The Inquiry. Will Caine
not. Some have disappeared. If you wish to fulfil your remit, you must attempt to trace these individuals or their families and take evidence. You must not use police or intelligence services to carry out this investigation. Those channels are compromised.
Knowing the potential consequences, I need your confirmation that you wish to continue. I will then advise you on obtaining the help you need.
These few files that I have been able to give you are the tip of a large iceberg. They are also its inception. From them a decade-long pattern follows.
A final warning. Once you knock on the first door, you must move fast.
Sayyid
Morahan lay the note aside, absorbed the accompanying instructions and began to leaf through the files. They contained print-outs of photographs; phone call intercepts; logs of suspects’ movements. They were each headed by a brief biography containing a name, present suspected whereabouts, and previous addresses.
Who was this secret informant? Sayyid. Was he, or she, to be trusted? What position was he in to have access to raw classified files? If the operation he claimed to know of had really existed, how and why was he one of the few who knew of it? Were his warnings genuine or for effect?
Were the files themselves genuine? As a judge he was accustomed to recent police files, but his own experience of intelligence files on suspected terrorists went back to his brief time as Attorney General, mainly in the wake of 9/11, when the net was being cast far and wide. He tried to remember what these looked like; then realised it would be remarkable if the means of recording information in the digital age had not moved on. Did these print-outs have the ring of truth? Of authenticity? He stared at them again, working his way slowly through them, seeking out flaws or artificialities. If they were there, he could not see them.
If he could trust Sayyid it meant he must find an unusual kind of investigator. The memory of the Watergate ‘Deep Throat’, the prime cause of President Richard Nixon’s downfall in 1974, flashed before him. ‘Deep Throat’ had passed his secrets to journalist investigators – the celebrity duo of Woodward and Bernstein. He could hardly imagine himself entrusting anything to the modern breed of British journalist. To maintain control, he must recruit an investigator to work within his team. Sayyid had already said he could not trust any part of the security or police services but indicated he might offer further pointers.
It was late. He could not do this alone. He needed to find someone he could trust with the know-how to track down and win the confidence of the men in this file – men who might be both frightened and frightening.
Over breakfast, Francis and Iona sat opposite each other in their usual seats, he with The Times, she with the Guardian. She lowered her paper and folded it with a crack; he followed suit.
‘So…’ she began in her customary way.
He told her a great deal; the first approach, the methodology – he needed to explain the late-night strolls – and the nature of the printed-out files Sayyid had given him.
The telling prompted him to reflect on the rigmarole of Sayyid’s procedures. Surely there were simpler ways of doing this. It suddenly crossed his mind that Sayyid could be in some way playing him; deliberately conjuring him through a twisting chain of hoops. But why? To impress him? To whet his appetite? Even to compromise him? The idea that someone was setting a trap was monstrous; if he began to think that way, he was lost. He, part of an untouchable judiciary, was the independent chair of a government inquiry trying to seek out truth. What mattered was the information, not how it arrived.
‘And that’s it?’ Iona said.
‘So far.’ He did not mention the grave tone or the warnings contained in the accompanying letters from Sayyid, not wishing to alarm her further. ‘There will be more.’
‘How much more?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How are you going to proceed?’
‘I’m trying…’ he began.
‘You’ve not always been the strongest of men, Francis.’
‘I know. You have been the strength in our… in our partnership.’
She sighed. ‘The most important thing now is that you and I maintain the trust we’ve built. It hasn’t been easy.’
‘You know how much I appreciate it. And how much I rely on you and your judgement.’
‘Thank you. It’s not often said.’
‘I hope I never give you reason to doubt it.’
‘No.’ She stared at him grimly. ‘Are you truly set on pursuing this trail?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ He sensed the inner steel flexing. ‘Yes,’ he repeated curtly.
‘I warned you that taking on this Inquiry might have consequences we couldn’t anticipate.’
‘I can face them. Now.’ Saying the words, he forced himself to believe them.
‘Yes, it’s time. After what those bastards tried with you.’ Her vehemence shook him, another punch in the ribs; his wife was a woman who hardly ever swore.
‘That pretty much,’ said Morahan to Sara, withholding just the final reference to his own past, ‘is what has led us to being here today. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to explain.’
Their circuit on the Common was drawing them back to the café, now becalmed in the lull between the afternoon mothers and children and the early evening mob of skateboarding teenagers.
‘It’s fine. Best for me to know everything,’ Sara said. Morahan averted his gaze. Her instant trust reminded him of what he could not yet tell her.
‘To put it bluntly, I need your help.’
‘Why me in particular? I can see you need someone trusted by young Muslims to be your foot soldier. I can certainly give you suggestions.’
She was sharp. He had prepared his response. ‘That’s not enough. This person – or people – must be able to take affidavits. To unlock witnesses.’
‘There are lots of Muslim solicitors. And it’s the solicitor’s job to provide evidence, counsel’s job to interrogate it.’
‘I realise that is the usual practice.’
‘My career at the Bar has taken a new direction.’
‘Yes.’
‘This feels like a return to old territory.’
‘For me, taking on the Inquiry feels like a return to a treacherous world of politics that I escaped fifteen years ago. But there’s a tug of duty.’
‘Duty?’
‘It’s an odd word these days, isn’t it?’ He paused and edged closer to her. She saw something different in his eyes; excitement, recklessness even. ‘This is not just legal niceties. It’s about the nature and the behaviour of the state – our nation. I need someone special. Trust me, I’ve looked around and, in discreet ways, asked around. There is no one better suited to the task than you. I am pleading with you to take on the role of junior counsel to my Inquiry.’
‘And to be your investigator too. Your own private eye.’
‘Yes, if you put it like that.’
‘Snooping into my own community.’ She paused. ‘So some might say.’
He turned on her. ‘Surely your intelligence would not allow you to say, or think, such a thing.’
For the first time she saw a force within – and a calculating mind intent on dissolving her objections. Even so, there was a desperation in his request. She remembered her father’s words: ‘Perhaps he’s in trouble, he needs help.’ None of that diminished the immensity of what he was asking her; to step aside from her career path