The Inquiry Read online

  ‘Yes, you’re right. That’s what I tell myself too.’ He hesitated; she wondered if it was her cue to leave. Instead he walked back to the sofa and sat down. ‘There’s something else I’ve hesitated to ask you,’ he said softly.

  ‘You must feel free to ask anything you want.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.’ She felt him squirming. ‘It’s just this. Sara, have you ever been the subject of a security service investigation?’

  ‘No,’ she said vehemently.

  ‘Good, good. I was sure not.’

  ‘Why are you asking?’ She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘Has something come up?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  Whatever had prompted him, she knew he wouldn’t own up to it. Perhaps she could throw him a bone. ‘Look, I was interviewed post 7/7 by a Met detective. I’d attended one or two meetings organised by characters who might not have been as nice as they appeared. They asked me about them. They weren’t people I knew so I couldn’t help them. I imagine lots of us – if you see what I mean – were interviewed. But that was it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Thank you for easing my mind.’ Smiling again, he stood up. ‘Not that it was ever uneasy – I’m sorry now even to have raised it. Never have any doubt, Sara, that I think you are a very remarkable woman and there’s no one I’d rather have by my side.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, shyly. ‘Now… time for me to go home, I guess.’

  ‘Of course, you’ve had two long days.’

  ‘Just Rayah left, I think.’ He gave not a flicker of reaction; she felt tarnished by her earlier speculation and strode back to the Legal office with an urge to escape into fresher air. She stuffed the folder in her travel bag, gathered her coat and headed towards the open-plan area. Rayah was still there, staring at her screen. Sara noticed her quickly change the image.

  ‘That’s me done. Good night.’

  ‘Me too in a mo.’ She looked up at Sara, engaging her eyes for the first time. ‘An old school friend’s having a party tonight. Do you wanna come, he’s always short of women?’

  ‘That’s sweet of you but I’m heading home – I’m afraid our Chairman requires me to do some reading. He who must be obeyed.’ She tapped a finger to her nose in what she instantly knew must seem an idiotic attempt at togetherness. Why had Rayah asked? She must have known what the answer would be. Once again, the loneliness of the Inquiry – and the loneliness she detected in Morahan – hit her like a lead weight.

  At 7.20 p.m., the same time that Sara left the Inquiry office, Patrick, having dropped off the hire car in Victoria, approached the front door of a three-storey Victorian house five minutes’ walk from Brixton underground station. After his divorce he’d bought the maisonette on the top two floors as his London home. It was convenient, low maintenance and a neighbourhood he liked – cultured, progressive and fun, a transformation from the riots and roughness of thirty years before that never ceased to amaze him. On his way home he’d been unable, to his irritation, to stop thinking about Sara – it was a long time since he’d enjoyed a woman’s company so much. However hard he tried to discard the image of her smooth skin and shining eyes – and that occasional raised eyebrow – he continued to be thwarted. Taking the front door key out of his pocket, he told himself to wise up.

  ‘Hey, Patrick!’

  A voice nearby. Were they talking to him?

  ‘Patrick!’ The voice was louder, the accent a hint of Scottish. He turned in the direction it came from. A suited man stood in the half-light on the pavement a few yards to his right; a second man, wearing a blue denim jacket and jeans, muscular, shaven-headed, lounged to his left. There was something familiar about the first man – fair, almost blond, wavy hair, chunky and, yes, the accent. It took just a few seconds for the memory to click in. What was the name? John? John something – he couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d never been given it. Thirteen years were compressed into a split second. It was definitely him – the man who’d hovered in the background while he inked his signature on that piece of paper. The error they’d suckered him into – the greatest single mistake of his life. His heart thumping, he told himself to stay cool.

  ‘Hello?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Yes, hello.’ The Scottish accent was more pronounced.

  ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Patrick, you remember.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Patrick replied, straining for politeness despite his agitation, ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘It’ll come to you, laddie.’

  Patrick made to slot the key into his front door. The shaven-headed man was beside him before he’d even raised it to the lock.

  ‘I just wanted to say hello,’ said the first man, coming closer. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  ‘I truly don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘We won’t worry about that. It’s OK, we’re keeping an eye out. Watching your back.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you to leave me alone.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said cheerfully. He nodded to the second man. Patrick felt a precise, savage finger punch into his kidneys.

  ‘Jesus!’ he couldn’t help crying out.

  The fair-haired man’s mouth pushed against his ear. ‘We know how much you wanted this gig,’ he hissed, his accent now in full Glaswegian flow. ‘And why. So, boy, just in case you haven’t got this yet, we let you have it. Because we’re on the same side, aren’t we? And don’t you ever fucking forget it.’ A knee crashed into Patrick’s groin; he buckled, silent tears of pain clouding his vision. The two men sauntered off, one of them softly singing the chorus of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Patrick raised the key to the front door lock. He was shaking so violently that it was only on the eighth attempt that he managed to slot it in. He crawled up the staircase, hesitantly turned the Yale into his flat and collapsed onto a sofa.

