The Inquiry

by Will Caine

  ‘You’re bloody right I would have.’ He wasn’t smiling. ‘OK, let’s await the cavalry.’ They sat down together on the edge of the platform. He put an arm round her.

  She let him.

  30

  They waited.

  The helicopter’s roar vibrated the walls and floor of the barn; they huddled closer against its assault. Suddenly it changed pitch, screaming even louder, then gradually began to quieten.

  ‘He’s on his way. That thug with him, I hope,’ said Patrick. ‘Good riddance. What did you tell Sylvia?’

  ‘To report it as kidnapping and false imprisonment,’ said Sara.

  ‘They’ve got him. Hope they don’t forget us.’

  He rose and switched on whatever further lights he could find. They waited, anticipating footsteps, then a shout, perhaps a beating down of the door.

  Nothing. Only a drift into silence as the helicopter sounds ebbed away in the hills.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said.

  ‘And I don’t like it,’ he replied. He got up again and tried the door Kareem had left by. Still locked. He walked, agitation in his stride, to the second entrance.

  ‘What the—’ he began. He swivelled to her. ‘This door’s ajar.’ He turned back and pushed. It swung easily open.

  ‘Careful,’ she said.

  He poked his head out. As still as a windless lake. There was enough left of the gloaming to see across the courtyard and down the gravel driveway. He walked out, confirmed the picture and returned.

  ‘Deserted,’ he said. ‘Not a soul. I didn’t hear the locks being released.’

  ‘Nor did I.’

  ‘They, someone, must have done it under cover of the helicopter noise.’

  ‘What’s happened, Patrick?’ Calm had deserted her. ‘I don’t understand what’s happened.’

  ‘You’re sure you kept to the phone discipline.’

  ‘Yes, I texted Sylvia from my burner to the one you got her. And told her to remember to use that one to phone the police.’

  ‘She must be under even tighter surveillance than we thought.’ He headed towards the door; she ran to catch up with him. Outside he stared up at the now moonlit sky. ‘That helicopter was his cavalry, not ours.’

  Eyes covering all angles, they headed towards the gates. The car was where he’d left it, apparently untouched. ‘He’ll be crowing now,’ said Patrick, ‘imagining how gulled we must feel.’

  Driving back down the lane, neither wanted to start the conversation they had to have. Patrick’s constant checking of the rear-view mirror allowed her an opening.

  ‘Do you want to stop and go over the car?’

  ‘What’s the point? If the professionals are tracking, it’ll be by satellite.’

  ‘OK. Should we analyse what just happened? And what comes next.’

  ‘Can we wait till we hit the motorway? These roads are making me twitchy.’

  He started the same playlist they’d driven down to; this time, she’d allow him to break the silence. Several tracks later, nearing the Severn Bridge, he finally did. ‘So… You tell me. Which “narrative”? His or yours? And by the by, how long have you been thinking of it and deciding not to try it on me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t even know I was going to do it. It was his arrogance. His certainty.’ A riposte came to her. ‘And you never told me you were bringing the contract.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know… some instinct, I guess. That, in its way, it was a weapon. A protection even.’ He checked the rear-view mirror. ‘Back to the narrative…’

  ‘Neither. Both. I don’t know. There is no certainty. It’s all about power and manipulation. It goes back to what he is. Sociopath. Psychopath. Whatever.’

  ‘Yes, we like to use those terms now to find explanations. But in his distorted way, he’s brilliant. A genuine leader. The amoral mastermind who employs useful idiots. He said it himself. He wouldn’t give a tuppenny damn about sacrificing any of them.’ He hesitated. ‘What was he saying about a text message, Sara?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She was subdued, not wanting to say but knowing she must. ‘It’s the one thing I couldn’t tell you. Of course, he knew that. That’s why he worked it in. It was hardly part of the story.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was the early morning of July the 7th. Two hours before 7/7. I had an anonymous text, it said something like, “don’t use the buses or tubes in London today.” I tried to hit reply, it wouldn’t send. I assumed it was some kind of hoax. If I phoned the police, I thought I’d feel a fool. I talked myself out of doing anything. When I got to work, I suddenly thought I should at least do something. So I tried the Met confidential line.’ She paused, feeling for a tissue in her bag. ‘It was too late.’

  He slowed down, switching to the inside lane, allowing himself a fleeting second to watch her. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Think about it. If you’d tried to report it – whoever you chose – how could it have made any difference? Not then. 7/7 came from a clear blue sky. They’d never have cleared the whole of central London transport on the back of a single imprecise text message. Let alone inside two hours. You didn’t need to beat yourself up then. You don’t now.’

  ‘I felt guilty enough not to tell you, didn’t I? To hold it back.’

  ‘You’ve told me now.’

  She felt an urge to complete the story. ‘I tried to phone the number too. Just got a voice message saying it was unobtainable. Looking back, I guess he was using a burner phone and instantly dumped the SIM card.’

  ‘Probably,’ he replied. ‘That’s the only sure-fire way, now and then, to be anonymous on a mobile. Any other way’s traceable.’

  She frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It came up when I was searching how Morahan’s text to you could have disappeared.’

