She looked back at Catherine, who was staring back at her, her head high. She looked proud, and satisfied. Everything they had talked about, everything Catherine had said about those kids, teenagers like Samir, had it been lies all along? Did Catherine really believe that Samir deserved what was coming to him?
She looked towards the doors. She longed to run out, but had to maintain her dignity. She started walking. In front of her was a wall of people, the crowds who hadn’t been able to get a seat for this debate. They stared at her.
“Will members please clear a path for the Honourable Member to leave!” the Speaker called.
Slowly, their eyes on her, the people at the front of the crowd began to part, the mass of MPs splitting on party lines. Her own side and Catherine’s.
She muttered a thank you and started to make her way through them. It was like walking through an ocean. Voices rose up on both sides.
She cast a glance back into the Chamber. John was staring at her, looking like nothing so much as a disappointed father. She scowled at him. A few rows behind, Maggie was shooting her sympathetic looks. Was this what it had come to? Her only supporter was a notorious rebel?
At last she reached the doors. Invisible hands on the other side pulled them open. She blinked as the light from St Stephens Lobby attacked her eyes.
The lobby was full. Members who hadn’t made it to the debate, intrigued members of the public, and the press.
The press. What looked like hundreds of them swarmed forwards, pressing against each other in their desperation to get at her. Cameras were pointed in her direction, and flashes zinged in her eyes.
She tried to look past them, to find Yusuf. There was no sign of him. He would be to her right, towards the Strangers’ Gallery. Trapped on the other side of the crowd.
She dove into the crowd, covering her face with her hand. “Excuse me,” she said, as clearly as she could.
She pushed towards the gallery, scanning the faces. Where was he?
She stopped as a hand fell on her shoulder and felt herself relax.
Jennifer leaned backwards, letting the hand take some of her weight. Now Yusuf was here, and they could face this together. She didn’t care about Catherine anymore, or John, or Leonard Trask. She didn’t care that she’d made a fool of herself in the Chamber, and that all her colleagues despised her. She didn’t care about her ruined career.
All that mattered was getting Samir released. And doing it hand in hand with her husband.
A voice came from behind her. “Jennifer Sinclair?” It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar.
She frowned. Where was Yusuf?
She turned. The hand didn’t belong to her husband but to the owner of the voice, a short woman wearing a cheap suit and faded overcoat. She looked up at Jennifer, her eyes blank.
“Yes,” Jennifer replied. This woman would be a journalist. She had to get away; now wasn’t the time to answer questions. But why had she asked her name?
The woman fished into the inside pocket of her coat. Jennifer waited for a phone, or a microphone. She started to push against the woman’s hand. She had to find Yusuf.
The woman held a dark object up in front of Jennifer’s face. Jennifer focused on it. It was square and battered. Not a phone. It was a police warrant badge.
She sighed with relief. “Are you here to take me to my son?”
The woman shook her head.
Jennifer frowned. “Where’s my husband?”
“Jennifer Sinclair, I’m—”
“Please, tell me where Samir and Yusuf are. I can help you.”
The crowd pressed in against them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the doors to the Chamber had opened again and people were spilling out. She had to get away from here.
She drew herself up to her full height to tower over the woman, who was looking at the crowd, irritated. “I’ll help in any way you need me to. Just let me speak to my husband first.” She was going to make it OK. Somehow.
The woman tightened her grip on Jennifer’s shoulder.
“Jennifer Sinclair, I’m arresting you on suspicion of hiding a suspected terrorist.”
54
September 2021. London
Her cell in the bowels of New Scotland Yard was damp, with a fluorescent light flickering on the ceiling. She had no idea how long she’d been here.
The door opened.
“Stay there.”
A uniformed officer stepped inside, not making eye contact. He instructed her to turn round and put her hands behind her back. She felt the cold steel of handcuffs snap over her wrists.
In the doorway, the woman from earlier was waiting. Detective Inspector Johnson.
“Thanks, Cooper,” she said to the sergeant. She eyed Jennifer. “Come with me.”
She led Jennifer out the way they had come in, along a series of corridors, into a lift and up to the daylight. Jennifer knew this building, had been here for its official opening when she was Prisons Minister. John had officiated, beaming at the modernity of the Met’s new building.
Even after a few hours, she was relieved to be outside. They were at the back of the building; she could see the river beyond trees and hear traffic on Whitehall. Less than half a mile away, business was continuing in the Houses of Parliament.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “Will I see my family?”
The detective licked her lips; they were thin, adorned with pale pink lipstick. Her cheeks were pale with high red spots where the autumn air was getting to the skin. “We’re taking you to the Magistrates’ Court. Your solicitor will be waiting for you.”
She felt her heart pick up pace. She had used her phone call – still allowed, despite the anti-terror laws – to ring Edward, her solicitor for many years. He had been calm but not as reassuring as she would like.
She still didn’t know where Yusuf was, or Samir. She could only assume that Hassan was safe with her in-laws.
Another man bundled her into the back of a van, led her to a tiny cell inside, and slammed the door shut. Footsteps clapped along the tarmac followed by doors opening and closing at the front of the van.
