The Inquiry Read online

  ‘We still only have those tips,’ said Patrick. ‘They prove nothing. A dead end.’

  ‘No!’ She’d raised her voice; realising it, she glanced around the canteen. There was no one in earshot. ‘We now have Morahan. My father. We have the threat to you. Above all, now you’ve told me, we have the contract. I don’t think you truly understand what it might be.’

  ‘What do you mean, it might be?’

  She moved to within inches of him. ‘For God’s sake, Patrick, you must have suspected,’ she whispered. ‘Kareem’s licence to kill. In some form or other. To murder. Say that’s what it was. Imagine the consequences if Sir Frances Morahan had ever begun to suspect that and then succeeded in proving it.’ She paused. ‘Imagine the consequences if you and I prove it now.’

  Death. The black-scarved women had disappeared and the anaesthetist and nurse returned to their work; in their places a blonde-haired, tear-stained girl in her late teens comforted by an older woman, perhaps waiting for a young lover’s fate to be decided. The arbitrariness of the night; a motorcycle crash, drug overdose, stabbing, an old man’s heart finally giving out.

  ‘Did I suspect that?’ said Patrick softly. ‘I’m not sure I had the imagination. But, yes, I knew it was all wrong. I was too weak. Or too scared.’

  ‘As you said, you were corralled, manoeuvred, whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘It’s always haunted me. It’s the reason I wanted to be on the Inquiry. When I first heard about it, the terms of reference felt like a pistol shot – if that contract with my name on it ever came out. I thought I could control things from the inside.’

  ‘But then Sayyid came along. And Morahan. And me.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I have to be able to live with myself.’

  Sara rose. ‘Come on, back to Dad.’

  He felt – and looked – beaten. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  She moved towards him, kneeled, and held his face in her hands. ‘Of course I want you to stay.’

  There seemed no change – the expressionless face, soft breathing, barely rising and falling chest, the light show of the monitors, the depth and colour of the bruising.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Sara asked Bridget, knowing, as soon as she’d asked, that the question was unanswerable.

  ‘The blood pressure’s only down a tiny bit,’ she replied chirpily. ‘He’s still doing most of his own breathing. The heartbeat’s strong. Now why don’t you try to get some sleep?’

  ‘I’d rather be with him.’

  ‘OK, love, I’ll be behind the door if you need me.’

  Patrick sat on a plastic chair beside her. She turned to him. ‘You’ve told me your story. And you kept your word, you didn’t pursue your question.’

  ‘It’s not important now,’ he said.

  ‘It’s become important to me. I think it may be relevant too.’ She spoke quietly, her words covered by the hospital whirr. She looked back at her father. ‘It’s the one thing I never told him. The only secret between us. So if I tell you now, in this place, perhaps he too will hear my words. Or perhaps he won’t. That will be for God to decide.’

  ‘Sara,’ said Patrick quietly, ‘that’s not rational. He’s unconscious.’

  ‘On this night I don’t like the word “rational”. Nor the word “unconscious”. What is “rational” about him lying there and you and me watching him? What control do you think reason – or even medicine – have? How do we know what’s happening inside his head, his mind? I told you what the surgeon said. The doctors too can only wait. So, through my God, this is where I can deliver myself to the judgement of a greater being.’

  He stayed silent, numbed by the clarity of her words and the softness of their delivery.

  ‘Let me go back to my beginning. Or should I say the time of my fall?’ He watched her gazing into her father’s eyes, and sensed a horror returning. ‘I first met Kareem eighteen years ago. 2001. Do you remember that summer? The world, our country at least, was becoming a better, happier place…’

  21

  2001

  She’d just turned eighteen, A-levels were over and her cousin Salman was marrying a girl called Nusrat. At a distracted moment during the mehndi, where she was among the giggling girls hennaing the bride, she glanced at the circle of young men – Salman’s university friends – jigging away, blasting out tracks from Panjabi MC’s Legalised.

