The Inquiry. Will Caine

with him, whatever the wariness now infecting her. What was there to lose anyway? He could see that she had case histories – it would be perverse not to share. To test trust, maybe you had to give it.

      ‘OK. Morahan gave me some files.’

      ‘That was pretty obvious, Sara.’

      ‘Was it that bad?’ She remembered his expression. ‘Did you have a peek in the folder when I was with Sylvia?’

      He slapped his foot on the brake and pulled in to the roadside. ‘For f— Sorry, I’ll start that again. What do you take me for?’

      She was consumed by embarrassment, wanting to tell him about the text so that he’d understand. She mustn’t. Not till she really knew him – if she ever did. And still that horrible, sinking feeling – what if he was the one she had to look out for?

      ‘I’m sorry, Patrick.’

      He softened. ‘It’s OK. Go on.’

      ‘I don’t know where they came from, MI5, Special Branch, your guess is as good as mine.’ The half-truth was weak; she needed to be better at this. ‘They relate to five young Muslims with family addresses in Blackburn. Two appear to have been closed by the end of 2006.’

      ‘2006? Long time ago.’

      ‘Yes. But the other three remained open.’

      ‘And one of the five lived, or lives, in Gent Street.’

      ‘I found him. He was at home. Still lives with his mum. I could hardly believe it. I finally got inside…’

      ‘Well done.’

      ‘I had to use a last resort.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Used fivers.’

      Patrick frowned. ‘How many?’

      ‘Actually, more like twenties. Ten of them.’ Though he said nothing, Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He’s smart,’ she continued. ‘Greedy too. He’d never have done it for nothing.’

      He was silent for a few seconds. ‘Good call,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll find a way of putting it through the books.’

      She felt her shoulders sag with relief. ‘I didn’t feel especially proud of myself. Anyway, he warmed up, Mum was friendly, tea on saucers, he did the survey. I could see he liked the look of me.’

      ‘Of course.’

      She lowered her eyes. ‘Didn’t want me to go. We chatted more. Then I truly thought he might just be about to cough something.’

      ‘But he didn’t.’

      ‘No. Don’t know why he baulked. Or what I did.’

      ‘Stop beating yourself. You did well to get that far.’

      She winced. ‘I left him my number. But I think he’s slipped the hook. So onto the next.’

      He was circling streets with no particular aim, listening. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a bite. These neighbourhoods are chatty. You carry on walking their streets and word will get around about you and your survey. Not bad words, just words. Give it twenty-four hours. Stay out of sight and mind.’

      ‘Won’t it be time wasted?’

      ‘I’ve a better idea. Fancy climbing a hill?’ Without awaiting her reply, he put his foot on the accelerator and sped without exceeding the limit too blatantly in the direction of the Savoy Inn.

      She wondered why he hadn’t asked to see the actual files – it was such an obvious request. The good manners to wait until she offered? Or a man who knew how to bide his time?

      Sami Mohammed, concealed inside the porch, watched until she turned the corner. She reached the end of the street quickly. Either there really was no one in at the further ten doors she’d approached or she hadn’t bothered to ring any bells.

      Who was she? Why had she seemed so desperate to get into his house? The old terror was creeping back. Was she part of them, testing him out? Or part of something else, wanting to rake over the coals? Perhaps embers still flickered and, even now, the fire hadn’t gone out. He went inside, closed the door, and shot upstairs to his bedroom, bypassing the inquisitive stare of his mother.

      He retrieved from its hiding place in his chest the card they’d left with him. Time froze as he stared at it – plain, three by two inches, now yellowed at the corners with a crease down the middle like the depression in an old man’s back. On it a number, nothing more. The threat that came with it didn’t need to be written down – he’d never forget it. ‘If anyone ever starts asking questions, anyone at all, anytime at all, even years ahead, phone this. You don’t, you’re dead.’

      He tried to work out the risks. If she’d been sent by them – what the reason might be this many years later he couldn’t begin to fathom – he could end up dead meat if he didn’t at least try to phone it. If she’d come from someone trying to go after them, he could still end up dead if he didn’t warn them.

      Or, if she was what she said she was, he’d do better to let things lie. Reflecting on it, he became ever more sure that she wasn’t. It was as if she’d wanted him to suspect – know even – that she was more than she first seemed.

      She’d wanted him to spill something.

      Even thinking of those times – the times leading up to when he’d been given that little card and the lifetime warning – made his guts churn and his pulse quicken.

      He picked up his phone.

      He didn’t expect the call to be answered so fast.

6

       2006

      Wherever they were headed, it wasn’t Paradise.

      5.30 a.m. He’d done morning prayers and lay in bed dozing. From his bedroom at the back of the house he heard a low whistle – his friend, Asif. He drew back the curtain and saw a familiar gesture of arms bidding him to the front. Asif up to some trick or other. Or in trouble, more likely. He had to go – couldn’t let him down.

      He sprayed deodorant all over, threw on jeans, T-shirt and a long-sleeved black sweater, put a comb through black hair and fledgling beard, salve on cracked lips, sports socks inside black trainers. He checked his watch. He stood up to his full six feet two inches, inspected himself in the mirror, clenched his mouth to examine uneven teeth, grabbed a brush to use later, felt wallet and small change in the left trouser pocket, stuffed brush and comb into the right, puffed out his chest.

      He eased the bedroom door open, flicking a glance across the landing, and silently closed it. He tiptoed around the squeaky floorboard and, at the top of the stairs, heard the familiar rhythm of his father wheezing. He inched down, lifted his black leather coat from its peg in the hallway and touched his phone and house keys. Everything present and correct for whatever Asif had in store. Ready to go.

      He slotted a key into the front door lock and turned it. A squeak from the floor above; he froze. No footsteps – perhaps it was a groan from the depths of sleep. It made him hesitate – ask himself why Asif needed him at this hour. In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never called this early. He’d have liked to turn round, to climb back to the warmth of his bed, to sleep and dream. He jettisoned the thought; it was a friend in need. He prised the door ajar and there was the grinning face, the arms outstretched.

      ‘Hey, man,’ he whispered, ‘what’s it about this time?’

      ‘It’s a summons,’ his friend whispered back. They crept through the open front gate onto the pavement, the night still dark, a street lamp casting misty light on a whining milk cart further down the street.

      ‘What you mean, a summons?’ He looked at Asif; there was something not right,