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3

Three weeks earlier

As usual on weekdays except Thursdays, Sir Francis Morahan drew into Chelsea Park Upper promptly at 6 p.m. to allow time to change for whatever engagement his wife or his bar obligations had committed him to. He stowed his bicycle in the side passage hut and entered through the front door. An A4-size brown envelope lay on the mat – on it was stuck an address slip, typed only with his name.

A reading light was on in Iona’s study ahead; if she was at home and had not picked the envelope up to leave it on the hall shelf – she disliked clutter – it must have been recently delivered. He wondered if the deliverer’s timing was deliberate to ensure that it would go straight into his hands rather than hers.

He nudged open her study door. She raised her head and peered through light-blue titanium varifocals. ‘Good, you’re back.’

He hesitated. ‘You didn’t hear anyone at the front door just now, did you?’

‘No.’ She frowned. ‘Should I have?’

‘Nothing. Just wondering.’

‘How strange you are sometimes.’ She raised herself. ‘Grosvenor House Hotel, 7 p.m., car booked for 6.30. Minnie Townsend’s refugee charity do.’

She brushed past him and went upstairs. A dinner jacket was so much part of evening life that he could do the change in ten minutes. He retreated to his own study; he couldn’t leave the letter until they returned – the label begged too many questions. He sat down, switched on his desk lamp, opened it with a paper knife and read. There was no letter heading and no date.

Dear Sir Francis

I write to you as a result of my involvement with a secret arm of government relevant to your Inquiry. Therefore I must remain anonymous.

It is within your remit to investigate certain activities by the state whose exposure will have devastating consequences. I can supply you with information, so far withheld from you, which will enable you to launch such an investigation.

I will deal only with you personally. Please understand that any communication by you via phone, email or any other electronic means may be being noted.

Neither my contact with you, nor my communications with you, nor any material I give you is to be logged into the Inquiry’s database. They are for your eyes only. If you do log the material, I will know and contact will cease.

If you wish to proceed, please leave me a message saying simply Yes or No using the methodology in the accompanying note.

Please know me simply as ‘Sayyid’.

It felt like a punch in the ribs; Francis Morahan had never received a communication that so startled him. He sat, eyes fixed, rereading it for a second and third time. He checked his watch; at the same time a cry came from above. ‘Francis! It’s twenty past six.’

He opened the middle right drawer of his desk, restored the letter to the envelope, placed it beneath a pile of other papers, stood to find a key concealed behind a particular book in a shelf above and locked the drawer with it. Beads of sweat formed on his cheeks – locking drawers was an unfamiliar act since he had left politics.

Upstairs in his dressing room, his cufflinks seemed to slide into their eyes less smoothly than usual; his hands tying the black bow were jittery. He sensed his wife watching through the door.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’ He completed the struggle with the tie. ‘Don’t know what’s the matter with the bloody thing tonight.’

‘I’ll go down and tell the driver to wait.’

Their car turned onto the Embankment from Beaufort Street, the reddening sun casting shadows from the pillars of Battersea, then Albert Bridge. Morahan watched joggers evenly, rhythmically striding beside the river and fought for air against the seatbelt entrapping him. The accompanying note insisted that the ‘simple yes or no’ should be given by midnight. He tried to work out why ‘Sayyid’ was granting so little time. Did he know that Morahan would be occupied this evening in chit-chat with whatever members of the do-gooding plutocracy his wife had lined up at their table? That he would have no time to consult or discuss – even if he could have found anyone with whom to share? He flicked a look at Iona. They survived – and, in their ways, prospered – because they had decided at the crossroads in their lives that there would be no secrets in the alliance they would forge. But not tonight. Too soon. Too – how could he put it? – too baffling; too improbable that he, of all people, was entering into a secret world of ‘dead letter boxes’ and heaven knows what else.

‘Sayyid’ was asking him to act alone, to operate outside the system. The request flew in the face of the orderly due process by which, rightly in his view, he conducted his business. Yet, there was something about the letter which made him believe it was important. It felt not just cowardly but wrong to reject it – whether by logging it (he was sure Sayyid meant what he said and somehow had the means to know) or by failing to follow its instructions.

He considered the name ‘Sayyid’. He’d had no time to check its meaning – perhaps it was just to indicate inside knowledge of the world he was entering. He would look it up later.

