The Inquiry Page 16

  ‘Yes, around then.’

  ‘And it’s gone missing from your phone.’

  ‘Yes. As I said last night, perhaps I did delete it in all the chaos.’

  ‘It’s an odd one.’ He paused, apparently stumbling over a puzzle. ‘That sent message isn’t on Sir Francis’s phone either.’

  ‘What?’ The pinpricks of sweat returned. ‘He must have deleted it.’

  ‘Yes, you’d think that would be the explanation. But our first examination of the metadata to try to retrieve it contains no indication that such a message was sent.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Sara. ‘I read it.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘There are circumstances—’ began Patrick.

  ‘If you could just bear to hold on a minute, Mr Duke,’ said Buttler, showing for the first time a touch of steel. ‘I’m just trying to get the facts and chronology straight. Would you object, Miss Shah, if we borrowed your phone for a few hours at your convenience to make sure the message was there? We should be able to retrieve it.’

  Sara turned to Patrick. She knew she’d read the message – why else would she have returned to the office? – but had a sickening feeling of some insidious trap closing on her. ‘I told you I texted my reply to say I was coming in. That’s still there. So I could only have been replying to his text.’

  ‘Are you trying to imply,’ interrupted Patrick, ‘that in some way Ms Shah is inventing this text? And for some bizarre reason wrote her own text in reply just for the sake of it?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m implying nothing.’

  ‘Because if so, you may need to move on to more formal ground.’

  ‘At this point,’ said Buttler amicably, ‘I feel it’s best for all our sakes to continue to proceed on an informal basis.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Patrick, ‘that certain applications of smart phones allow a user not just to eliminate traces of sent messages from their own phone but also all traces, including metadata, from the receiver’s phone.’

  ‘You’re ahead of me on that one, Mr Duke. Here it’s the geeks in their funny rooms who look after all that.’ He smiled sweetly. ‘But I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘I have no problem whatsoever with you inspecting my phone,’ declared Sara abruptly. Patrick glared at her. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. If a third party has intervened to delete this message from Sir Francis’s phone and, in that case I suspect, my own phone, that will require further investigation.’

  ‘What third party, Ms Shah?’ asked Buttler. ‘And for what motive?’

  ‘That is your job to establish, Mr Buttler,’ said Sara, faking her lawyerly smile.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Buttler, acknowledging it. ‘Moving on, you gave me the timings of your comings and goings at the Inquiry office.’

  ‘Yes. CCTV will confirm the exact timings if there’s any need for that.’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Buttler. ‘CCTV appears to have been out of action last night.’

  ‘What?’ burst in Patrick.

  ‘Yes,’ he mused. ‘Ms Bailly didn’t seem too surprised. She told me it was often “on the blink” – to use her exact words.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t she get it sorted?’ said Patrick.

  ‘She didn’t seem to view it as a priority,’ said Buttler.

  Sara looked over to Patrick. ‘Rayah will be able to confirm the timings, she was in the office when I got back.’

  ‘You mean Ms Yaseen,’ said Buttler.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ms Yaseen,’ said Buttler smoothly, Sara smelling another unwelcome surprise, ‘has stated that you returned to the office around 6.30 p.m. and then left sometime around 7.15, 7.20 p.m., shortly before she herself departed for the evening.’

  ‘Then at least you have that,’ said Sara frostily.

  ‘She was, however, unable to confirm that you had actually left the building.’

  ‘What else would I have been doing?’

  ‘Ms Shah, I am only laying out what we know for sure and what we don’t.’

  ‘How do you know Rayah herself left?’ said Sara.

  ‘Fair point.’ Buttler made a show of an agreeable concession. ‘And we will be checking her phone records too and her friends’ confirmation of her arrival time.’ He smiled, as if none of the three of them should be in the slightest bit worried at the direction his train of thought was taking. ‘There is one final curiosity,’ he resumed. ‘Miss Shah, did you notice any particular smell when you discovered the body.’

