The Inquiry Read online

  ‘What were your first impressions of him?’

  ‘I thought he was somewhat scruffy. I was initially more interested that he was carrying a case from my flat, neatly packed with clothing, a washbag, an assembly of necessities from my bathroom.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘Perhaps that was cheaper too – saved them buying new.’

  ‘They entered your flat.’

  ‘Yes, burglary. Add that to the charge sheet.’ Patrick produced a slim notepad and pencil from his chest pocket. ‘Put it away, there is no need.’ He paused. ‘I realise this will get me nowhere – I understand what they call deniability.’

  ‘We have laws in this country.’

  Kareem shook his head with a dismissive smile. ‘We will not debate that. J introduced himself, told me his position at MI5, and declared how delighted he was to meet me in person after observing me for so long. I assured him that the pleasure was entirely mine. Then he dangled his bait – I remember the words verbatim. “You are free to leave this flat any time you wish,” he began. “However, should you do so, you will be immediately arrested by the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police. There is sufficient evidence, legally obtained through the correct warrants, for you to be given a double-digit prison sentence for money-laundering and conspiracy to finance and commit terrorist acts. I am here to suggest that we spend a little time discussing an alternative. From something you recently said to one of your colleagues, I think that you might be interested.”’

  Kareem stood up abruptly, grabbed the pack of cigarettes even though the first one was still burning in the ashtray and walked over to the glass doors. He stared out, reflecting, it seemed, on the immensity of his predicament. For a moment the veneer of pride dulled briefly with a dropping of his shoulders. He straightened and swivelled.

  ‘Join me,’ he commanded. Patrick moved alongside him by the glass. ‘These panels open. If I ask, we can step outside, the rain has stopped. What do you see there?’

  Patrick decided not to play clever. ‘A table. Metal fretwork. Matching chairs. Brick walls. A wisteria that’s shed its flowers.’

  ‘I meant – what do you see?’ repeated Kareem.

  ‘If you insist. There’s no apparent way out.’

  ‘Well done, Patrick.’

  ‘Unless J’s bluffing.’

  Kareem smiled gently. ‘Are you even allowed to suggest that?’

  ‘I told you, I’m here for you.’

  ‘He was not bluffing.’

  ‘Do you have regrets?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Kareem. ‘Be careful where you tread.’

  The guard was back up; Patrick understood this man had no desire for friendship. Any relationship was professional only. ‘You want legal help. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Further conversations have taken place. It turns out that they are, in effect, offering me a job.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘That is not for you.’

  ‘What is for me?’

  ‘I want you to arrange a contract. A proper legal contract.’

  ‘He wanted a contract!’ Sara exclaimed, allowing herself to shout against the noise of splashing and passing buses and lorries.

  As soon as the rain had ceased, Patrick had insisted they move on; they were now on the Albert Embankment riverside pavement heading towards Lambeth Bridge where, he said, they would cross the river and complete the circuit. Sara was unsure whether Patrick’s ‘passing the police station’ theory was invention, convenience or learnt expertise. As his route took in MI6, the approaches to the Houses of Parliament and MI5, it was certainly thorough. Perhaps the real reason, which he’d left unstated for her sake, was that safety was best found in high-profile public places. None of this stopped her regularly looking around and behind; nor, she noted, did it stop him.

  ‘A contract,’ she repeated more softly. ‘For a man who, by his own admission, would be found guilty of terrorist conspiracy in a court of law.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘But he was canny. He must have seen how much they wanted him. J would have played it cool, but I wondered at the time whether Isobel Le Marchant had betrayed desperation.’

  ‘To beat the bombers or get herself to the top?’

  ‘That’s unusually cynical of you, Sara. She’s a woman in a man’s world and she’s made it. Dame Isobel Le Marchant, Director General of MI5.’

  ‘Not the first one though,’ said Sara. ‘Or even the second.’

  ‘Quite so. After they’d allowed it twice, how much harder it must have been for her to complete the hat-trick. She would have needed constant success.’

