The Inquiry Page 21

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’ Elizabeth demanded.

  ‘No,’ said Sara, hoping her surprise – and shock – didn’t show. ‘It’s extremely odd.’

  ‘It certainly is. I thought you may be able to throw light on it.’

  ‘No… I’ll try to think who it might be…’ She detected a trace of anger in her interrogator and knew the inadequacy of her response. ‘Did you try to reply to it?’

  ‘Yes. But the message didn’t get through for some reason. I tried again but no good. Not that it mattered,’ said Elizabeth, checking on Marion through the glass. ‘I googled your name and “lawyer” and found your Chambers’ website. There was a short announcement saying that you were being seconded for three months to the Morahan Inquiry.’

  ‘I didn’t realise my Chambers had done that,’ said Sara. Not that that mattered now either – the press photograph had destroyed any attempt at discretion. Still stunned by the anonymous text, she was grateful that Elizabeth seemed to be taking charge.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ continued Elizabeth. ‘I felt perhaps that enabling Marion to speak to you might unlock something that could help her. I fear it hasn’t.’

  Sara told herself to concentrate only on Elizabeth. ‘At least she talked. And coherently…’

  ‘Until the animal screams came.’

  ‘The screams may have been real.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Elizabeth asked sharply. ‘Does Marion have anything to fear?’ Elizabeth Green could be intimidating, thought Sara, wondering whether that might once have affected her daughter. ‘I promise you, Marion will never be drawn into this.’

  ‘Drawn into what exactly? That’s my point.’ She hesitated. ‘After locating you, I read up on the Morahan Inquiry. To be honest, I was the one who really wanted to meet you. Selfish of me perhaps.’

  ‘Why selfish?’

  ‘Because Marion’s interest should be paramount. And I may not have allowed it to be.’

  ‘I’m glad you made contact, Mrs Green—’

  ‘Elizabeth. Please.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Elizabeth allowed a reconciliatory smile and took the tray to a kitchen table. From there too, the reclined figure of Marion remained visible. ‘I said you have every right to know what I’m doing,’ continued Sara. ‘It seems that Kareem may be relevant to the Inquiry. He may have had some kind of involvement with extremist imams, vetting potential recruits for their so-called jihad. But it’s hazy and there’s no such thing as a reliable witness when one tries to probe.’

  Elizabeth took a sip of coffee and a quick glance at her daughter. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Sara’s antennae went on red alert. ‘Don’t know what, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Whether to tell you.’

  ‘I beg you to. You have my promise that what you tell me will be treated in confidence.’

  ‘You see, we went there.’

  ‘Where?’ Sara asked softly, hiding her excitement.

  ‘It was June 2007. Marion had drifted away from us – we’d heard nothing from her for two years. About 5.30 a.m. one day the phone went. Normally we’d have ignored it but for some reason my husband, Denis – he’s died since…’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Yes, I always feel it’s what killed him… anyway he must have been awake – always rose with the lark – and went downstairs to answer it. It was a short call. He came up and simply said, “She needs rescuing.” That’s all, he was so shaken. He said, “I’m going now.” I said, “I’m coming with you.” He tried to stop me. “I know it’s that man and I might kill him,” he said. “That’s exactly why I’m coming,” I said.’

  ‘“That man” meaning Kareem,’ suggested Sara.

  ‘Yes. We’d only met him twice. He came to stay with us once here in Devon. It was August 2001. We had rather a nice country house but I sold it after Denis died to find something more practical for Marion and the boy. And me, as it’s turned out…’

  ‘August 2001? Are you sure?’ Sara chided herself for allowing any consternation to slip.

  ‘Of course, why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she said, trying to recover. ‘Just seems so long ago.’

  ‘Not to me. He was unforgettable. Charming, polite, extraordinarily handsome. But a skin and soul of polished armour. You had no idea what might lie beneath. You could see she was hanging on his every word, obeying every command. Because command is what it felt like when he addressed her.’ Elizabeth was in thrall to a remembered image that seemed to burst into life before her.