  He stood aloof, part of them but not taking part, neither dancing nor singing, tall, slim, a sheen of jet hair settling on the nape of his neck. He seemed older than the others, graver, more intense. His brown eyes, dark as the thickest forest, were so fiercely locked on her that he might have been piercing into her very soul. She stared back, her mouth ajar, eyes wide open. Boiling with embarrassment, she felt her face reddening and imagined mascara melting down her cheeks.

  The wedding was two days later, the venue a white stucco-fronted Victorian hotel off Wimbledon Common. White linen-covered tables lined a huge reception room, bride and groom enthroned beyond them on a dais beneath a vast gold-framed mirror strung from a picture rail. On one side, three floor-to-ceiling sash windows flanked by furled red velvet curtains looked out onto a lawn mown in criss-crossing diagonal lines. It was the grandest event Sara Shah had ever attended; her cousin and his bride had even made a table plan.

  She had to avoid him, mustn’t embarrass herself again. She worked out the seat she’d grab to ensure she faced away from the table of Salman’s uni friends, where he’d be placed. Once, just once, she turned for a glimpse. His eyes were still honed in on her like a heat-seeking missile. For a nanosecond she locked on.

  ‘Seen a ghost?’ asked the cousin sitting beside her.

  ‘Who is he?’ whispered Sara.

  ‘Don’t you know? That’s Kareem. Kareem Abdullah bin-Jilani.’ The cousin lowered her eyes. ‘Loaded, apparently.’

  Towards the end of June, she was sauntering in jeans and a pink blouse along Tooting Broadway. A clear mid-afternoon sun warmed her bare head and arms; she’d never felt such a bursting sense of liberation, of the ripening of a fuller life. Except for a few ugly race riots in the North, the country itself, particularly her bubble of south London, seemed to share her optimism. New Labour under smiling Tony Blair had just won their second general election. Conservatism and its innate pessimism were crushed. There would be money for health and schools, employment for young people, opportunity for everyone.

  As she turned off Tooting Broadway in the direction of home, a low-slung red sports car pulled in beside her. A tall, lean figure jumped out.

  ‘It is Sara Shah, is it not?’ She tried to frown; but her face couldn’t help spreading itself into a smile. Don’t stare again, match him…

  ‘And if it is?’

  He was disconcerted. ‘I am Kareem.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He returned the smile. ‘Ah, you are playing with me. Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’ There was already something about his tone and speech pattern. A voice with deep resonance but soft, not loud. The precise English of a foreigner seeking perfection.

  ‘I’m on my way home, thanks. It’s just a few hundred yards.’

  ‘I wanted to approach your father at the wedding for a formal introduction. But you kept disappearing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It is OK. Now we have introduced ourselves. Perhaps you would like to go for a short drive?’

  She knew she shouldn’t. Her father trusted her – that’s why he’d felt able to devote himself to work and achieve his promotions. She’d be breaching that trust. But, after all, this man was a friend of her cousin… almost family, well-behaved and educated. She looked around. No one was watching. She hesitated – he watched and waited, making no move himself to return to his driver’s seat. He was extraordinarily attractive. What were a few minutes in a lifetime? What harm was there in it?

  ‘OK. Just a short one.’

  He wh
isked round the front of the car and opened the passenger door. She jumped in and slammed it shut, ducking her face. As he walked round the back of the car, she craned her neck to see his midriff flashing across the rear window. He slid into his seat, started up and revved the engine.

  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ she said.

  He snatched a quick look at her. ‘Please, it is your decision. You can get out if you prefer.’

  She didn’t answer; he’d said it so considerately that it felt OK. He accelerated away. Guilt competed with an overwhelming sense of triumph. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘We could go to Wandsworth Common. White yummy-mummy land. None of our people will be there.’

  She laughed. ‘How did you meet Salman?’

  ‘At Queen Victoria’s. I am just finishing my Masters there. He is a fine chap. I hope he and his bride will be happy even though it is an arranged marriage.’

