The Inquiry Page 9

  ‘Yeah. You said I could call?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Do you wanna meet again?’

  She hesitated – don’t appear too keen. ‘OK, I could find time.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘Now? Where, Sami?’

  ‘My house. It’s OK, Mum’ll be here.’

  ‘I’ll have to finish my street. Don’t know how long it will take.’

  ‘All right. But I gotta work later.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’ He cut the call.

  She phoned Patrick. ‘He may have bitten.’

  ‘Or he may want to see a pretty girl again.’ She sensed there was no Patrick grin; he was managing her expectations.

  ‘Should I finish the street? Even if it’s just for show?’

  ‘I’d get off it. Now.’ It was the first time he’d spoken to her with any urgency.

  Inside the car, he began to explain. ‘Sami coming back to you might just be because he likes you. Or—’

  ‘It could be the game changer,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Quite. You can’t risk seeing anyone connected with the files till you’re done with Sami.’

  ‘OK. But Sami shouldn’t think I’ve dropped everything for him.’

  ‘Agreed. He needs to sweat with anticipation. Let it build.’ He spoke with cold calculation. She looked at him and remembered that remark on Pendle Hill.

  An hour later, he dropped her fifty yards from Gent Street. The predator’s thrill resurfaced. She walked along the pavement at a measured pace, stopped outside No. 59, shook herself, stood tall, mounted the steps and, for some reason, tapped discreetly on the knocker rather than ring the bell.

  The mother answered. ‘Oh, salam alaikum.’

  ‘Is Sami in, auntie?’

  ‘I’ve been at the back, he said he was going out.’

  Thoughts of intercepted phone calls, armed enforcers, police making arrests all flashed before her. His mother shouted up the stairs. ‘Sami.’ No answer. ‘Yes, he must have gone out,’ she said.

  ‘Would you mind trying again?’ asked Sara. ‘It’s something for the survey, I’m sure he said he was working late today.’

  ‘Sami!’ she yelled with a screech that made Sara jump.

  A few seconds later, a pair of boots followed by jeans hurried down the stairs.

  ‘I thought you wasn’t coming,’ he said. He inspected her in a way quite unlike their previous meeting. ‘You go in the sitting room, I’ll get tea.’

  ‘I said it was my treat next time.’

  ‘Nah, easier to have it here.’ There was a new authority in his voice; he seemed to be setting the agenda, not her. He reappeared with tea and an uncut cake.

  ‘A fresh cake,’ Sara said.

  ‘Yeah, I told you.’ He poured tea, slowly cut a slice of cake, laid it on a plate and placed it on the stool by her chair. He sat down opposite.

  ‘So there were a few things I forgot—’

  ‘Nah.’ He cut across her; she felt a frisson of alarm. ‘So, Sara,’ he put a heavy emphasis on her name, ‘what you doing here?’

  ‘I told you. The survey.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘What?’ Nerves jangling, she gave him the most puzzled expression she could muster.

  ‘What you really doing here?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What am I really doing?”’

  ‘Not hard to understand. I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Of course you’re not an idiot.’

  ‘The way you spoke to me, looked at me when you was leaving… there’s something else.’

  She put down her cup of tea and gazed at him imploringly. She hadn’t begun to anticipate this. He might be her only chance of achieving something on this trip; she had seconds to stop him slipping through her fingers. He sat impassively, impossible to read, not giving her anything. She’d no idea whether he was operating from instinct or some kind of theorising he’d concocted overnight. Perhaps he’d talked to a workmate.

  ‘Tell me, Sami,’ she said, ‘what is it that’s been going through your mind?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ He sounded rougher. ‘I wanna know what you’re doing here.’ He paused. ‘It’s all right. Mum’s here. Ain’t no harm gonna come to you. Just wanna know.’

  She sensed his implacability and sighed, wanting to convey a sign of defeat while she worked out how much to give him. ‘Can I trust you, Sami?’