  She relaxed – they were back in the present. ‘That reminds me, I must lend Buttler my phone to sort that one out.’

  ‘Are you sure you need to?’ He paused. ‘After what’s happened today.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I want the doubts gone.’

  They fell into silence; the last secret between them was out.

  Or so it seemed to him. She thought of telling him about the recent anonymous texts, but what was the point now? Particularly the last one she’d received seven hours ago in the stables:

  Someone you want to see will meet you at the barn. You must vacate around 4 p.m. for thirty minutes to allow their arrival.

  The real reason she’d lied about the phone signal, prompting the drive from the farm to find one.

  Should, could she have shared it with Patrick? To find out the burner phone number Patrick had got her for this trip, they, whoever they now were, had either, as Kareem implied, tracked every one of Patrick’s preparations for the trip or, as he’d feared, monitored her morning call to the hospital switchboard. The extent of the surveillance might have panicked him.

  In addition, if she’d shown it to him without further explanation, he too perhaps would have realised it could only mean that Kareem was not dead but alive, wanting a final showdown with her. He would have insisted on pulling her out, putting his duty to protect her above all else, failing to understand that she could not – and would not – run away from it, nor from the opportunity to bring him to justice, however hopelessly that had turned out.

  It was pointless too to tell him. She had a powerful sense that there would be no more anonymous texts. Even if it had begun with Kareem, she had come to wonder if there was an additional guiding hand. She might never know who that was. She must try not to think about it, it would achieve nothing.

  The silence she was crowding with her internal arguments began to oppress her. ‘What are we going to do about today?’ she finally asked.

  ‘He had some nerve, didn’t he?’ said Patrick. ‘Why show at all? Why say what he did.’

  She considered it for a wh
ile. ‘It’s partly his psyche. Maybe megalomania’s what it really is. There had to be a showdown and he had to win. But I suspect there’s a rationale too. His demonstration that whatever we know, whatever happened, we’ll never be able to prove it. And he’s right.’

  ‘No. It’s just as you say – we have the contract. Even if he escapes, it will expose what happened.’

  ‘You’re really going to lodge it with the Inquiry? Even though you’re implicated?’

  ‘Yes, Sara, I really am.’

  ‘You should give me a copy for back-up if you’re submitting the original.’

  ‘I’ll do it first thing.’

  They lapsed into further silence. She wondered if she should argue; warn him that making it official Inquiry evidence could destroy his career. But she knew he must have factored that in and wouldn’t change his mind. It was his right thing to do.

  They passed a sign saying that Newbury Services were in a mile. ‘I’m late for prayers. Can we stop?’

  ‘Of course. I could do with a quick kip. Better than falling asleep at the wheel.’

  The question had been building in his mind for days. As he turned off the motorway and into the car park, slowing to find the darkest possible space for a sleep as the exertions and tensions of the day subsided, he made the leap.

  ‘Sara… I wanted to ask you something?’

  ‘Oh?’

  He looked shyly into her eyes. ‘If I want to invite you out for a date, what do I have to do?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, eyes flashing back and allowing herself a satisfying delay, ‘like other things in life, it seems, there are three phases. First, you have to wait till my father’s well enough to understand your request. Second, he has to agree. Third, you have to agree he accompanies us as my chaperone. It’s just the way we do things.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said, the grin softening to the gentlest of smiles.

  ‘It’s OK, Patrick, I’m only joking. I’ve told you before – I’m a big girl now.’

  He found a parking space and cut the engine. ‘You know, there may have been something else. All that stuff about wanting you to understand him. As if he needed your absolution. Or just your approval.’ He paused. ‘At least I might have that in common with him.’

  ‘No. He was game-playing. You’d never do that.’ She smiled, lightly cuffed him on the cheek, got out and shut the door.

  He watched her heading inside. Despite the bizarre outcome of their journey, he felt a contentment he’d never believed he’d recapture. In fact, as he imagined her in her own small space, mouthing those words she found so calming, he began to feel a happiness greater than any he could remember. He restarted the playlist and lowered the volume to no more than the comforting embrace of long-loved sounds. He wound down his window a few inches to allow the night air of early summer to gently fan him, switched off the interior light, lay back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she headed back towards the car, a skip in her stride and a gladness in her heart. Yes, he was fun – and gentle. Perhaps over-protective but she’d drum that out of him. It would be good to wipe the slate clean and spend more time with him, whatever disapproval she might face – though, she was somehow sure, not from her father. As for anything more, the stars above and the river of time below would decide.

  She neared the car, hearing faint strains of Roy Orbison’s soaring voice and thought back to Patrick singing along in the morning. She smiled.

  She opened the door, slid in beside him, and sighed with a warming tiredness. She’d allow him a minute or two more in the darkness to sleep. Only faint echoes from the motorway services broke through the silence. Time to rouse him. ‘I found a nice little spot,’ she said. He didn’t answer. ‘Time to wake up and go, Patrick.’ Still no answer.

  She stretched out the back of a hand to stroke his cheek and nudge him – allow him an easy awakening. She felt an odd softness, some kind of liquid oozing through her fingers. She pushed her hand harder against his head; it seemed to drop, the flow of liquid to increase. She recoiled, felt for the internal light, switched it on and turned back to him.