  ‘But we don’t know what that “success” was. Or what Kareem’s job was to be.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to assume that all Sayyid’s clues and information connect,’ said Sara. ‘So he’s operating out of some kind of interrogation base as “the Adviser”. And the Blackburn files are a window into it.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Patrick. ‘Glimpses. But no more. No sense of the scale Sayyid’s suggesting. Or where his activities – whatever they precisely were – end up.’

  ‘No. We’ve lost Morahan, we’ve almost certainly lost Sayyid too. Maybe we’ve lost ourselves.’

  Before Patrick had time to respond, her mobile rang. ‘Hello… Are you there? Who is this?’

  She shot a puzzled look at Patrick, shaking her head. She jerked up, on instant alert, marching forward in excitement, Patrick the one now keeping up. ‘Yes, Mrs Green… She really does, does she?… You think straightaway… tomorrow, yes, I’ll come, I’ll change plans… Thank you, I’ll jot it down…’ She gestured to Patrick to pass her pen and paper and began frantically to write. ‘Yes, I understand, I’ll try not to… Midday tomorrow then… Thank you so much, Mrs Green, goodbye.’

  She put the phone away, buried her face in her hands and stopped in her tracks, leaning against the railings overlooking the river. Patrick waited for the seconds to pass. ‘I heard breathing. It felt like a woman. Then her mother took the receiver.’

  ‘Hold on, Sara. Who?’

  ‘Marion. Maryam.’

  ‘The other woman in the photograph?’

  His question went unanswered. ‘Why?’ she murmured. ‘How?’ He’d never seen her eyes wild like this. ‘The paparazzi. She must have seen the photo of me… of me and you. I guess it was in papers everywhere. Then all the TV coverage.’ She paused. ‘But she’s got my mobile number. What does she want from me?’

  He moved close to her. She seemed brittle, a twig on the verge of snapping.

  ‘Does it connect to whatever you haven’t told me about Kareem?’ he asked gently.

  She stayed silent, thinking back to that one time they’d met – the subdued, fragile young woman in Kareem’s thrall. Yes, of course. It had to be. The girl who became the epitome of beauty Sami once beheld. Now she could imagine how he must have been stirred – and terrified. She harked back again to the dinner. A faint memory of passing a scrap of paper with her number on it. Her phones had changed… but her number always stayed the same.

  Her moment of reverie was interrupted. ‘Remember,’ said Patrick, ‘all you’ve said is that you once had a dinner conversation with Kareem, purely by coincidence, and that he recognised you.’ He hesitated. ‘You must know the tape suggests you weren’t total strangers.’

  They locked eyes. ‘Let me see her first.’

  ‘I should come with you.’

  ‘No. This time, I’m going alone.’

  18

  ‘I’ll drive you there and back,’ said Tariq Shah.

  ‘Dad, it’s miles,’ replied Sara. ‘You can take me to Clapham Junction.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be on your own. Not after those men in the car.’

  Tariq fiddled with a shortbread biscuit, dunking it in and out of his evening mug of tea, unsure how inquisitive his daughter might allow him to be. ‘What’s the truth of it all, Sara?’

  ‘Dad, I honestly don’t know. It was probably just
a heart attack.’

  ‘Was he found the way they’re saying? Horrible thing for you to witness. Disgusting.’

  ‘We can’t always see into the minds and bodies of others.’ She laid a hand on his palm. ‘It will soon calm down. Those men haven’t been back, have they?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said forlornly. ‘But how do we know?’ He jumped up from this seat, as if to deliver a speech to her. ‘I still don’t think you should be travelling alone to all ends of the country interviewing people you’ve never met. How do you know there won’t be an axe-man in the cellar waiting to pounce?’

  She laughed, putting her hands on his shoulders. ‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour. It’s a sleepy village in Devon, not downtown Kabul.’

  ‘They may be inbred. You don’t know what these English country bumpkins get up to when the moon is out.’

  She gave him a kiss. ‘The train leaves at 8.10. A lift to the station would be lovely.’ The kiss became a quick hug and, as she broke away and headed upstairs, he stirred his tea gloomily and munched the biscuit.

