The Inquiry. Will Caine

as, please.’

      He wandered over to a window. The view was dominated by one corner of the American Embassy which she had seen more fully from Morahan’s window. ‘Good to know our cousins watch over us,’ said Patrick.

      ‘What are those conical steel things hanging off the walls?’ asked Sara.

      ‘Secret anti-aircraft whizzbangs,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s why it’s such a monstrous mass of a building, not a nice slender spire. Packed full of rockets and helmeted men in black special forces suits ready to scale down the walls and occupy the streets shouting Delta and Zulu.’

      Sara laughed. They sat down at neighbouring desks.

      ‘Well…’ he began. She tilted her head to the side, encouraging him. ‘Our Chairman says he wants you to get out and about. Talk to people. He feels he’s lacking actual, unmediated accounts from young Muslims themselves.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Rather unusual? For counsel, I mean.’

      ‘Not really, I did on-the-ground work for Rainbow.’

      ‘But that’s a campaigning chambers.’

      ‘And we shouldn’t be here?’

      ‘There’s no should or shouldn’t. It’s whatever Sir Francis wants. With one condition.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘I accompany you.’

      She looked down at her hands. ‘That might be awkward. It may be hard to win their confidence.’

      ‘That’s fine. You see them alone. Initially anyway. But you may need me to witness. Or for affidavits.’

      ‘If I get any.’

      ‘I’m sure you will.’ He switched off the grin. ‘And some of these characters won’t be friendly. I’ll stay out of the way but you can’t be alone.’

      ‘So you’re to be my chaperone?’

      ‘No, Sara, I’m just to be there. Even if all I am is your driver with a leather jacket, a Nigerian accent and a lucky zebra dangling from the rear-view mirror.’ She couldn’t help smiling and the grin reappeared.

      Shortly before lunch, Morahan arrived and poked his head around the Legal department door. ‘Sara. Welcome. Come and chat.’ After the earlier conversation, she felt guilty about leaving Patrick; he gave her a friendly nod of the head.

      Morahan guided her to one end of his brown leather office sofa while he sat down at the other. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

      ‘I’m fine, thanks. Patrick’s been the perfect host.’

      ‘Good. Decent chap.’

      She hesitated. ‘I hadn’t realised he would be accompanying me on research trips.’

      ‘Yes, I should have told you first thing. Would have but for our friend Atkinson’s summons.’

      ‘Oh, how was that?’

      ‘He just wants it over. I suspect the appearance of enthusiasm in front of the Prime Minister was purely for show.’ He gave a clipped chuckle, then frowned with what seemed to her embarrassment. ‘Patrick persuaded me that you shouldn’t be on your own. He is after all the instructing solicitor who would normally be running evidence gathering.’

      ‘As long as he doesn’t get in the way.’

      ‘He won’t.’

      She hesitated. ‘There’s an issue.’

      ‘Tell me.’

      ‘Racism is not just white and black. It grieves me to say it, but there is often strong prejudice in my community against Africans and West Indians.’

      ‘Yes, I know. It was one reason Patrick couldn’t do the task I need you to do. Nor is he in your league.’

      ‘I’m sure he—’

      ‘No, he’s not, Sara. You are an outstanding young lawyer with the right credentials, both as a professional and as a human being.’

      Sara saw him smiling at her with an almost paternal fondness and tried not to show her pleasure.

      ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll get on with him,’ he continued.

      ‘Oh yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘And there won’t be any complications,’ she added, immediately wishing she hadn’t. She made to rise but he held up a hand to halt her and went to his desk. He opened the middle drawer, extracted a key and unlocked the bottom left pedestal drawer. He pulled out an unmarked white A4 envelope.

      ‘This contains photocopies I’ve made from Sayyid’s folder.’ He handed the envelope to her. ‘For Patrick, and anyone else, the story is that you are working initially from cases you came across at Rainbow which you hope will lead to others. It would appear that your first trip will be to the North.’

      ‘Wherever it leads.’

      They stood up together. ‘Three people know about Sayyid. You and me. And my wife, Iona. I’ve put her in the picture and she understands the meaning of the word “secret”. She also knows about you.’ He ushered her to the door, then stopped. ‘Of course there’s a fourth person who knows too. Sayyid him- or herself. But once you start ringing doorbells, other ears and eyes may be alerted. For good or bad, we are a surveilled society.’

      Sara returned to the Legal office. Patrick peered up, noticing the envelope under her arm. ‘Secrets from the Chairman?’ he asked teasingly.

      Sara kicked herself for the carelessness and hoped she betrayed none of the thuds with which her heart had just rattled her ribcage. ‘Chairman’s induction,’ she replied. ‘He strikes me as a man who likes things done in a certain way.’ She put it in her case. ‘I honestly don’t think I’ve the energy right now for house rules and regs. Might make my mark with Sylvia instead.’

      ‘Good luck.’ Patrick pulled a child-like grimace and returned to his screen.

      Deliberately leaving the case by her desk to suggest nothing unusual, she went next door to the library.

      Sylvia Labone looked up fiercely. ‘You’re back.’

      ‘I thought I’d give you a rough idea of prayer times – though they keep changing, of course.’

      ‘Would you like me to vacate?’

      ‘Not at all, you won’t be disrupted.’

      She looked Sara up and down. ‘Do you smoke?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Of course not. Right, let me show you around.’

      She walked Sara up and down the shelves, describing her colour coding for submissions, authors, reports and originally commissioned research. ‘Of course, this material is all digitally stored too but our distinguished panel members often prefer to read hard copies. When they read anything at all.’

      ‘It’s impressive,’ said Sara, trying to soothe a woman whom life seemed to have made congenitally angry. ‘What about police and intelligence files?’

      ‘Coming to that,’ replied Sylvia irritably. ‘Their research reports and general assessments are handled in the same way. However, since Snowden, anything classified, shall we say, is, frankly, fog and mist, subject to endless redactions. Most of them look like a sea of black waves.’

      ‘Surely we can get more,’ asked Sara brightly.

      ‘You’d better get to work on our chairman,’ she replied. ‘Names. Names, places, times, addresses. It’s all scrubbing brush without those, isn’t it?’

      At 5 p.m., Sara tapped on Morahan’s half-open door.

      ‘Come in, Sara, come in,’ he beamed. His informality