  ‘No… no… no,’ she whispered, shuddering.

  She closed her eyes for a second, then forced herself to open them. He was slumped, his neck and head propped on the right top of the seat back, wedged against the window. A livid, blackened oval hole disfigured his left temple and cheek, blood leeching from it. Pink and red fragments were scattered over his clothes and seat – bloodied flesh and bones. She felt her hands and looked down at her clothes. The blood was seeping over her and her seat too.

  She leapt out of the car, repeatedly screaming ‘Help!’ in the darkness, and walked round to the driver’s door, hoping that if she opened it, some miracle would show that most of him was intact. As she pulled it ajar, his body started to lean outwards. She pushed herself against him. In his right temple she saw another hole, smaller, neater, the entry point of death.

  Still with her weight against him, she grabbed at his right arm, searching for the wrist, desperate to find a pulse. Nothing. His right hand, dangling by the door, was locked around a pistol’s grip.

  The song reached its end, the final note dying away. It was over.

  There was no going back. No happy ending.

  Sara knew that Patrick had not held or fired that gun. She also knew that she’d never be able to prove it.

  She felt in the jacket pocket where he’d put back his copy of the contract. It was empty.

  31

  The phone call came just after 8 a.m. Even though she’d half expected it, Sara was still surprised at the speed and the voice on the line. She was invited to choose a meeting place – ‘somewhere open that would suit us both’ – and proposed the Temperance Fountain on the east tip of Clapham Common, a minute from the tube. With families and children all around, it felt safe territory.

  She hadn’t got home till 4 a.m. The response to her 999 call was fast and the police asked her to wait inside while they sealed the scene. Although it appeared to be a clear case of suicide, they said there would be a full forensic examination. As the hour was so late, the interviewing officer suggested a short, initial chat and asked her to attend Reading police station over the next day or two to make a full statement.

  She’d given them bare, but truthful, bones: she and Patrick had been professional colleagues for just a few weeks; they were working together on a government inquiry and had visited Wales to interview a potential witness; Patrick’s frame of mind had been good and cheerful; nothing during the day had, as far as she knew, affected his frame of mind; she wasn’t aware of any present issues in his personal life though she didn’t know him well; he’d told her he’d been divorced for a while and had a good relationship with his son; no, she did not know his next of kin; yes, she’d be happy to come back to Reading; no, she had no idea he had a gun and found it hard to believe.

  A taxi to London was summoned – it cost her £110 at that time of night. On her arrival home she’d decided not to check Patrick’s personal mobile, realising it could be seen as tampering with evidence. She switched on her own. In the inbox was a text from the pay-as-you-go phone Patrick had carried on the trip. She tried to remember the exact timings; it must have been sent around eight minutes before she’d returned to the car.

  Hi Sara, sorry that you’ll be the one left with this mess. It’s finally over for me. There’s a sadness in my life that won’t go away and I can’t go on. You’ve been a great colleague, however briefly. Thanks for that. Patrick x

  She read it and cried for longer than she could remember crying since she had been a child. A good – a very good – man had died, and had been beaten in the process. She understood that a part of her had died with him.

  She went to the bathroom, showered, dried the tears and collapsed on her bed, not expecting sleep to come easily. Three thoughts kept revolving. How much he must have frightened them. How clever they’d been, particularly with th
at text. How she must stop herself feeling powerless. She set her alarm for 8 a.m.

  Three hours later, she was sitting on a stone resting beneath one of the Temperance Fountain’s four lion heads. She discarded her cardigan and lay it beside her – the day was hot. Though she watched, she saw nothing till the tall, slim figure drew alongside, hovering over her – long linen trousers, a cream blouse, an elegant white hat with broad brow and large sunglasses.

  ‘Hello, Sara.’

  Sara stood. ‘Hello, Dame Isobel.’

  ‘As before, just Isobel. Also as before, this discussion is not happening.’

  ‘Will it be the truth this time?’

  ‘Would you mind if we walk? It won’t take long. Perhaps towards the bandstand.’

  They rose and walked silently until they were sufficiently alone.

  ‘I’m very sorry about Patrick,’ said Isobel.

  ‘Are you?’ said Sara. Her tone was flatter than the grass.

  ‘Of course. He was a decent man and a good lawyer.’

  ‘Decent man. So everyone says. When did you hear?’

  ‘I heard the news around 6 a.m. I was deeply shocked.’

  ‘Though not surprised.’

  Isobel stopped in her tracks. ‘Sara, I know you’ll find it hard to trust me after what I told you about Kareem’s death. That remains a necessary fiction – we must maintain it. But I have something important to tell you. At this very moment, Kareem – under his new name, of course – is being deported.’

  ‘Deported?’

  ‘Yes, returned, whether he likes it or not, to his home state.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That need not concern you. Let’s just say the Gulf.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For suspected breaches, in recent weeks, of the Official Secrets Act – which he signed up to on joining the staff of MI5.’

  ‘You mean Sayyid.’ Isobel stayed silent. ‘Then you should be prosecuting him.’

  ‘It’s been decided that would not be in the public interest.’