‘Thanks,’ he tried.

  ‘And you skated OK over the bit we can never tell.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Never ever.’

  ‘Nah.’

  The man took a wallet from his chest pocket. The movement gave Sami a moment of confidence. ‘So what’s it all about then?’

  The man stared at him grimly as he extracted a bunch of notes. ‘Not for you, young man. Not for you. You never fucking speak about this.’

  Sami looked at the cash. Fifties, at least ten, maybe twenty – more than he’d hoped for. ‘OK, yeah.’

  ‘But you did well,’ the man repeated. ‘We could meet again if something else comes up.’

  The cash was still in the man’s hand. ‘Dunno.’ The hand didn’t move. ‘Maybe. Yeah. Could do.’

  The hand moved and Sami took the cash. ‘See you then,’ said the man. ‘Now, young man, you can fuck off.’

  Sami frowned. ‘You mean here.’

  ‘It’s your patch, isn’t it? Use your feet.’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’

  ‘Now.’

  Sami jumped out of the car and walked towards the car park exit as fast as he could. He still didn’t understand why he’d been told to give the girl that story about Asif working down in Birmingham. Or to leave out that bit of the last night with the Adviser – the only bit that really mattered. Though he did wonder if he’d ever have been able to tell it to Sara – or anyone else – exactly the way it had happened.

  2006

  A few minutes after the woman left, two ‘escorts’ crashed open his cell door. ‘Come!’

  ‘Where we going?’ he croaked.

  ‘You said you wanna see the Adviser. Now’s your chance.’

  He hauled himself up, eyes liquid and jumping with fatigue, body smelling, hair itching. In the days he’d been there he’d barely eaten, but his guts were heavy and nervous. ‘I need a shit.’

  ‘No time.’ They forced him on by the arms, one each side, crossing the courtyard, rain now falling, the muddy water splashing round his bare feet. He tried to stop and look up at the clouded skies; they tightened their grip. It felt like the dark heart of night.

  Two small wooden chairs sat empty on the flood-lit platform. They pulled him up the steps and directed him towards one. He began to murmur. ‘Why—’

  ‘Shut it!’

  The interior of the barn was airless, silent except for rain tapping on the slate roof. He sat; minutes passed. He tried again. ‘I need to shit, man.’ The tension within was building; he really did need to go.

  ‘Stay!’

  The escorts disappeared. He sat alone, not daring to move, understanding nothing except his own terror.

  He heard a clanking. A figure in blue denim overalls, a canvas-like hood over his head, enchained around his ankles, his masculine feet bared, was dragged in by the escorts. They planted him on the seat opposite Sami. He flopped, his covered head bowed, bleats of sobbing. The only sounds as more minutes passed.

  ‘We welcome you again, brother Sami.’ The Adviser’s rich voice, echoing through the vaulted barn.

  Sami whipped his head around and saw, in the corner, the Adviser, sitting on a high-backed, throne-like chair. Standing beside him was the thick-set man. No sign of the woman.

  Sami detected a movement of the head beneath the hood opposite. ‘We have brought you to meet another brother,’ said the Adviser. ‘A friend of yours. He is in need of advice.’

  The escorts loosened the rope holding down the hood so they could yank it off. The head was revealed – half-open eyes looked imploringly at him.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ whispered Sami. ‘Asif. Is that really you, man? What the fuck are you doing here?’ Asif’s face was a blur of blood and bruises. His lips bled – or was it coming from smashed teeth? ‘What they done to you, man?’ Sami dreaded to think what might lie beneath the overalls.

  ‘I dunno,’ croaked Asif. ‘I dunno what happened.’

  The Adviser’s soothing voice broke in. ‘And we welcome you again, brother Asif, however much you have wronged us.’

  ‘I ain’t wronged anyone,’ said Asif. He was hardly audible.

  ‘Let me explain, Sami,’ said the Adviser, ‘so that you may gain understanding.’ He rose from his chair, walked slowly across the flagstoned floor – his footsteps a regular, monotonous beat – stepped onto the platform and looked down at both of them. ‘We have known for some months that one of your number, in your home town of Blackburn, has been having unwise conversations with a certain policeman. Conversations for which that person has been paid. Conversations which are an act of treachery to our people, to your brothers and sisters. We were sad when we had to conclude that the traitor was one or the other of you two. On our advice, one of the brothers raised this matter with you, Asif. You denied it most vehemently. When the brother suggested that, if this is so, the guilt could only lie with you, Sami, you, Asif, agreed. You suggested that more than once you had occasion to believe Sami was acting oddly. I therefore decided, Sami, that it was time for me to make your acquaintance – as I have now done.’

  The Adviser circled the dais, inspecting them. The pressure inside Sami’s bowels was unbearable. The Adviser’s eyes fixed on him. ‘After meeting you yesterday, Sami, I was in a position to give my opinion to the wise men above both you and me, who must cast judgement. Giving such advice is a heavy burden – in agreeing to shoulder it, I make my own sacrifice for our people. I must not act in a cowardly way and refuse such challenges.’

