The Inquiry
Page 34
How suckered she had been – not just by Kareem but, if she was right, by Isobel too. If only she had seen more clearly that it was not Patrick who needed to protect her, but she who needed to protect him, he might be alive now… even if their search would die.
For the first time since Patrick’s death – perhaps in some kind of penance to him – Sara felt energised. Now that the idea had gripped her, and even if, at this point, she might be the only person in a position to understand it, she couldn’t – and wouldn’t – let it rest. Ludo Temple had been in touch, saying how much they looked forward ‘after all this ghastly business’ to having her back at Knightly Court. Yes, she’d go back, but there would be a condition. The Chambers must fund a ful-time researcher to record and investigate all disappearances that could connect to Kareem and Operation Pitchfork. She herself must be allowed an agreed number of hours per week to work on the project. Somehow she knew Ludo would make his colleagues agree.
That was not enough. The Home Office, intelligence services, even Parliament’s Intelligence and Security Committee would, she was sure, be deaf or compromised. Instead her approach must be that of a citizen in a free democracy – to trust in the law and hold to account a secret state which should not be allowed to sign contracts with evil.
She thought of those glinting eyes of DS Buttler, recalling that phone call from him a few days ago.
‘Bob Buttler here, Ms Shah.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just to say I’ve got your phone back. The metadata does indeed show a text from Sir Francis’s mobile was remotely deleted from it.’ There’d been a pause on the line. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘You don’t, you were doing your job.’
‘That’s good of you to say.’ Another pause. ‘I heard about Mr Duke. A tragedy by all accounts.’
‘Yes. It was.’
‘Even if it’s not a bad rule of thumb, I know the simple explanation’s not always the right one, Ms Shah.’
‘No,’ she’d murmured. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Well, as I said, I’m always here. Any time you want to talk. Anything I can do to help.’
Maybe she’d briefly been his target, but he wasn’t a stupid man. Perhaps she would get back to him, make a further statement, do the same with the police at Reading. It would lay out all the background, including Sayyid and the documents, and all the facts, including the full account of the night of Morahan’s death and the trip to Wales. She would even admit to her teenage entanglement with Kareem.
She would tell of his shoals of fish and the message sent by Iqbal Jamal Wahab.
The one thing she would not yet mention was her suspicion of Isobel; it would appear too far-fetched and undermine her. Facts were what mattered. She needed a good person to run with them; who, as she planted the seeds, would begin to see their growth. She needed someone with her to knock down doors – to reassemble the disappeared and track down the guilty. Someone both decent and good. Someone like Patrick Duke who would work with her to see that growth blossom into truth.
And then pray that if that truth turned out to be ugly and its consequences fearful, they would intercept it in time. In time…
33
2021
Wednesday 13 October
11.49 a.m.
He steps out of the lift at the 67th floor of the Shard onto the lower viewing platform, his ticket booked long in advance. An initial 360-degree sweep around reveals a bright autumnal view of London, blue sky, sun to the south nearly at its zenith, a few white vapours and streaks painted on the stratosphere but otherwise clear in every direction. Clarity. Not just of sight, but of mind. Clarity and finality.
He climbs onto the upper platform and the spectacle is enhanced. He looks down on the London Eye where, twenty years and thirty-three days ago, he lived a moment that, for him, will never die. Not only the leap of his imagination but the jump in his groin as he stood behind her, pressing, folding his arms around her belly, the violence of his imagination matching the violence of what he would like to do to her. Her pale olive skin, silky dark brown hair, smell of sweet sweat.
He waits.
11.55 am
Five minutes to go. They should almost be in sight, the two of them. He thinks of the woman on the ground, staring at her screens, her nerves jangling, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone notices. Years of preparation in the balance. But, as yet, there is nothing to suspect or to see. He takes up position at the north viewing platform and removes binoculars from a case. Below a barge floats along the river in slow motion; stick-like figures pass each other on Hungerford Bridge. Cars on the approaches to Tower Bridge are stationary and he sees the drawbridge rise. Beyond, an elegant, high double-masted, cream-painted yacht glides up river; he quickly calculates what point it will have reached in five minutes’ time. Even his powerful lenses cannot individually pick out each pigeon on the steps of St Paul’s, but he can see the cluster. They’ll find a way of getting away; they always do.
The date, decided three years back, is a matter he wrestled with. The precise anniversary had a flaw – not merely the extra vigilance on the day but holiday season in the Palace of Westminster. He decided to wait. Allow no chance for lucky escapes, nor accusation of pointless gestures. Each generation might only have one chance. Twenty years and thirty-three days have passed; we have not gone away.