  ‘And the second time?’

  ‘We’d come up to London, staying in Denis’s club as usual. We’d phoned ahead – normally Marion was busy but this time she accepted our offer of dinner and asked if she could bring him. Of course, we said. It was autumn 2003. Apart from the beard – at least it was neatly trimmed – his appearance hadn’t changed. He was courteous, but aloof. No small talk. The only time he became engaged was to give us a lecture on the folly of British and American foreign policy. As it happened, we found little to disagree with but he delivered it with an air of superiority that Denis found insufferable. “I’ve got to get her away from that man,” he said later. I told him there was nothing to do but lie low and wait, she’d have to see through him for herself.’

  ‘Was Marion working?’ asked Sara. She calculated the timeline of Kareem’s progress, fitting it into Patrick’s chronology. The simultaneities of the summer of 2001 would have to wait.

  ‘She’d given up at the hedge fund and I think she just trailed after him. She had a little money of her own but he clearly had plenty, though I never gathered what he actually did to earn it.’

  ‘I suspect he didn’t need to.’

  Elizabeth peeped through the door glass and went into the sitting room. Sara watched her raise Marion in her seat and puff up the cushion behind her. She placed a book, a marker inserted a few pages in, onto her lap, took her right hand and lay it on the cover. A mother who was not ready to give up the quest to repair her daughter’s mind.

  She returned to the kitchen with a quizzical expression. ‘Did you know Kareem?’ she asked.

  The question came from nowhere; Sara felt it like an arrow to the heart. ‘No,’ she smartly replied. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You seem awfully well-informed about him.’

  Sara raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I? I hope so. Certain things have come to light. It’s my job to pull them together.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you any of this. This kitchen’s becoming a confessional.’

  ‘If so, I am the priest. It all stays between you and me.’

  ‘All?’

  Sara found herself unable to lie. ‘All except one thing. The location of this so-called farm. I will never say how I got the information.’

  ‘And today never happened.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’ Elizabeth allowed herself to relax, her mind made up, and paused to summon the energy and memory for her story. ‘Marion did one clever thing. She’d remembered the postcode. I assume she got it from his SatNav – they were a relative rarity then but that young man always equipped himself with the latest gadgets.’ Realising she must allow the flow, Sara stopped herself asking if she still had the postcode. ‘All she’d said to Denis was, “I’ve got to get out”. He asked her, “Where, Marion, where are you?” She gave him the postcode, whispered, “I can hear him coming,” and the phone went dead. We chucked a few things in a case, he drove far too fast up the M5, onto the M4 and across the River Severn. I remember the low sun behind us lighting the gateway into Wales. Denis liked toys too so he also had a SatNav. By 8 a.m. we were past Abergavenny and Brecon, imagining her captive somewhere in that mass of green. I couldn’t get death out of my mind and kept imagining those rounded mountain tops as giant burial mounds.’

  Elizabeth broke off, still, eleven years later, shivering with the dread that had beset her that morning. She walked over to t
he window, staring out at the postage stamp of front lawn for a few seconds and then returned to refill the kettle. ‘God, I think I might need something stronger to get through all this.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Sara.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t drink but don’t let me stand in your way.’

  Elizabeth inspected her again and smiled weakly. ‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m afraid I find it helps.’ She went into the sitting room, reappeared with a bottle of gin and took a cold can of tonic from the fridge.

  Watching her pour, Sara decided the moment was right. ‘Do you still have the postcode?’

  Elizabeth pinged open the tonic. ‘Yes, you’re bound to ask that. The answer is no but I can show you near enough on a map.’ She brought her drink to the table and sat down. ‘Now you know where, do you need more?’

  ‘It all helps. So much is about understanding him.’