  The Adviser dismounted the platform and returned to his throne in the corner.

  ‘I will now give my opinion,’ he said softly. He stood. ‘Sami Mohammed.’ His voice cut through the gentle beat of rain rebounding off the timbers of the barn. ‘I have advised that you are telling me and the woman the truth. You, Asif Hassan, are guilty of treachery.’

  Sami turned towards Asif. His shoulders heaved, tears pouring down his face, forming the blood into rivulets spattering the blue of his overalls. ‘I never did, Sami, never did. I dunno who did. It weren’t me, I swear on my life.’

  The Adviser’s voice lowered. ‘Despite your treachery, Asif – towards your friend, Sami, as well – is there anything you, Sami, wish to say in mitigation for Asif?’

  Sami looked at him. He realised too much sympathy might not sound good. ‘I’m sorry for what you done to the brothers, Asif. And I forgive what you done to me.’ He shifted to face in the Adviser’s direction. ‘He’s been my friend. He won’t do it again.’

  ‘Thank you, Sami,’ said the Adviser. ‘Treachery is a sin. To forgive is to forget. But forget we must never do.’ The Adviser retreated; the light
in his corner faded to black.

  The escorts leapt onto the platform, covered Asif’s head and yanked him out of the barn. ‘Don’t you move!’ one said to Sami.

  He stayed seated, gut burbling, heart thumping, body sweating from head to toe. A minute passed, then another.

  Then gunshots crashed in Sami’s ears, ringing around the stone building. One. Two. A pause. Three. The dam broke and a stinking muddy brown river cascaded over the wooden seat and down its legs.

  It was the smell of himself Sami never forgot. At the car park exit, as he threw a final glance behind, he could feel that same gurgling in his gut, just like all those years ago.

  He broke into a jog on the roundabout and sprinted in the direction of Ewood Park. He wasn’t on shift that night, but it was the nearest place of safety he knew. After a couple of hundred yards, he had to slow, lungs burning, heart pumping. He staggered to the gates and looked back down the road, half-expecting the man’s car to draw alongside. If there was any sign, he’d enter the ground and find one of the guards on duty.

  Nothing. No sign of the man or car. He hoped never to hear or see him again, but knew he couldn’t ever, ever assume he was free of them.

  Back home, he went straight upstairs, ignoring the light in the kitchen where his mother would be waiting for him. He counted the notes – fifteen. Seven hundred and fifty pounds.

  Dirty money; money he’d sworn to himself he’d never take again, after those weekly bundles from the smart-suited policeman twelve years ago.

  11

  Sara let herself into the Inquiry office with her main entrance pass card – the reception area was deserted. An overnight commissionaire had been deemed an unnecessary spend; security was maintained by exterior CCTV cameras, burglar alarms, pass cards and individual code numbers on each floor. They were also beneficiaries of the round-the-clock monitoring of the neighbouring American Embassy, including guard patrols with dogs. Big Brother or Uncle Sam – depending on your viewpoint – on the doorstep.

  She walked up the two flights of stairs to the second floor, entered her pass code and walked through the entrance corridor – toilets and kitchen to the left, the internal wall of Pamela Bailly’s office to the right – and into the open-plan space of the secretariat. There was no Clovis at the desk guarding Pamela Bailly’s door. A reading lamp hung over just one computer screen and keyboard. In front of them sat Rayah Yaseen, a research officer in the Inquiry secretariat, head bowed over flying fingers with turquoise nails. So far, Sara had hardly spoken to her, and took the chance.

  ‘Hi, Rayah.’

  She looked up. ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘Working late?’

  She stood up. ‘Hardly late. I’m nearly done.’

  ‘Are we the clichés?’ asked Sara, trying to forge a bond. ‘The Asian girls who put in the extra hours.’ She sounded false to herself – it was a thought that normally would never enter her head.

  ‘Before this, I was doing my first spell in private office,’ said Rayah. ‘We were all slaves there. Didn’t matter who you were.’

  Sara inspected her; she must be at least in her late twenties so perhaps had come up through the ranks rather than graduate fast stream. She was smartly dressed – tight-fitting red pullover, black knee-length skirt and highish-heeled black shoes.

  ‘How are you finding it here?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s interesting. The panel members aren’t always the easiest.’

  ‘I’ve that pleasure to come,’ said Sara. ‘And how about Sir Francis himself? Actually, aren’t Thursdays supposed to be his late night?’ The question was innocent, but asking it provoked the thought – Rayah working late at her desk, also on a Thursday night.

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  Sara again cursed her leap of imagination. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry if I was out of order.’ The hole was getting deeper. ‘I meant, he seems a nice man.’

  ‘Sure, why wouldn’t he be?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Sara realised that not once had Rayah wanted to look her straight in the eye. ‘Right, got to finish my stuff too.’ She moved away towards the corridor leading off the open-plan area, puzzled by the tone of the conversation. Perhaps she should read nothing into it except the cautious reaction of a younger woman faced by a senior newcomer.