The sarcophagus-like cell was higher than it was wide, with scratches on the metal walls where previous occupants had tried to leave their mark. A minuscule square window let in some light at roof level but it was obscured so she couldn’t look out. The cell smelt of vomit mixed with bleach. She pulled herself in as tight and still as possible, willing her stomach to behave, and waited. After about half an hour, the van slowed, turning some tight bends and coming to a stop.
Her stomach started to settle. Again doors opened and closed up front.
She watched the door to her cell, listening to the muffled sounds of voices outside. Finally the door opened and two uniformed police hauled her out. She stumbled to the ground, almost losing her footing, and tried to gain a sense of where she was.
They were behind a tall, modern building, slim windows adorning its walls. She’d been here too, when she was a minister. Westminster Magistrates’ Court.
Would Yusuf be here?
She was led along a warren of corridors and into a small room with two chairs and a tiny table. A policewoman pushed her into one of the chairs, and told her to wait. She did as she was told.
As the policewoman left, Edward hurried in. She stood up, startled and relieved. She had to fight an urge to kiss him.
“Edward! What’s happening? Where’s Yusuf? Where’s Samir?”
His face was impassive, betraying neither good news nor bad. He gave her a tight smile and nodded at the chair. She sat down and he took a seat opposite her at the grey formica-topped table. Outside she heard voices, muffled shouts and then silence.
“Don’t worry,” he said. He was unshaved and looked as if he hadn’t slept. His thin grey hair was ragged, making him look five years older than the last time she’d seen him. “They’re OK. Yusuf is here, and Samir. Hassan’s at home.”
She stared at him, subdued by his matter-of-
factness. He opened his hefty briefcase and pulled out a file.
“Now. I need to explain to you what’s going to happen here today.”
Jennifer nodded. She knew already, or believed she did. She tried to push away her anxiety and let him take over, lead her through the drill.
“When you’re in there,” he finished, “let me do the talking. And Samantha, your barrister. She’s upstairs, preparing.”
“But—”
He eyed her. “I mean it, Jennifer. Don’t say anything. You’re my client now and not my friend. You’ve got to listen to me.”
“At least tell me what’s happened to Yusuf.”
“They arrested him, but let him go without charge. He got to the flat after Samir left, so he wasn’t involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“In hiding him.”
“I didn’t hide him. I just let him lie low for a—”
“Jennifer. You knew he was under suspicion.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t know he was under suspicion? I can’t lie in court.”
She shook her head. “No. But how did they know?”
He shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out. But it’s not much of a leap. Samir ran away. He came here. The police were about to arrest him. They already had his girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
Edward nodded.
“Don’t be silly. Samir doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Edward looked down at his hands.
Jennifer tugged at his fist, impatient. “They’ve got it wrong,” she said. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” Thoughts rattled through her head. “Is that all they’ve got on him? This girlfriend?”
He looked up. “She was a member of a proscribed group. They arrested her over a month ago.”
“No. I’m sure of it. I know he was secretive. He played truant.” She clenched her fists. “But there’s no girlfriend.”
He sighed and took a folder out of his briefcase. “I’m sorry, Jennifer.”
He opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. He placed it on the table between them. It was blank.
She frowned at it. He turned it over.
The photograph was black and white, clearly taken with a telephoto lens. It was of a young Asian couple engaged in a passionate kiss. The boy was Samir. The girl she didn’t know.
She sat back. Was this where he had been, all those times he had come home late? “Who is she?”
He put the photograph away. “Her name is Meena Ashgar. At least, that’s the name they’ve given me. She was part of this group they’re accusing him of being involved in. She was one of the ringleaders.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It wasn’t just that. He went to meetings. He helped put out leaflets. They’ve got his computer.”
“He was just an angry teenager. How does that equate to being a terrorist?”
“I’m sorry.”
He stood up, glancing at his watch. “You’re going to be first in. They want to get it over with, clear the court afterwards. They’ll be coming for you in twenty minutes.”
She slumped into her chair.
“I’m not pleading guilty.”
He sighed. “If we can get a not guilty verdict for Samir, then we’ll appeal your conviction, but you’ll get a more lenient sentence in the first place if you plead guilty.” He leaned back, stretching his fingers. Jennifer heard a click. “We can’t convince anyone you didn’t hide him. They’ve got CCTV footage of your flat.”
“I was just protecting my son.”
“I know. I understand, honestly I do. But in the eyes of the law, you were hiding someone who you knew to be under suspicion of membership of a proscribed group. Please, do as I say. This’ll make it easier for Samir.”
“What will happen to him?”
“He’s lucky. If he’d been charged with membership and not just association, then he’d be subject to internment. Part of the Prevention of Terrorism Act. It was amended last year.”
“I know,” she told him, “I voted against it.” But her voice was quiet, not the one she’d used to argue against that bill in the Commons.
He looked at her over his file. “I know.”
Of course he did. “Anything else I need to know?”
“No. Just let me do my thing. When the magistrate asks for your plea, say Guilty. That’s it.”
She closed her eyes.
“Remember what I said, Jennifer. Stick to the minimum. Only answer direct questions. Let me and Samantha do the talking.”