  ‘Depends, don’t it? More like whether I can trust you.’

  ‘I understand.’ Now she needed to show submission. She picked up her workbag, took out the clipboard with the questionnaire and a folder beneath. She was on her own. She gambled. ‘You’re right, Sami.’ She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose and wiped a non-existent tear from her eye.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, softening. ‘You can trust me.’

  She buried the tissue inside her sleeve. ‘It’s true I’m researching the opinions and experiences of young Muslims. It’s also true,’ she spoke with intensity, ‘that anything we discuss now is on the basis of total confidentiality. But yes, you’re right.’ She retrieved the tissue and sniffed again. ‘I’m not a market researcher. I’m a lawyer working on behalf of an independent inquiry examining how the British government has treated young Muslims in recent years.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The inquiry is chaired by a judge called Sir Francis Morahan.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to have. The important point is that he’s independent. Unbiased. And, Sami, at the heart of what he wants to understand is why some young British Muslims went off to fight. To be jihadists. How were they chosen? Who paid? And what’s happened to them?’

  A dark frown clouded his face. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with me?’ He looked around. ‘Why you come to me anyway? I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘It’s OK, Sami, I know that.’ She spoke softly, edging closer. ‘Can I trust you with something? Really, really trust you?’

  ‘I wanna see you properly. Under the scarf.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ Sara felt a cramping in her stomach.

  ‘It’s your choice,’ he said. ‘If I can’t see you, I can’t trust you.’

  Why was he asking? Simple curiosity? Some kind of test of her sincerity – or devoutness? A darker thought flared. Did he think she was wired up? Perhaps he had talked – but to someone better informed than a workmate.

  First try the obvious. ‘Sami, I’m observing my religion – our religion – in the way I’ve chosen.’

  ‘My religion’s for me,’ he said sourly.

  She’d made a mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Why’s this important to you?’

  ‘I told you.’ He stood up and crossed behind her chair to look out of the bay window. ‘You’re in my home. No one’s looking in. My mum’s in the back. You want me to trust you. But you deceived me. Now you gotta show trust in me.’

  Was refusal or acquiescence the correct response? ‘My religion’s for me.’ What had he meant? There were enough signs of some kind of observant upbringing. Or had he lapsed and become suspicious of zeal? She suspected that the story he had to tell – she was now sure that he had one – would provide the answer.

  She hesitated. This was the wrong way to allow herself to behave, let alone think, whatever tactical advantage it might bring. ‘Remember who you are,’ she told herself. ‘Remember the standards you’ve set yourself. Think of what you believe.’

  She sensed him moving towards her and turned away. ‘I’m sorry, Sami, I can’t do that.’

  He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Nah, thought you wouldn’t.’ She held her breath; was this it?

  He sat down again. ‘It’s OK.’

  She tried to withhold a sigh. There was nothing innocent now about Sami – but where lay his guilt? Slowly, saying nothing,
she started leafing through the files on her lap. An instinct had told her at least to have them with her.

  ‘You asked why I’ve come to you.’ She picked out his file and handed it over.

  He opened it and stared at the single sheet. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘2006. It’s probably police or Special Branch.’ She wouldn’t tell him it was MI5. ‘Its existence suggests that, at one point, you were suspected of being involved in jihadist activity.’

  ‘I never.’

  ‘I know.’ She stood up and crossed to his chair. ‘May I?’ She knelt down beside him and pointed to a column. ‘It says “file closed”. So nothing came of it.’

  She fetched her workbag, judging she could give more. ‘This is private, Sami, yes? Just between you and me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He turned to her; she was just inches away. He could feel her breath. She handed him the other four files and his eyes roved slowly over them, one by one. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Yeah. Then anyway.’

  ‘Were they friends?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  ‘In June 2006 you were all brought in for questioning by Blackburn police.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  She pointed him to the common note on the five files. He looked at it silently, his face creasing in pain. ‘It were nothing,’ he said at last.