  She tried the door of the archive room. Locked. Sylvia Labone was long past any need to impress bosses with long hours. The door to the Legal office was open; she wondered if anyone had been nosing around. Surely they’d have locked it if they had – she couldn’t remember how she and Patrick had left it. Morahan’s door was shut. Part of her wanted to knock on it; she resisted the temptation and entered her own office.

  What compulsion had made her even want to call by here? Patrick was all for going straight home and had encouraged her to do the same. Yet the journey felt somehow incomplete without returning to the surroundings she had committed herself to for the coming months. She had an urge to analyse, to theorise, to find from these first encounters a web which would form a structure; certainly to begin to build a chronology. The Blackburn group had attracted some kind of attention from late 2005 and through 2006 – the period after 7/7 when the security services, aware of their failings, were desperate to intercept new plots; to try new methods perhaps. Had they any inkling of the terrible experience Sami had suffered? Just say, after the questioning by Blackburn police about the girl, MI5 had succeeded in tapping up one of the group, why did none of the files contain any sign of it? Could it be that it was something too secret to be recorded on those files?

  She was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Morahan poking half a head around. She looked up with pleased surprise. ‘Sir Francis, hello.’

  ‘Good evening, Sara, thought I heard footsteps but didn’t know you were back.’

  ‘We’d achieved what we could.’

  ‘Come and tell me all about it,’ he said with the warmth he always seemed to show her. There was the same sparkle too in his eye as when, during their first meeting, she’d suggested they were like spies talking on the Common.

  He waved her to one end of the sofa and sat himself on the other. She compressed Samir’s story as concisely as she could, then the doorstep conversation with Iqbal Jamal Wahab’s father. She omitted the inconsistencies about Asif Hassan’s whereabouts.

  ‘Did you come to any general conclusion?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s sparse,’ she replied, ‘but I feel it indicates some element of central co-ordination that might challenge the received view of discrete cells or lone wolves being the sole MO of jihadis in the UK. Patrick is more sceptical.’

  Morahan gazed out of the window beyond her into the gathering gloom and felt the back of his hair, stroking it down to the collar. She was unsure whether it was a mannerism or nervous gesture. Despite his friendliness, his experiences of sitting in a confined space with a young Muslim woman must be limited.

  ‘And how was Patrick?’ The question startled her; she’d assumed that he would follow the logic of the conversation and pursue the subject, not the person.

  ‘He was fine.’ She waited to see if he’d elaborate.

  ‘Good. Decent chap.’ The same words he had used before – no more.

  If he wouldn’t, she would. ‘I can’t help wondering why he was chosen for this job. Wouldn’t a Muslim have been more suited?’

  ‘I suspect there’s no Muslim with the experience in the GLD. Plenty of younger ones coming up through the ranks – people are more aware of it now. So maybe there was an element of cack-handed “diversity”. Remember that Patrick is not entirely typical. He had educational advantages and prospects not available to many other young black men at that time and has reached a senior level ahead of them.’ He frowned. ‘Has something come up?’

  ‘No. Not really. It’s just that I sensed once or twice he’d almost prefer we didn’t find things than we did find them.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that. He was extremely keen to do it. As I understa
nd, he put his hand up almost the minute the Inquiry was announced. And came warmly recommended by his superiors.’

  ‘Which superiors?’

  He screwed up his eyes. ‘What a curious question, Sara. GLD, of course.’

  ‘Sorry, stupid of me.’

  They exchanged smiles and fell silent. Despite her self-instruction to disregard them, she’d wondered whether to tell Morahan about the anonymous text messages; now that there’d been two, he should perhaps see them and there was no need to mention the 2005 text for him to take them seriously. Somehow, their exchange about Patrick made it the wrong moment. She would tell him next time.

  He hoicked himself to his feet, at full stretch towering over her, and crossed the room to a window. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to confide something in you,’ he began, ‘and I’m afraid doing so may be more helpful to me than to you.’

  She saw the other Morahan – the vulnerable man thrust into a strange unfamiliar world. ‘Please do.’

  ‘I have spoken with Sayyid.’

  ‘You met him? Face to face?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Propping on the window ledge, he explained the circumstances of the encounter – the sighting limited to the back of a covered head, the voice distorted – and described Sayyid’s mysterious remarks about the wilderness of mirrors. ‘I’ve since reminded myself of the details, you may not know them. It happened in the early 1960s. The Prime Minister Golitsyn pointed to as a Soviet sleeper was Harold Wilson. He was nothing of the sort, of course, but it didn’t stop his name being blackened and the intelligence services allowing suspicion and accusation to eat away at them.’

  ‘I don’t see how that could relate to Islamist terror,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied uneasily. ‘My curiosity about Sayyid’s arcane methods is leading to a sixth sense that somehow he is playing me. I’m the trout on the end of his fly as he slowly pulls me in.’

  ‘We can only deal in facts,’ she said softly. ‘Files, documents, witnesses, statements. Physical evidence if we ever find it.’