  That whiff of paraffin hit her like a dart. She wasn’t prepared for the question or where it could lead. ‘I’d just stumbled across the dead, half-naked body of a man I had been having a professional conversation with some four hours earlier. I hope you’ll forgive me if my senses were numbed.’

  ‘I quite understand. Perhaps you could answer my question.’

  ‘Mr Buttler,’ interrupted Patrick, ‘you’re going over a certain mark of which you’re well aware and I must ask you again either to desist or move to a formal procedure.’

  Buttler turned to him, all twinkles and humour banished. ‘No more questions after this, Mr Duke. I assure you again it’s in all our interests to get to the end of this.’

  ‘It’s OK, Patrick,’ said Sara. ‘Whatever track he’s on, it’s wrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Shah. So?’

  ‘I’m sure there were smells of different sorts but I was too shocked by what I was seeing to notice any.’

  ‘The reason I ask is that clear evidence has been found of a medical cleanser, perhaps some form of paraffin-based wipes, on the bared skin of the naked man, mainly around his private parts, pubic hair and lower belly.’ Sara began to see the trap – and how neatly it must have been laid. ‘The obvious explanation is that another person was with Sir Francis and cleaned that skin in order to avoid the possibility of any residual DNA evidence of their presence.’ Buttler paused; Sara and Patrick watched him silently. ‘The implication is that the other person or persons present feared residues of their body fluids may have been present and wished to eliminate them.’

  ‘Unless Morahan cleaned himself before expiring,’ said Patrick.

  Buttler displayed the world-weariness Patrick had seen before. ‘I don’t think that would be a likely order of events, Mr Duke.’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick flatly. ‘I can see the potential significance of that evidence. It does indeed point to a second party being present during the events that preceded the death. What I cannot see is why you have dragged Ms Shah down here to follow a line of detection which has absolutely nothing to do with her.’ He paused for emphasis. ‘And without providing an iota of credible evidence for it.’

  ‘Ms Shah,’ continued Buttler, ignoring him, ‘saw Sir Francis early that evening. She says she was summoned back to his office though we can find no corroboration of that. Then she became the person who found him.’ Buttler turned to Sara, adopting his most sympathetic expression. ‘I’m a simple person, Ms Shah, with what you might think is a simple mind. But in my experience it’s the simple explanation that is often right. So let me suggest one that has the advantage of chiming with the known facts. After you left the office around 7.20 p.m., you waited in the local area until Ms Yaseen departed. You returned to the office, as you and Sir Francis had arranged. You had a sexual encounter which eventually led to his accidental and unfortunate death. Understandably frightened by this, you fabricated a text with the aim of showing you only returned to the office later in the evening for work reasons. If this, in outline, is what happened, now is the time to tell me. There will be no legal consequence, no charges. You will have committed no offence. The only offence you’re in danger of committing is if you withhold evidence which would assist us in resolving the cause of death.’

  Sara raised her eyes at Buttler, engaging him with ferocious intent. ‘Look at me, Mr Buttler,’ she said. ‘Who do you see?’

  ‘I see an attractive, intelligent young woman, Ms Shah.’
<
br />   ‘You’re wrong. You see someone who is committed to their work and who lives their life according to a certain set of ethical and religious rules.’

  ‘I can’t allow appearances to stand in the way of resolving this tragic event.’

  ‘You’ve a job to do. I understand the suspicions you must allow yourself to have. But you must understand that, being the person I am, your theory is wholly impossible.’ The flatness of her words was laced with a quiet fury.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Shah,’ said Buttler, brushing off the anger he perceived and now breezy again. ‘I’m grateful to you and Mr Duke for allowing me this conversation.’ He stood up and they followed suit. ‘If you have any reason to change your mind or your memory produces any further recollections, just give me a ring.’ He took out two cards and gave one to each of them. ‘You know where to find me.’ He ushered them out of the room, through the CID office and shook hands at the front lobby. ‘As I say, I’m always here.’

  Sara and Patrick left the station in silence, neither wanting to speak first.