  ‘What was nothing?’

  ‘It were just a girl. Her foster mother reported us. They had us in, asked us what happened. Let us go. As I said, it were nothing.’

  ‘Was there anything else they talked to you about?’ He said nothing. ‘Did they try to coerce any of you to do anything for them? Offer money perhaps?’

  He was hesitating. Something had happened, she was sure. If not to Sami, then to one or more of the others. ‘Nah, nothing else.’

  She tried to lock eyes. ‘Forget about the police. Your friends, Sami… were they doing something that could have got you into real trouble?’

  He turned away, staring blankly at the window. ‘I dunno, I never knew what it was.’

  ‘Never knew what what was? What happened, Sami?’

  He bowed his head and sat looking at his hands for what seemed an age.

  ‘I never told anyone this before.’

  8

  2006

  The fourth night was the worst because he could see no way out of it. What did they want? Some kind of confession or admission? To sacrifice himself for them in some way? To march into the Rovers’ stadium and blow himself up? Those conversations with the other four kept coming back; he’d assumed at the time it was all bullshit, exchanges of fantasies. Had they been trying to draw him into something? Surely not Asif. That look he gave him as he was being led away was regret – and fear. Not a hungry, fighting look. No, not Asif – but the others… maybe.

  The searchlight beaming into this cell – or whatever the space was – cast strips of brightness that seemed harsher than ever.

  He thought of the real cell where the police questioned him after the foster mother complained.

  Then one of the policemen – not the tough guy with the red beard, the other one with neatly cut fair hair and glasses, wearing a white shirt and grey tie – started asking him about the others. ‘We know you have interesting conversations with your friends, Samir.’ He’d asked what conversations and the tough guy just gave him a conspiratorial smile, tapping a finger on his nose. ‘Come on, Sami,’ said the smart one, ‘you’ve even discussed targets with them. What you’d like to blow up. Who you’d like to kill.’ It was just bragging, he protested, no one was serious. ‘Maybe not you, Sami. But the others. Are you really so sure?’

  And he was sure, then. Now, in the fourth night of this hell, perhaps he wasn’t so sure. A drip from the tap outside. Count one, two, three. Another drip. A howling through the trees – a wind whipping up? He imagined a crying boy being led into the woods.

  The smart policeman had shooed the red beard out of the room and come to sit close beside him. He leant in and whispered in his ear. Sami would never forget the heat of his breath.

  ‘You could make some money, Sami.’

  He recoiled. ‘What you mean, money?’

  ‘All you got to do is keep me posted on what your friends are talking about. What they’re planning. Where they travel.’

  ‘You wanna get me killed.’

  ‘It’ll just be between you and me. No one else will ever know. Every time you tell me something, there’s three hundred quid for you. Once a week. Thirty tenners. Fifteen twenties, if you prefer. Make you a well-off boy.’

  Next day they let him go but he couldn’t shake off the suit with the grey tie. Almost every day, it seemed, he was there, lurking in invisible corners. ‘Nice to see you again, Sami.’

  The door squeaked open – he must have finally fallen asleep as its noise awakened him. Curled up against a straw bale, he forced his eyes open, the searchlight still flaring, the night behind still dark. He’d no idea what time it was. He heard a rustle and saw a yellow dress floating towards him and a figure sitting down beside him. He could see little more than a silhouette and scarf, but he instantly knew – the beautiful woman from the barn.

  ‘It’s all right, Sami.’ As before, her voice soothed him. But back then it had been followed by the second man screaming in his ear.

  ‘Is the other man coming?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Only you and me.’

  ‘I wanna go home.’ He felt tears welling.

  ‘I know you do. But you must help us.’ She paused, seeming puzzled. ‘Do you like your friends, Sami?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course I do.’

  ‘Shayan, Farooq, Iqbal, Asif.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re mates.’

  ‘Then why do you betray them?’

  ‘I don’t.’ He began to cry. ‘Never. Never have.’