He sees the American A380, with its hundreds of passengers, on its south east-diagonal, about to make the ninety-degree turn for the north-eastern approach to Heathrow, leading it to the Thames. He takes a few strides to the right and scans the south-eastern path, the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent thousands of miles beyond. There, unmistakably, a second, equally packed A380 is heading towards him. He shuffles to and fro to compare the increasing sizes of these two enormous steel birds soaring ever nearer. Their progress is remarkably uniform. He wonders if any pair of eyes, apart from the woman at Drayton, is seeing anything unusual. He imagines being in the cockpit seat of the co-pilot in the second plane – the one who knows; the one in whose seat he himself craves to be; the one who, a few minutes before, will have secured the double-locked cockpit door, raised himself from his seat to walk behind the senior pilot beside him; the one who, stealthily, speedily, will then have placed an electric flex around the neck in front and pulled it hard and silently tight.
He imagines sitting in the other cockpit of the first A380 where the two American pilots will be admiring the approaching river and the Shard itself as their auto-pilot flies them over London’s law courts towards Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Perhaps they are joking, making plans for the evening, preparing to put their hands up a hostess’s skirt. The plane flies itself, as it has done thousands of times before, with an inhuman precision and flawless functionality – seven or so minutes to landing and an afternoon and evening of opportunity lie ahead.
In the second plane, the co-pilot may take a glance at the lolling head and lifeless eyes beside him. Theirs was only a professional relationship after all and the concentration with which he must now apply himself allows no time for pleasure or regrets. He has practised the manoeuvre over and over again on the computer program they built for him. He is one line of the equilateral triangle heading towards its intersection; the second plane is the other. But he is operating in the four dimensions of space and time; because in the final stages he will be pulling up sharply from a thousand feet below, he must be that edge in front to compensate for the extra distance created by the elevation. It is simply a matter of mathematics, a subject at which he always excelled and contributed to his double first from Queen Vic’s. Curiously – he had not factored this in – at this very moment he can see its Gothic pinnacles down to the right. He takes the aircraft out of autopilot and assumes control. He sees the other plane across the river and above him. He eases right, off his correct Heathrow runway two path, to increase the angle of difference between them.
The man on the Shard platform watches it beginning to unf
old. He admires the sheer beauty of these huge shapes floating ethereally towards their fate. Below the Speaker of the House of Commons bangs his gavel and shouts, ‘Order! Order!’ The Prime Minister rises. What will the questions be about? After all, today’s world is a dull place, the threat of terror now seems to be over, the disposition of the nations of Europe is arranged to the mutual benefit of all, a more relaxed United States of America is living calmly with the rest of the world under its forty-sixth President. The first two decades of the twenty-first century may have been a troubled age but Planet Earth and those who inhabit her are set fair for a new age of optimism.
In London it is 12 midday. In New York and Washington it is five hours earlier, 7 a.m. The men and women rising innocently from their beds will soon hear the shock from three thousand miles across the Atlantic. And because lightning never strikes twice, they will little imagine their own shock to come.
A tall, wraith-like woman ranges alongside and brushes the back of her hand between his thighs.
‘It’s done,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she agrees, ‘it’s done.’
She melts silently away.
At this moment, Sara Shah is walking back from the Old Bailey to the Temple. She’s been in court all morning, her mobile phone off. She desultorily switches it on; it’s an uneventful day, an uneventful few weeks. She notices a text. It arrived three hours earlier, just before she went into court.
Stay clear of Westminster and Whitehall today.
No name. An unfamiliar number.
She is distracted by the noise of a huge jet overhead on its landing approach to Heathrow.
She looks up.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to those whose insight and expertise helped so much: Alan Ewers, Andrew Allberry, Jon Appleton, Sahina Bibi, Dorothy Byrne, Lily Capewell, Gavin Esler, Joanna Frank, Jamie Groves, Val Hudson, Nicky Kroll, Joanna Potts, Sarah Shaffi, Victor Temple, Laura Westbury, Robert Young. Thank you also to those who prefer not to be or cannot be named.
My agent, Julian Alexander, and HQ’s inspiring leader, Lisa Milton, have offered constant encouragement. The gifted Ayisha Malik provided invaluable knowledge and understanding. Sue Carney of Ethos Forensics has become a splendidly ingenious, generous ally and new friend. An old friend, Paul Greengrass, demonstrated, with critical effect, his unparalleled creative generosity and the power of his big brain. Another big brain, my editor, Clio Cornish, has been terrific both for her critiques and her creative interventions.
Above all are those closest to home – so thank you, Helena and Olivia, and, above all, Penelope who, in addition to her great editing and narrative skills, is there in so many different ways.
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