  The taxi took her through Honiton’s picture-book high street, lined with olde-worlde antique shops and whole-food cafés, into the beginnings of a long, wide valley. It was enfolded by gently rising, luxuriantly green fields, divided by orderly hedgerows and dotted with copses of beech and birch. A comforting landscape, the hills of Devon not too intimidating, the horizon open without being endless, the ridges tapering harmoniously into a serene blue sky. On this bright day, it was an arm of England extending an affectionate hug. A place where a fractured mind might come to heal.

  A tiny doubt seized her. Could she be heading into some kind of trap? Surely not – Mrs Green’s voice and accent matched this gentle patch of conformity. Yet how had she known… the taxi, slowing down to go through a small gate, arrested the thought.

  Sara stepped out onto a short gravel driveway leading to a perfectly white bungalow, its flawless paintwork reflecting the sun. She walked up the drive, stopping at a window to adjust her blue scarf to reveal just the front fold of her hair and rang the doorbell. Though its ding-dong was loud and clear, there was no answer. She counted the seconds, then, more as a nervous tic, took her phone from her handbag and checked her diary. There was no false memory of place, date or time. She rang the bell again. A flurry of footsteps on gravel followed immediately.

  A shortish figure, grey hair, spectacles hanging over a check shirt, appeared breathlessly from around the side of the house. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you waiting.’

  Sara recognised the voice from the phone call. ‘Not at all. Mrs Green?’

  ‘Yes.’ She raised the glasses and gave her a quick look up and down. ‘And you’re Sara, of course.’ She did not offer a hand to shake, appearing in too much of a hurry to retrace her steps. ‘I’ve been trying to get Marion to sit outside. She probably won’t.’

  Sara’s expression spelt a silent question.

  ‘Agoraphobia. At least that’s what the diagnosis became. Though it might have been given several names as it’s so unpredictable. One consultant said she was suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. It was part of the reason to find this place for her – the hope that if any surrounding wouldn’t frighten her, this might be it. No noise or cars, no endless sea or expanses, but not too enclosed either.’

  ‘I didn’t know…’ began Sara.

  ‘Why would you?’ Her response sounded severe; Sara suspected it was just her manner, aggravated by the suffering and frustration of dealing with a damaged daughter. Mrs Green offered a handshake. ‘Sorry, it takes me over. I don’t like formality. Call me Elizabeth.’

  ‘How long has Marion… Maryam…’

  ‘Stick to Marion – though it can change.’

  ‘How long has she had this?’

  ‘Since we got her back. Off and on.’ Elizabeth Green sighed. ‘Over ten years now. Almost eleven, in fact.’

  ‘You got her back?’

  Elizabeth did not elaborate. ‘Come and ask her yourself. I don’t know what you’ll get out of her. It goes up and down.’

  They stepped through French windows into a sitting room. Sara itched to ask how they’d known where to find her but she sensed that Mrs Green wanted to get straight back to her daughter; it would be a mistake to interrupt her. She must bide her time; maybe it would emerge naturally.

  A wispy figure, holding one hand to the side of her face, sat on an armchair at right angles to the invading shafts of sunlight. Elizabeth headed for a sofa opposite and gestured Sara to sit down beside her. The woman in the chair was skeletally thin, wearing a pale cotton blouse which drooped over small breasts and a loose-fitting white skirt. Though the day was fine and the sun strong, Sara could feel the artificial warmth of radiators. She stole a look at Elizabeth, seeking her guidance; it was returned with a nod.

  ‘Hello, Marion,’ Sara said quietly. The face opposite raised itself and the hand moved from the right cheek to rub both eyes. She squinted, trying to focus. ‘I’m Sara. We met once. You… your mother… phoned me.’

  ‘Yes, of course, of course.’ The face was suddenly animated, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Sara. Sara Shah. You came.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Mama, it’s Sara Shah, have you met her?’

  ‘Yes, darling, we introduced ourselves. When I mentioned her name to you, you said you wanted to see her.’

  ‘Did I? Yes, I think I did.’

  ‘Why did you want to see me, Marion?’ asked Sara.

  ‘Don’t you know? You must know. My Kareem. He talked about you sometimes.’