  ‘It must have been around nine that we found ourselves crawling down a narrow lane. The SatNav got us this far but they can’t have had the precision of today – so we were following instinct. We passed one or two single barns and sheds but they didn’t feel big or cared-for enough for someone like Kareem. I remember Denis saying it must also be secured; we should look for locked gates. We travelled up and down a couple of times – one wonders now whether he had spotters watching us – and then off a track and just beyond a stone pillar, we saw a possibility. Denis turned down it and there it was. A solid double gate with two CCTV cameras at each corner and an entry phone. He got out of the car and pushed the buzzer. No answer. He tried again. Still no answer. He pushed a third time; when there was still no answer he yelled into the speaker phone that if no one came to the gate he would ram it with the car and force entry himself.’

  ‘Would he have?’

  ‘He might have, his blood was up. I kept quiet. Any interference from me would have made it worse. The gate began to swing open. And there was Kareem, dressed in a sweater and jeans. It was hard to say if he was smiling or smirking.’

  ‘Not wearing anything more ceremonial?’ asked Sara. ‘Like a robe or tunic.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything like that. Denis said, “I want my daughter back.” Didn’t even bother with a hello. Kareem – he was as cool and urbane as ever – replied, “Your daughter chooses to stay here with me.” “That’s not what she told me four hours ago,” said Denis. Kareem claimed she’d just had a scare in the night and was fine now. Denis marched towards what looked like the front door. “I would rather you did not go there, Mr Green,” warned Kareem. “You would be trespassing.” “If you don’t allow me to see my daughter within the next thirty seconds,” Denis said, “I’ll summon the police and report you for kidnapping.” I remember Kareem gave him the strangest smile. “That will be difficult as your mobile phone will receive no signal here.” He seemed remarkably confident – as if he was untouchable. Then, unaccountably, he changed tack. “Of course you may see your daughter, Mr Green. But may I remind you that we are here for calm retreat, which you are interrupting.”’

  ‘What sort of place was it?’ asked Sara.

  ‘I could only judge from the outside. What seemed the main house was dark stone, leaded windows, coal-coloured slate roof. Then at right angles there was a sort of barn but again stone-built, each end whitewashed. A series of outbuildings stretched off, piggeries and stabling, I imagine. It was a decent-sized complex. If it wasn’t for the idea of Kareem as a working farmer being absurd, it would have been just a farm in the middle of nowhere. But his demeanour and the security made it seem like some sort of cult centre.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. Sorry, I interrupted.’

  ‘It was odd. After all the bravado, it fizzled out. Kareem said he would fetch Maryam – as he called her – and asked us to wait outside. His greatest anxiety was that we shouldn’t go inside. I felt he’d made a quick decision. He wouldn’t fight to keep her. When he reappeared through the front door with her a few minutes later, she was carrying a suitcase. He turned to her almost off-handedly; “Here is your father, Maryam, he has come to collect you.” As if she wasn’t worth the fuss and he didn’t care too much. She’d served her purpose and he’d wrung her dry.’

  Elizabeth raised her glass with an unsteady hand and drank. ‘You’re the first person I’ve described it to in such detail. There was never a reason to. Marion was just another of life’s casualties.’

  ‘Did she speak about it?’ asked Sara. ‘At the time, I mean. Before the shock fully set in.’

  ‘No. That was the sadness. On that four-hour journey home, she didn’t say a word. Not one. I sat in the back trying to engage her. She let me put an arm round her but that was it. I noticed her wrists were heavily bruised and asked her why. She didn’t reply. Then, just as we turned into the drive at home, she looked up at me, said, “I’m going to have a baby,” and started to cry.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes glistened and a single tear crept down a cheek. She reached for a tissue, wiped it off and blew her nose. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sara.

  ‘Don’t be. He’s a nice boy. She just hasn’t been able to be a mother to him. He’s at boarding school now and I look after him here during holidays. So I’ve got to stay alive till he’s grown-up.’ She smiled at Sara through shining, wet eyes.

  ‘Did Kareem ever get in touch about the boy?’