  ‘I try not to see wickedness,’ she finally said, ‘but sometimes I despise this world.’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Patrick, nodding to a café over the road. They wove their way between stationary traffic to the opposite pavement. ‘I’ll get.’ She sat down on a plastic-cushioned chair at an unwashed melamine table. ‘The waitress will bring them.’ He sat opposite and forced a smile; she didn’t return it.

  She gave him the headlines of her conversation with Iona Morahan. ‘I always had this feeling,’ she said, ‘there was something buried within Sir Francis. Even though I could never have imagined what it was.’

  ‘God,’ said Patrick. ‘What bastards they were. It was pure blackmail.’

  ‘Yes. Illegal and unforgivable.’ She paused. ‘Iona’s confession to me was in confidence. I suppose I’m breaking it telling you. But it means I can’t use it to refute Buttler. Mind you, he’d probably say his Lordship liked it both ways.’

  Patrick frowned. ‘Yes, he probably would.’

  ‘So…’ she said. ‘I’ve been set up.’

  ‘Maybe. But, if so, it’s a frightener. In the end, the evidence would never hold.’

  ‘You’re being too imprecise.’ She was curt, almost hostile.

  ‘Let’s work it out. Forget paranoia and all that. Explore every angle.’

  She looked down at her coffee, warming her hands on the cup. Though the day was balmy, she shivered. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Someone has to have been with Morahan for whatever sex act took place.’

  ‘Assuming there was one. The medical cleanser could be a feint.’

  ‘That’s smart.’ He paused. ‘A suffocation dressed up as an auto-erotic accident.’

  ‘Yes. Another tack. I hate myself for asking this. How well do you know Rayah?’

  ‘If you’re hinting at that, I never picked anything up over the past months.’

  ‘She’s full-on,’ said Sara. ‘Say he did go both ways – she might not think twice about giving an influential man what he wanted in exchange for a favour.’

  ‘Not like you then,’ said Patrick with the familiar grin. He intended it lightly but she remained stony-faced. ‘Sorry, Sara, I was just trying—’

  ‘You don’t need to “try” with me.’ The silence returned.

  ‘I’m just a bloody idiot sometimes.’

  She relaxed and stretched a hand across the table, placing it on the back of his hand. ‘It’s OK. You were trying to lighten up. Just don’t bother.’ She withdrew the hand.

  ‘Understood,’ he murmured. ‘So… I guess our friend Buttler could build the same scenario with Rayah as he’s done for you. Probably already has.’

  ‘Let’s hope one of her friends checked their watch when she arrived at her party.’

  ‘Then there’s the text message.’

  ‘I did get it,’ said Sara with untypical emphasis.

  ‘Of course you got it.’ He edged nearer. ‘You don’t think for one minute I—’

  ‘No. It’s just that I feel I’m living through some kind of madness. You begin to mistrust yourself.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ said Patrick sharply.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘What have you done with the files?’

  ‘There’s a copy in safe storage. It’s better you don’t know where.’

  ‘What about the originals? The original photocopies, I mean. I’ll need them.’

  ‘I reckoned the safest place for them is my desk in the office. They won’t go there again.’

  For the first time, Sara managed a smile. ‘Well, if they do, at least we’ll know for sure, won’t we?’ She drained her coffee. ‘Back to the office?’

  ‘No, home. Who needs the media gauntlet?’

  They walked into the street, simultaneously looking around and behind. They caught each other in the act and exchanged rueful grins.

  ‘What was it we were to get shot of?’ she asked gently. ‘Paranoia?’

  ‘As a man once said, just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. I’m heading for the tube.’

  ‘Think I may walk for a while. I need to blow off some steam.’

  ‘OK.’ He grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Sara, if there’s anything you know, anything you’re not telling me, any tiny bit of info, any strangenesses, weird calls, whatever, you’ve got to tell me.’ He released his grip and she stood back from him.

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘You’re right. Things have changed. I’m going to look after you.’

  ‘I can look after myself, Patrick.’

  ‘How did I know you were going to say just that?’