  ‘He talked about me?’

  ‘Oh yes, all the time.’ Marion stretched out her left hand to a photograph in a silver frame on a side table and handed it to Sara. ‘Shareef. Our son.’

  Sara stared at the photograph of a boy around ten or eleven years old, she guessed, with the unmistakable features of his father; the straight lines of jaw, chin and nose, the full head of wavy black hair and dark brown eyes staring soulfully into the camera. Only his skin was different, a tone or two lighter.

  ‘He’s a beautiful boy, Marion.’ She handed the photo back; Marion held it close to her face, her eyes relaxing as she silently and absently gazed at it.

  Sara saw that the true child was Marion. She wondered whether to break into the reverie or let it pass and again looked to Elizabeth for instruction. This time the response was a shrug. Sara told herself there was no point in coming here if she did not at least try.

  ‘Did you live with Kareem, Marion?’

  Marion stared into the middle distance. Using Sami’s information, Sara risked a further hunch. ‘Do you remember the place where you lived? Was it like a farm?’

  ‘A farm.’ Marion paused – it seemed she was now making a rational effort to remember. Her eyes lit up. ‘Yes. A big farm. Down in the dark valley. Hills all around. Our high table in the big hall.’

  ‘What was your high table for?’

  ‘It was exciting. He said it was our new mission. I would be his queen.’

  ‘What was the mission?’

  Marion’s face distorted into an ugly combination of menace and thrill. ‘To find traitors. We were hunting traitors.’

  ‘Traitors to what?’

  ‘Traitors, traitors, traitors.’ Her eyes whipped past Sara and Elizabeth onto the interior wall opposite. ‘I went to see them in the cells. When he told me to.’

  ‘Was one of them called Sami?’

  Marion concentrated ever more fiercely on the wall. Sara wondered whether she was hiding in its blank space or some kind of vision was appearing on it.

  ‘Yes, Sami. And others. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘What did Kareem tell you to do?’

  ‘He wanted them to confess.’

  ‘Confess to what?’

  ‘Confess,’ she repeated, her voice draining away. Her face dropped, both hands closed over it, and a frantic nodding overwhelmed her. ‘There was screaming, the animals screaming,’ she wailed.
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  ‘Enough,’ said Elizabeth quietly. She went over to her daughter, wrapped her arms around her body and pulled her close. ‘It’s all right, Marion.’ She stroked the back of her rocking head. ‘You don’t need to do this. You’re safe now.’ The agitation subsided; Marion sunk into her chair, reverting to the drooping figure Sara had seen when she’d entered the room.

  Elizabeth pulled herself away. ‘Come into the kitchen, I’ll make coffee.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s not unusual. It used to be panic attacks, sweats, dizziness, racing heartbeats, yelling that she’s going to die. Now she tends to do this. Her way of coping, not as bad as it looks.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Sometimes I think she might mend.’

  Elizabeth shut the kitchen door behind them – its top half was a broad pane of glass with Marion’s chair in its line of sight. ‘We’ll never know exactly what happened. The psychiatrists rather enjoy the mystery of the different causes of agoraphobia. And the different effects it can have. A sudden shock, violence, living under the constant oppression of a man like him—’

  ‘Did you believe he was violent?’

  Elizabeth, busying herself with setting cups and saucers on a tray, did not immediately reply. She stopped fiddling, put hands on hips and looked severely at Sara. ‘I think I should know what you’re really in search of, young lady.’

  ‘Yes, you have every right to. But first, would you mind telling me how and why you got in touch with me? I assume it must have been that photograph in the newspapers.’

  ‘Photograph?’ Elizabeth, puzzled, picked up a mobile from a shelf. ‘It’s Marion’s. I keep it with me when she’s like this.’ She clicked, scrolled and clicked again. ‘Read this.’

  Dear Marion. Sara Shah would like to get in touch and meet up with you. You may remember seeing her some years ago at a dinner. And I expect Kareem talked to you about her. She’s now a lawyer. I think it may be helpful for you to see her. It will give you a greater understanding. I will text you her mobile number separately.