The Inquiry. Will Caine

      She took a purse out of her bag. ‘A hundred. It’ll only be a few minutes.’ He was wavering; she crossed the fingers of her other hand.

      ‘Nah. Not worth it.’

      ‘Hundred and fifty?’

      He eyed her closely. Until now, she hadn’t decided how far she’d go. ‘Nah.’

      She couldn’t lose him now. One final throw. ‘I’m not really allowed to do this. Two hundred.’

      His frown slowly turned to a smirk of victory. ‘Go on then, come in.’

      Sara made a mental note. There was something venal about Samir Mohammed.

      He signalled to the front room. ‘You wanna sit in there?’ He disappeared into the kitchen. She overheard him telling his mother that it was something about a survey and his mother asking if the lady wanted a cup of tea. ‘Yeah, she looks like she needs it.’

      He came back with a tray holding a teapot, two china cups on saucers, and some biscuits. ‘Mum likes it done proper,’ he said.

      ‘It’s kind of her,’ she said. He poured. ‘As I said, it won’t take long.’

      ‘I’m not in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Not now anyway.’

      ‘That’s great. First up, I should ask you your name,’ she smiled.

      He hesitated, frowning. She held both smile and silence. ‘Samir. That enough?’ She said nothing. ‘Most people call me Sami.’

      ‘That’s lovely, Sami, thank you. What’s your line of work? Don’t worry, nothing to do with this,’ she said, glancing down at her clipboard, ‘I’d just be interested.’

      ‘Security. Down at the Rovers. Mainly evenings and nights. Match days too. That’s why I’m home now.’

      ‘Blackburn Rovers?’

      His face spread into a broad, innocent smile. ‘How d’you know that?’

      ‘Well, they’re a big team, aren’t they?’ Sara blessed the width of her research.

      ‘Yeah, once.’

      ‘The Championship’s not a bad place to be.’

      ‘Maybe we’ll get back into the Premiership sometime.’

      ‘Do you play?’

      ‘Used to. Not much now. Tend to keep myself to myself.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Yeah, easier, know what I mean?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said with soft sympathy, ‘I know exactly what you mean, Sami.’

      She sipped her cup of tea and looked happily at him, waiting. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘What’s this all about?’

      ‘Just want to ask you a few questions for the survey,’ she said.

      ‘Survey?’

      ‘Yes. Governments do them all the time. All anonymous. Just trying to find out what people think of their lives, what can be done to improve them, what their experiences have been.’

      ‘Sounds all right.’

      ‘Shall I start?’ Sara laid the clipboard on her lap and began a list of questions with multiple choice answers. She’d designed it to be innocuous without sounding pointless – ranges of satisfaction or dissatisfaction over dealings with employers, council officials, education service and the like. Ten minutes or so in, she came to the final question. Omitting it would appear odd – it might also provide clues.

      ‘OK, Sami, last one. The police.’

      ‘Police?’

      ‘Yes. Can’t leave them out, can we?’ Was there an anxious flicker of the eye or did she imagine it? If there was, it lasted just a millisecond. He was either sufficiently settled not to bridle further or cool enough not to react.

      She went through the choices. Number of dealings over the past five years: 0, 1–5, 6–10…

      ‘Can’t say I’ve really had any,’ he said shortly.

      ‘OK. In that case, that’s it,’ she said.

      ‘You mean we’re done.’

      ‘Yes.’ She began to rise.

      ‘No hurry. Have another cup of tea.’

      She sank back and sighed. ‘Are you sure? Your mum won’t mind?’

      ‘Nah.’

      Sami disappeared with the tray into the kitchen. Sara wasn’t sure whether he was lonely or looking for female company. Maybe, now that he appeared to trust her, she was a break from boredom. What, in any case, was she hoping to find? The trail that had led her to his door stemmed from something in his past twelve years ago. Without knowing what it was, she couldn’t tell whether what had attracted the surveillance had even been noteworthy to Samir himself. He might simply have been an innocent link in a chain.

      He swaggered in with a refilled teapot and, this time, cake.

      ‘Mum insisted. She’s always baking cakes. Watching too much Nadiya, I reckon.’

      ‘I won’t be able to move!’

      ‘You’ll need stamina.’ He poured tea and looked at her awkwardly. ‘You do this all the time?’

      ‘No, just part-time,’ she said. ‘But it can be interesting. You get to know people. Sometimes they have stories to tell you wouldn’t believe. You know, like, in this one we’re looking at how Muslims are treated here and everything that’s happened. ’Course, I treat everything in confidence but sometimes I can really help people.’

      ‘Is that right? What sort of things?’

      Sara looked at him as if she were in deep thought – buying time to calculate how far to push it. ‘I can’t say details of what people told me privately. But… you know… bad things happened. Sometimes there’s a need to tell someone…’

      He stared down at his hands, slowly rubbing them together. ‘Yeah, suppose they did.’ Maybe her prior knowledge was influencing her but she sensed a memory floating by him. She held the silence, hoping he would fill it. He looked up. ‘Yeah well, stuff happens, don’t it?’ Then no more. Closure. Any further pushing could clam him up completely. She mustn’t show disappointment. She quickly drained her cup of tea.

      ‘That was lovely, Sami, thanks so much. And so nice to meet you.’

      ‘You going?’ She detected disappointment.

      ‘Yes, better get back to it.’ He rose too. ‘I’ll be here for another couple of days if you fancy another tea. My treat this time.’

      ‘Dunno what I’m doing.’

      Sara pulled a card from one of two sets in her handbag. It read, ‘Sara Shah. Market researcher.’ And a mobile number.

      He read it quickly. ‘Yeah, OK.’

      ‘Give me a ring if you’d like to meet up.’ She gave him the most intense look she dared. ‘Be good to see you again.’ Quickly she pulled back and smiled. ‘Will you thank your mum for me?’

      ‘Yeah.’ He came to the door as she walked back onto the pavement. So great was the combination of expectation and frustration that she only remembered just in time that she was a market researcher knocking on every tenth number of Gent Street. He was still watching as she pressed the bell of No. 69. Reaching the end of the street, she chanced a final look-back. No sign of him. Or anyone else.

      The car drew alongside as she turned the corner.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Hang on a minute.’ She settled herself in her seat, fastened the belt, and