  He turned smartly on his heel and strode off in the direction of Kennington tube. Sara wished she’d known him for years, not just a few days. She still could not fully read him – and he seemed to send different signals at different times.

  One thing she felt sure of – she was safe with him. He was a good man; the issue was whether he was a strong or a weak man.

  Clouds swelling with menace were gathering as she turned back for the second time that day into Webster Road. Head down, she upped her pace to beat the imminent burst of rain.

  As she put her key in the lock and began to turn, the front door flew open. Behind it stood her father, glaring.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘See that car?’ He was pointing at a black Ford Galaxy a few spaces along the street.

  She followed the line of his finger. Inside were two men, sitting side by side, doing nothing. One of their heads turned towards them. She glared back, determined not to show alarm. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Reckon I’ve seen it here before. See those men inside?’

  Sara affected to look more thoroughly. Should she tell him? ‘Maybe I did. Last night. But nothing to worry about. Probably just minicab drivers waiting for a hire.’

  ‘They’re not local,’ said Tariq. ‘I don’t like it. I’m going to check it out.’

  ‘No, Dad, leave it,’ she said with force. But he was away, too late to stop him.

  She watched as he neared the car and tapped on the driver’s window. It was lowered and words exchanged; she knew her father’s would be querulous. She should somehow have stopped him. The passenger got out, came round and approached Tariq. He was big and broad, the playground bully standing over his prey. He bent down, whispered briefly in Tariq’s ear and straightened, holding his ground. Tariq took a step back, appeared to say a few words, put his hands together, bowed and withdrew. The window slid back up; the passenger returned to his seat. The car remained silent and still.

  The cloudburst broke as he retraced his steps. ‘Let’s get inside,’ he said, rejoining her, rain flattening his hair, fear creasing his face. ‘What’s going on, Sara?’

  ‘What did they say, Dad? Who were they?’

  ‘Not sure. One was a Scottish-sounding gentleman, the other rougher, London rough. They told me to be careful what I said,
all they were doing was keeping an eye on you for your own safety. For your protection. I said I was quite capable of protecting you. Then the big fellow who got out whispered in my ear, “You just keep out of it, little man. This is way, way above your pay grade. Now you just fucking get inside that house of yours and stop asking questions.” I tell you, Sara, he frightened me. He was scary.’

  She put her arms on his shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. You should never be near any of this.’

  ‘Of what, for heaven’s sake? It’s that Morahan. His letter to you. Him dying so strangely. You should not have got involved. I should never have encouraged you.’

  She hugged him and drew back. ‘It’s fine, I promise. I too don’t know what it’s all about yet but it will blow over. His death was an accident. Some people get a little over-excited, that’s all.’

  He frowned. ‘I wish I could be sure. For God’s sake, take care.’

  ‘I will. But there’s nothing to fear for me. Maybe it’s for the best. Now I must go up and work. I’ll get something from the fridge to eat.’

  She walked into the kitchen, opened the door and stooped to the crisper at the bottom. From it, she retrieved the envelope she’d concealed there. Grabbing an apple she had no desire to eat, she turned angrily and headed for the stairs. The secret state could try scaring her off – but she wouldn’t let it touch her father.

  Shadowy figures sitting at a table in the foreground. Three facing front-on in a diagonal line of the camera’s sight – a thickset man, outline of a rough beard, wearing a dark jacket, maybe leather. Two other males, hard to make out more. Opposite, nearest to the camera, just the sides and backs of their heads showing, three more figures. Furthest right a woman, wearing a scarf, its colour undefined; in the middle a second woman with long hair in black silhouette and jacket; on the left, sitting upright and gesticulating, wearing a collarless tunic, a jet-haired man with a trim beard running from sideburns round the point of his chin.

  She inserted the cassette into the dictaphone and pressed replay. She continued her listening of the recorded fragmentary conversation. The majority of the time, it appeared to be picking up the voice of the jet-haired man. She assumed he was the main target of the surveillance. The assumption, and its possible implications, appalled her. The tape hissed on; she forced herself to stay alert, to try to disentangle words and sentences that signified anything.