  At the mention of weddings, she fell silent, feeling that little tap on the shoulder of what her father would think.

  ‘Salman’s area is mechanical engineering, mine is aerospace,’ Kareem continued.

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Yes, I am also taking my pilot’s licence.’

  ‘Isn’t that expensive?’

  They were stopped at lights; he swivelled towards her. ‘Fortunately the family firm pays. You may think this is unfair privilege. I would agree with you.’

  Rather than pursue the point, as he turned back to the road she chose to make a more detailed inspection of his profile. A silence fell – she wanted to fill it. No, what she wanted was just to look at him, to touch his arm, to feel his skin. She knew that couldn’t be and tried to discard the thought. Had he noticed?

  ‘What are your future educational plans?’ It seemed he hadn’t.

  ‘Starting my law degree in the autumn. Queen Vic’s too.’

  ‘Did you ever wish to go to uni outside London?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She hesitated. ‘I think my dad still needs me.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She passed away when I was nine.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sara. I was not aware of this.’ He allowed her a moment – no pressing. A sensitive man.

  They turned into a short road of double-fronted Victorian houses. ‘The gardens of these houses back onto the Common,’ said Kareem. ‘I understand they sell for three million pounds.’ He paused. ‘To bankers.’

  He stopped and looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps this is already the short drive you suggested?’

  ‘It’s OK.’ No way did she want this to end yet. ‘We can go for a quick walk.’

  A path took them diagonally across the Common, past young mothers with blonde hair wearing pastel shades and pushing double buggies. They reached a copse by a pond and sat on a bench, streams of sunlight dappling the water and casting dancing flickers on their faces.

  ‘What are your summer plans?’ she asked.

  ‘I must first finish my dissertation.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I would like to travel a little to understand my origins better. The Gulf in particular. There is family pressure to join the business but I am not sure what this will achieve for me.’

  ‘What do you want to achieve?’

  He considered her question as if it were the first time he’d been asked. ‘Change the world maybe. There are many bad things.’

  She frowned, unsure of his meaning, of how serious he was. He seemed to be revolving something in his mind, unsure whether to speak it. This time, she looked at her watch. ‘Perhaps you should drop me back.’

  ‘Of course. It has been a delight to meet you properly.’ He rose, gesturing her to come alongside him, but he did not reach out for her hand. ‘I would love to spend some more time with you, Sara,’ he said walking back to the car. ‘Perhaps we could do some outings?’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘It would be in the cause of education. For both of us.’

  She certainly didn’t want to say a flat no. ‘Maybe I should ask my dad.’

  ‘Of course, if you feel you need to.’

  She knew with cast-iron certainty that she should. So must he. ‘He’s very busy,’ she replied. ‘I hate to disturb him.’ The double meaning of the word struck her.

  ‘It is entirely up to you, Sara.’ They reached the car and he opened the passenger door. ‘Perhaps in daytime it is permitted.’

  She slid in. ‘Yes, perhaps it is.’ He shut the door on her.

  She wondered what his ‘outings’ might be. The way he spoke of travelling made her see the limits of her own horizon: a life spent in the same neighbourhood, no money for the foreign or exotic. He was from a different, more expansive world.

  They began with matinées of two musicals: Peggy Sue Got Married with Ruthie Henshall, My Fair Lady with the EastEnders star Martine McCutcheon, in her first stage role. They had prime seats in the front of the dress circle; she remembered what her cousin had said. ‘Loaded.’ The shows offered interesting things to talk about.

  ‘So,’ he asked, ‘what is your verdict on a soap opera actress trying to perform one of the great musical roles?’

  ‘I thought she was wonderful,’ she replied eagerly. ‘She has that lovely round moon face and sparkling eyes.’

  ‘Her voice?’

