The Inquiry. Will Caine

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 foraged in her bag for her make-up mirror as he moved off down the street. She removed it and checked her face, applying tiny pats of powder. Buying time again.

      This was going to be impossible unless, to some extent at least, she levelled 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?