  ‘Never. If you’re thinking he might not have realised, I know damn well he did.’ It was the first time Elizabeth had shown anger.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sara with a certainty that surprised her; she shouldn’t have let it escape. ‘And there was no thought of going after him to take responsibility as a father?’ she continued quickly.

  ‘No, we just wanted never to see him again. However much Denis might have liked him punished.’

  ‘He had money.’

  ‘May he rot in hell with it.’ She glanced at Marion. ‘I always assumed he tried to force her to have an abortion and that’s why she made the phone call. I never felt for one minute that callous young man’s religiousness was for real, it was just his recruiting dress. It must have taken an immense act of will – and courage – to ring us. God knows what would have happened to her if she hadn’t.’

  Sara, understanding that there was to be no happy ending, allowed silence to fall. The initial gruffness of the older woman was no more than a lifelong pain etched throughout her whole being. Perhaps some relief might come through her grandson if she survived to see it – though every day she must fear signs of him growing into his father. ‘I’ve kept you too long,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring for a taxi.’ She removed the card she’d taken from the driver and dialled the number on her mobile.

  Elizabeth watched. ‘I’d drop you at the station but I can’t leave Marion.’

  The phone answered; Sara broke off to summon the taxi. She replaced the phone in her bag. ‘Did Marion ever tell you, or hint at anything more than what you’ve just said?’

  Elizabeth reflected for several seconds. ‘It was usually just the “mission” and “traitors”. But just once she opened her eyes wide to me and said a single sentence with great intensity. It probably means nothing – just her fantasising, or retreating into some sort of weird mysticism.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  ‘If you really want. Let me remember the exact words. She said, “When I feel the smell of life inside me, I must leave the smell of death.” It’s not evidence of anything and she spoke it like that, in the present tense. If it meant anything, she was probably talking about sheep. Or rats.’

  They stood up and Sara followed Elizabeth into the sitting room. Marion appeared to be sleeping so she murmured a goodbye and they stepped through the French windows into the garden. The sky had darkened and the first raindrops of a gathering storm spattered on the patio. The valley’s welcome of friendship now held a grey foreboding. Sara heard the crunch of wheels on gravel; she felt relief at the taxi’s arrival and a sadness for the two women she was leaving behind.


  ‘I knew him,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘But you didn’t—’

  ‘Why would I? It’s none of my business. Each one of us must decide what secrets to bury.’

  ‘Even with a lie?’

  ‘Best not with that. And you’re no good at it.’ Sara looked down ruefully at her shoes. ‘Don’t take it amiss, that’s a compliment.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’m a psychologist. I peer into people’s souls.’ Sara looked up and Elizabeth’s gentler smile was fading. ‘When you have a minute,’ she continued, ‘look up the word “sociopath”. See if it summons any ghosts.’

  Elizabeth turned on her heel. After a few seconds she stopped and turned back. ‘It’s that he might come for her – that’s what scares me.’ Without a further word, she disappeared round the side of the house. A woman, thought Sara, who has come to dislike saying goodbye.

  On the train back to London, her attempts to read notes, papers, anything were disrupted by memories and thoughts. She submitted and, staring through a window at the passing fields, allowed them to flow.

  The anonymous text message to Marion had shaken her to the core. Even though the tone differed from the curt anonymity of the texts to herself, the sender surely must be the same. She recalled those messages. It was true that one colleague, Patrick, was not what he seemed. Could the text when she was in Blackburn just be saying: I’m here, I’m with you, keeping an eye on you, keeping you safe? And now the apparently helpful text to Marion’s phone. Who was pulling her strings? What was their motive? Both questions unnerved her. It was more than that. She was frightened – because she understood she was no longer in control, and perhaps never had been.

  An unsought image of the pregnant Marion’s bruised wrists led to images of charred limbs – and then back to a sublime, innocent moment of her life before all of this. The evening of July the 6th 2005 when she, her cousin Salman, his wife Nusrat, and their new baby – with the baby’s two-year-old brother fast asleep along the passage – were finishing a celebratory supper at the couple’s basement flat in north London.