  Slowly, he felt his brain cells getting back to work. Until Morahan had given Sara the files, the jeopardy seemed to have been avoided – there were no sides. Now, with the intervention of his source – whoever that might be – and Morahan’s recruitment of Sara, there were signs of the situation unravelling. And if two sides did emerge – as his visitors were clearly anticipating – he’d have to decide which one he was on.

  Sara took her case and a meagre tray of food upstairs to her room. Her phone pinged. It was a message from Morahan. What… why…?

  Found something extremely significant which, if at all possible, I’d like to discuss face to face ahead of the morning. Can you be here in an hour? Morahan

  A range of thoughts bombarded her; one she felt disgust with herself for imagining. No, he was not that sort of man; her suspicions of Rayah had been misjudged. He might show fondness, but that would be it. She suspected, despite an unexpected onset of fatigue, that sheer curiosity would end up rendering her unable to resist going back in. Still, leave the option open; don’t reply yet.

  She sat down, chomped at an apple and, almost by rote, fired up her computer. She checked her emails; there was one from Patrick. ‘Trust you’re now home safe and sound. Was fun and interesting. Not too bad a team, eh? P.’ She was pleased it did not end with ‘x’. Perhaps there was nothing more behind his apparent lack of investigative spirit than a wish for a relaxed life.

  She tried to apply herself but her eyes wandered. Morahan’s text hung over her. She checked her watch. 9 p.m. It was too intriguing and, if she hung on until morning, curiosity would only keep her awake. She texted back to say she was on her way.

  Half an hour later she was re-entering the office – card pass, floor code, door open. A couple of ceiling lights – left on overnight for security, she assumed – guided her through the open-plan area to the passage leading to Morahan’s door. It was slightly ajar, a streak of light escaping onto the wood-effect floor. An old man working through the night on his unexpected adventure. What had he discovered? She assumed it was connected to Sayy
id; perhaps he had revealed himself, was even behind that door, unmasked. She listened for voices or whispers. Nothing.

  She knocked gently and eased the door part-way open. The desk was empty, illuminated by an anglepoise light and a lamp beyond in the far corner. Blinds were drawn over the picture window. He must have popped out for a breath of air. She closed the door and retreated to the open-plan office to await his return.

  She reminded herself that at the end of the passage beyond Morahan’s door were the emergency stairs which also led down to the car park. As it was the exit and entrance nearest his office, she guessed that he might use them. She went to check. The emergency exit door was firmly in place. For fear of setting off an alarm, she decided not to test it by pushing the bar. Turning round, she thought she’d better check his office again.

  A squeak – something moving behind her? She whipped round. Nothing.

  Unnerved, she silently retreated, trying to conceal herself by hugging the corridor wall. She scanned her own office – no one, no sign of movement, no spirit of the night. Pamela’s office door locked tight. No movement beyond, no other doors open. It must be her imagination. A door hinge creaking, wind beating against a window, a water pipe gurgling, a building emitting a groan.

  She returned to Morahan’s office and pushed the door further open – no change. She entered and did a visual sweep right to left ending on the sofa, now in shadow, where she had been talking to him just a couple of hours before.

  In that shadow lay a prone figure.

  12

  The head lolled over the sofa’s arm, the body sprawled across its breadth. In the dimness she could make out two legs stretched wide apart. One lay on the sofa cushions, the other dangled down to the floor, the foot still in a dark grey sock resting on the carpet. The shape gave no sound or movement. Creeping closer, she saw that the trousers, still loosely belted, were lowered down to mid-thigh, a flaccid penis extending back from just above the belt.

  Sara stretched out an arm and with the back of her hand lightly brushed his forehead. It was cold; no movement or reaction. Withdrawing the hand, her skin touched strands of lifeless hair. She recoiled.

  Her first sharp intakes of breath, and a repressed shriek of ‘Oh God!’, multiplied into a violent thumping of the heart and bile rising in her throat. Her stomach seemed literally to be dropping, her bowels involuntarily loosening. She turned and sprinted for the toilet, some trick of memory recalling the impact of a soldier’s fear before going into battle. Afterwards she removed her scarf, washed her hands and face, checking in the mirror that this was still her true self – intact, unaltered, survived. She tied the scarf back on, breathed deeply and regularly, telling her heart and brain to calm.

  She walked back into the open-plan area and sat down. What mattered was not to panic. First, she must steel herself to go back into his office, switch on the main light to confirm what had happened, then remember to switch it off again. She’d been sure when the first outline of the figure came into view that it had to be Morahan; it was there in the shape and length of the body and legs. But, even as she touched him, she’d only managed the most fleeting look at him before retreating.

  Back in his office, under the main light, she inspected his face. It hung backwards and upright from the sofa arm on which his neck rested, staring blankly at the ceiling. Around the neck was a tightly buckled belt. She felt an urge to release it, to unshackle him. But she knew enough not to touch anything; there was no doubt he was lifeless.

  The back of Morahan’s hair dangled limply like loose tassels from a damp mop, the angle of his head allowing the strands to fall separately in slim branches from his collar. His eyes were open and blank, his cheeks and forehead pallid. She could see purple around the base of the neck. She had a sense that he had not been dead for long; the timing of his text meant it must have happened within the last hour and a half. Her eyes ranged briefly over his body to confirm the partial lowering of his trousers and pants. The penis lay surprisingly long between his legs. She caught a strange whiff… like paraffin.