  ‘They paid you.’

  ‘Who paid?’

  ‘That policeman.’

  Sami sat up and repressed the tears. ‘Never. I promise. Never. I’ll tell you. Yeah, he tried. Offered me money. I never took it. He kept following. I never let him. Never told him nothing. You gotta believe me.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Sami. If you are true and loyal, then whose side are you really on?’

  ‘I dunno. Our side, my mates’.’

  ‘Do you want to be a soldier? Some of your friends do. We can give you money to go abroad. To build the Caliphate.’

  ‘I dunno.’ The tears returned. ‘I’m not brave.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I just wanna go home.’

  ‘Thank you, Sami. Is there anything more you want to say to me?’

  He removed his hands, his eyes burning with fear. ‘Please… will I be able to see…’ He hesitated, wanting to use the word ‘Master’ but corrected himself. ‘… to see the Adviser again?’

  She returned a look of profound sadness. ‘That depends, Sami, on the Adviser’s opinion.’ She rose to leave the cell, her head rigid, not looking back. As the last swathe of her dress disappeared, the door slammed shut.

  Two hours later, they came; the ‘escort’ and the driver. His hands cuffed and, this time, his eyes blindfolded, they led him through the entrance he’d first entered and onto gravel; he saw enough through the bottom edge of the blindfold to know it was still not light. He heard the van door open.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I need to see the Adviser. I gotta speak with him. Something to tell him.’ The reply was a sickening blow crunching into the calf muscle of his right leg. They bundled him like a stiff-legged animal into the back and moved off in silence.

  After half an hour or so, they stopped. This time, they yanked him out and grabbed him under his arms, dragging his body as his feet tried to keep up. Shafts of rising sunlight filtered through the gap under the blindfold. He felt himself sliding along leaves – and then the flash of yellow disappeared and he was in darkness.

  They pressed him down on his knees. ‘Kneel!’ It was the f
irst word he’d heard from either of them since they’d taken him from the cell. ‘Look ahead. No turning.’ The blindfold was pulled roughly from his head; now he understood why they’d applied it. Revealed inches in front of his terrified eyes was a gaping, recently dug hollow – a shallow grave. Though there was almost nothing left in his gut, he felt a sliver of slime dribbling around his crotch and buttocks. A rim of metal was jammed against his forehead. He heard a click.

  No bang, still alive. ‘Never, ever speak of this,’ said the driver. ‘You never came here. You never met no one. You just went for a little holiday on your own. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he bleated. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You stink, you fucking coward. And if you ever blab, that grave stays. It’s been dug specially for you.’ He handed him a card. ‘Keep this. Till your last breath. If anyone ever starts asking questions, anyone at all, anytime at all, even years ahead, the rest of your life, phone this. You don’t, you’re dead.’

  A few hours later – he couldn’t begin to guess how long – they pulled up in what he guessed was a lay-by. The van door opened, the handcuffs unlocked. They shoved keys, phone and a familiar wallet into his trousers. They dragged him out, slammed the door shut, sprinted to the front of the van and drove off. Even if he’d wanted to, he was too numbed with shock to note the number plate.

  He looked around. He began to recognise where he was; by the main road leading off the motorway into Blackburn, a few hundred yards short of a bus stop. He climbed a gate into a field and tried to mop himself with grass. And then he walked.

  Sami slumped back in his chair, his shoulders curled, his eyes closed. Watching him tell his story, Sara felt a witness to a terror relived – and a guilt that she had manoeuvred him into breaking a thirteen-year silence.

  He stirred. ‘Shouldn’t have told you. Never tell anyone. But them four days…’

  ‘It’s OK, Sami. I would never, ever discuss it with another person unless you gave me your permission.’

  He looked up at her, opening his eyes. ‘I thought they was going to kill me. I thought I was dead.’ She wanted to comfort him but restrained herself; she reminded herself that he harboured a guilt, whatever it might be.