  ‘She sang nicely.’ She hesitated. ‘Didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Nicely.’ He smiled at her over the coffee they had afterwards. ‘A correct and generous verdict. But perhaps not one of the great voices.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ She thought of young Eliza Doolittle and old Professor Higgins, introducing her to a new world of glamour and intellect. Kareem was a lot younger than Henry Higgins.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘Audrey Hepburn’s voice in the film with Rex Harrison had to be covered by a proper singer as she was not up to it.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘And this is why, for the film of The Sound of Music, Audrey Hepburn did not take up the role and opened the door to Julie Andrews who could sing properly.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Even if she was not as beautiful.’ His grin as he spoke the word, his eyes staring fiercely into hers, was electric. ‘What movies would you like to go to?’

  They went to matinées of Lara Croft: Tomb Raider with Angelina Jolie and Planet of the Apes with Helena Bonham Carter. And exhibitions – the one she most enjoyed was at the British Museum, about Cleopatra. She was overwhelmed by the space and beauty of the newly opened Great Court.

  ‘So, Sara, was Cleopatra a femme fatale, unlucky, or destroyed by her own hubris?’

  ‘Hubris?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the pride before the fall.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Might it be fun to take tea at the Ritz hotel?’ he asked one afternoon. She looked alarmed; the idea seemed so alien. ‘After all, it is the height of British afternoon sophistication.’

  ‘What will I wear?’

  She found a smart enough skirt and blouse.

  The tea arrived, stacked on a multi-layered china dish: sandwiches, cakes, biscuits. She reached with her right hand to put a selection on a plate and placed her left hand on the table, stretching it slowly and by tiny degrees in his direction. Would he spread his towards hers?

  He kept his hands to himself, sipping and eating with a rare elegance for a man. His fingers were long and artistic, unencumbered by black hairs. The perfect gentleman.

  One afternoon, as he dropped her near home, he proposed a picnic on the South Downs and described the beauty of its hills and views. They could visit Bignor Roman Villa and take in the mosaics.

  ‘It will be a cultural visit.’

  She hesitated. It felt like a new step. ‘As long as we’re back in good time,’ she said.

  He collected her from the usual rendezvous. Past South Wimbledon tube, out of range of anyone spotting them, he pulled up in a lay-by and opened up the hood of his car
. She’d once idly asked what it was, though it interested her little; ‘Mazda MX-5 convertible,’ came his contemptuous reply. ‘This car is nothing special. One day I will drive you in a real car.’

  ‘Isn’t this a real car?’ she’d asked.

  He’d laughed. ‘It’s hardly a Lamborghini.’

  Travelling through places like Chiddingfold, Northchapel, and Petworth was a revelation, though she had the impression it was familiar to him. Village greens lined with thatched cottages and wisteria-clad, rose-bricked square houses; Norman churches with solid naves and neat square towers; at Chiddingfold itself a grander church with flying buttresses and decorative crenellations; pub signs with names like ‘The Green Man’ swinging gently in the slight breeze.

  ‘I’ve never been to places like these,’ she said. She had to raise her voice as the late summer air beat into their faces and ruffled through their hair.

  They stopped at Bignor where she was captivated by the jewel-like sheen of the mosaics. ‘Two thousand years old,’ she said in near disbelief.

  ‘That is the point,’ he said. ‘The Romans made themselves at home in these parts so why should not we?’ She looked around – there were no other non-white faces.

  He parked and they climbed up Bignor Hill onto the South Downs Way. She had warmed up and taken off the sweater she’d worn in the car, revealing a sleeveless T-shirt; even though it was early September, it was all she needed as the midday sun burned, beads of sweat glistening around her neck.

  ‘Let us find some shade for the picnic,’ he said, stretching out a hand. She took it and entwined her fingers through his. It was the first time, beyond mere courtesy or accident, that they had touched.

  There was a knock on the door from the ante-space; Bridget walked through carrying a clipboard and charts. Sara stopped talking and they both looked up at her.

  ‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Sara. ‘We were just reminiscing.’

  ‘I won’t be a second.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Hardly a place for hurrying.’