  She should phone an ambulance and the police without delay. She withdrew to the door, switched off the main light and made a quick tour of the floor. The Legal office was untouched and the Archive door remained locked. There was no sign of disturbance in the open-plan area. Pamela Bailly’s office door was still locked. She scanned the ground from the windows on both sides of the open-plan area. No evidence of people or movement or cars or bikes. She moved a hand towards a phone, then hesitated. She was alone, no spectators inside or out. She sat down to think.

  As reason and calm, insofar as they were possible, returned, an overwhelming instinct told her that, with nothing to be done for Morahan himself, the priority, whatever the reason for his death, was to protect the original of the Sayyid folder. She assumed that, along with the Blackburn files, it must contain some sort of communication – a note or a letter – from Sayyid to Morahan. In the unexplained circumstances of his death, the police were bound to cordon off his office and conduct a search. Should they come across the Sayyid material, they would take possession of it – with unknowable consequences. This might be her only chance to secure it.

  A second instinct was that the phone call to the emergency services should not be delayed too long.

  Morahan was clearly dead; she could allow herself a few minutes. She recalled the moment he’d handed her the envelope with the photocopies. She approached the front of his desk and looked down. He’d taken a key from the middle drawer. It was closed. She mustn’t leave evidence that she’d opened it. She looked around for a cloth or handkerchief – anything to cover her hands. Of course, she realised, there was an easier solution. She removed her hijab and wound its silk material through her fingers so that each one could move individually. She opened the drawer. Two set of keys, probably his house and car. She pulled further – a single key lay at the right back corner. She grabbed it – it felt smooth and slithery in her silken hands. She leant down to the left pedestal and tried the key in the bottom drawer. It fitted. She began to turn it; it moved. She slid the door out.

  Empty. Nothing. Bare wood.

  She looked at her watch; that operation had taken nearly five minutes. How much longer could she give herself? She must remove the evidence of her tampering. Fingers sweating inside the silk, she closed the bottom left drawer. No need to re-lock it as they wouldn’t know it ever had been.

  Had he moved the folder? Perhaps the original had never been there. Unless someone had already taken it.

  Where else in his office could he have hidden it? She retreated to the position from where she’d had her last conversation with him and surveyed the room. Apart from the desk, there were no obvious secure places. Chair, sofa, open shelves, glass cabinets. She remembered him getting up and addressing her from the window, leaning back on the ledge. She sensed it was a place he liked to stand, whether to look outside or to talk from. Below it was a boxed in radiator with a brass grille. She approached it.

  She examined the grille; rather than being screwed in, it appeared to rest on slots. She shook it gently. Movement. Her fingers were sliding in the silk – too hard to grip. She unwound the scarf – they’d hardly check a radiator grille for prints, would they? She lifted; the grille came loose. Behind it a radiator running the length of the window. Again, nothing. Her eyes were drawn to the thin gap between the radiator and the wall. She checked the right side, could just get her fingers behind and slide them from bottom to top, searching for some kind of contact. She moved to the left, repeating the process. Two thirds of the way up she hit something – an edge of paper or envelope. She tugged. It stuck. She pulled harder and heard ripping. It came away, sellotape dangling from one side, a tear on the other.

  Had he anticipated that someone out there would want to invade his desk?

  She wiped her brow with the scarf and rubbed the sweat from her fingers on her shirt. Don’t touch anything else. She walked back to the desk, lifted the phone
and dialled 999. No need to avoid her prints on that handset.

  She guessed she could count on another three or four minutes. She ran her eye over Morahan’s office. No sign that she’d disturbed anything – no reason she hadn’t gone straight from discovering him to the nearest phone… and then, as she now did, to the bathroom.

  She put the envelope beside the basin, washed and dried her face and hands, wiped her shirt, replaced the scarf on her head. Now more composed, she picked up the envelope – feeling it again, it seemed surprisingly thin and light. She peeped inside. It didn’t look like the Blackburn files. What else? Did she have time to read or take it in? She removed the contents – a one-sheet print-out of a corporate-style profile and a short note.

  The profile was all too familiar. She read the note. Her heart hammered, her legs wanted to give way. This was not the moment to try to understand all the implications.

  What did Morahan really know? What game had he been playing? Playing with her.

  A tornado of thoughts crashed in from every direction. There was a design to her being here, thrust into a perfect scenario for scandal and conspiracy theories. One of the country’s most senior judges – a man engaged in an inquiry of supreme national importance – found half-naked with his trousers down, asphyxiated by a leather belt. And, as and when it came out, discovered by an attractive young lawyer working with him.

  Still quiet. She had an overwhelming urge for a final look inside the office. A scene of morbid stillness. She went to stand over him; the purple around the neck might have sunk a little, perhaps the nose and cheeks were even paler, almost white. How could this beached shape have been having that animated conversation with her less than four hours before?

  She heard sirens, growing louder with every second. She put the contents back in the envelope, folded it into quarters and stuffed it down the back of her shirt. She returned to the open-plan office and switched on more lights.