She nodded, holding back tears as he left her to wait.
A policewoman took her arm and led her along dark, echoing corridors. She wondered where Samir was. She wouldn’t see him today; his hearing would be later on.
The policewoman gave her a light push in the small of the back and she stumbled through a door into the court room. She squinted up at the ceiling. High above, framed by the bodies around her, fluorescent lights cast a harsh yellow glow. The policewoman pushed her towards the dock, then removed the handcuffs and told Jennifer to place her hands on the rail in front of her.
Jennifer stared at her hands, willing them to be still. Behind her the public gallery was buzzing. She swallowed; Edward had warned her that the press were here. She raised her eyes and took in the desks and benches in front of her, beyond the glass. Edward sat at one of them with another man and a woman – her barrister.
She risked a glance behind her. The gallery was full. She recognised some of its inhabitants: journalists, as well as – her heart jumped – Yusuf, right at the front and blinking at her from a gaunt face. He stood stiffly, his eyes hooded from lack of sleep. They locked eyes for a few moments and then he put a hand to his face, wiping his eyes.
She put a hand on her chest in an effort to calm herself. The room was blurring, grey dots appearing in front of her eyes. After a moment the dots cleared and her thoughts sharpened again. The high ceilings and benches reminded her of the all the rooms like this she’d been in over the years; council chambers, committee rooms, even a court or two. Not forgetting the Commons Chamber. It didn’t stop her feeling intimidated.
The magistrate looked up from his high desk at the front and over her, raising an eyebrow. “Can I ask for quiet in the public gallery please.”
Yusuf looked at her again, his eyes full. She thought of Samir – where was he? – and Hassan, who they’d lied to. Would he ever trust her again? She tried to smile at Yusuf but couldn’t do it. She turned back to the front.
“Ms Sinclair, please give the court your name and address.”
Jennifer did so, thinking of the house, empty without her family in it.
“Please sit down.”
Jennifer sat, clasping her hands together in her lap to make them behave.
An exchange followed between the magistrate and lawyers. She was to be refused bail.
The magistrate asked her to stand again. His gaze was businesslike but not harsh. Just another day’s work.
“What is your plea?”
She glanced at Edward. “Guilty.”
The magistrate nodded. “Jennifer Sinclair, you have pleaded guilty to harbouring a suspected terrorist.”
She opened her mouth to protest but caught Edward’s frown and stopped herself.
“I’m referring your case to the Crown Court for sentencing, but in the meantime you will be remanded in custody at Bronzefield Prison.”
Bronzefield. Where Hayley Price had died. Jennifer felt her legs weaken.
In seconds she was out of the room and moving down the corridor, the policewoman’s firm hand pushing her back towards the cells. She wouldn’t see Edward again today; he had to help Samir now.
She shivered.
As she approached the staircase to the cells, a door slammed behind her, echoing down the corridor. Followed by footsteps.
“Jen!”
She span, pushing away the policewo
man’s hand. The handcuffs dug into her wrists and she gulped back a cry. She stumbled into the policewoman, who tried to pull her back round. She resisted.
“Yusuf! How are you? Are you OK?”
He nodded, smiling. Tears were rolling down his face.
The policewoman’s grip tightened on Jennifer’s shoulder. She pulled against it, trying to get closer to Yusuf.
“What’s happening to Samir?” she called. “Have they let you see him?”
He shook his head. The policewoman tightened her grip on the handcuffs. Jennifer didn’t care.
“We’ll get him back,” Yusuf called. “We’ll sort it. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
She nodded and swallowed. It wasn’t as simple as that.
He looked angry, as if he knew what she was thinking. “We will, Jen,” he said. “I’ll start it, then we’ll get you out and we’ll do everything we can to get him back. Together.”
She smiled at him. I hope so.
The policewoman had been joined by a colleague and they were guiding Jennifer back towards the cells. Her feet skittered against the polished floor. Yusuf shot an angry look at the officers, then turned back to her.
“I love you, Jen!”
She was pulled into a room and the door was closed. The policewoman guided her to a chair. She opened her mouth but only a croak came out. She slumped into the chair, staring at the door. Could they make it right? Could they get Samir off? Or would she be in prison for a long time?
She clenched her fists. They would fight this. She had friends out there, powerful people who would help her. She would get her family back, and nothing, not even a prison sentence, would stop her.
Divide And Rule
Book 2
Chapter One
Rita turned towards the write screen, her eye deliberately avoiding the camera high in the corner. She pushed back a yawn and laid her fingers on the screen. It sprang to life.
She spun back to the class, forcing a smile.
Twenty nine children – Darius Williams was late, again – sat to attention at four rows of desks. Every one of them was neatly dressed, striped blue tie tucked into the regulation grey shirt. The boys’ trousers were grey and neatly fitting, with no scuffed knees or frayed hems. The girls had scrubbed knees lined up under the desks, regulation pleated skirts, all exactly one inch above the knee. Every knee was pink, every neck stretching out from a starched collar was alabaster. This was a model class, an all white class. She, the teacher, didn’t count.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 26