They were home by 11 p.m. He escorted his wife from car to front door and unlocked it to usher her in. Instead of following her upstairs, he headed towards the kitchen.

‘Just remembered I’ve a letter to post,’ he shouted up.

‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

‘I rather need some air.’

‘Well, try not to squeak that floorboard.’

He tore a strip off a cellophane roll, retreated along the passage to his study, found a sheet of paper and wrote ‘Yes’ on it. He folded it into an envelope and wrapped the cellophane around it. Back in the hall, he removed the bow tie and black jacket and put on an overcoat and his homburg, tucking the covered envelope in the inside coat pocket. The church was a brisk eight-minute walk away. He’d be there, leave the envelope and be back home within twenty minutes.

The roads seemed darker than usual, the traffic lighter. He found himself checking parked cars – for what? Men in sharp suits and trilbies smoking Camel cigarettes? He told himself to sharpen up. The gate to the churchyard was, as promised, unlocked – he hadn’t been sure as he’d never had reason to enter it at this hour. As instructed, he took the path that led around the south transept, rows of graves standing grey in the half-moon light. He made for the right angle where the exterior of the transept joined the chancel. Counting out ten yard-long paces at forty-five degrees from that corner, he found the headstone.

GEORGE MANN

BORN 12 DECEMBER 1859

DIED 21 MARCH 1895

‘PROUD OF HIS NATION, A NATION PROUD OF HIM’

He allowed himself a short smile and felt an unexpected surge of bravado. Seeing the gap between the head of the grave lid and bottom of the headstone, he slid the envelope between them.

Before heading upstairs, he googled ‘Sayyid’. A leader, a master. A man who demands respect. Although, he reflected, it could just as easily be a cover – there was no reason to suppose it was either a man or a Muslim. The one thing he did know was that, for the moment, he must play by Sayyid’s rules.

Forty-eight hours later, Morahan retraced his steps to the same gravestone. In place of the white envelope he’d left was a plastic sleeve containing a smaller brown one. He hurried home, shaking with anticipation, and slit it open. Inside was a curt message saying no more than ‘Agreed’, followed by an instruction to return to a different grave in a further forty-eight hours. He felt both wound-up and deflated.

Two nights later, as the hall clock chimed the three-quarter hour of 10.45 p.m., he called up that he was popping out again for a stroll. This time Iona emerged to glare down from the landing railings. ‘It’s becoming rather a habit.’

‘Yes, I will explain soon enough. Nothing to worry about.’

The lid on the second gravestone was, as promised, unattached. It was also heavy – much heavier than he had anticipated. With his fingertips he could loosen but not lift it or ease it sideways. He had wondered whether Sayyid was a man or woman; now, a strong man seemed more likely. He himself was in his late sixties; while his legs adequately propelled his bicycle, his arms were used to no more than lifting legal submissions.

He looked at his watch. 11.05 p.m. Iona would be agitating. He needed a crow bar or something similar; he couldn’t afford to delay and risk the morning light.

He stalked home, went upstairs and looked into her bedroom.

‘I have to go out again.’

‘It’s all right, Francis.’

‘No, truly.’ His dry voice was urgent. ‘There’s a task I need to complete. I’ll explain everything tomorrow morning.’ He paused. ‘Unless you have other plans.’

She eyed him quizzically and resumed her reading.

Out in the garden he scrambled among the clutter in the shed, opening his old wooden tool box for the first time, it seemed, in years; his days of DIY were long over. Perhaps the claw of the rubber-handled hammer might do it; he shoved it into a pocket. He had a better idea, but it meant re-entering the house yet again to fetch the car key. He had to tell her tomorrow. Edging open the front door and stepping on tiptoes he took the key from the hall shelf. The light was still on upstairs; he heard the pulling of a lavatory chain and padding of feet. He exited, opened the car boot, pulled away the bottom flap and saw that he’d remembered correctly; the wheel nut spanner had a lever on the end of the handle.

Weighed down, he set out again for the churchyard. He wondered how he would explain himself to a policeman. Caught in the act with an ‘offensive weapon’ – he imagined the headline, ’69-year-old Government Inquiry Chair is Secret Grave Robber.’ There seemed something fantastical about what he was doing. Yet he knew from the law courts just how easily chance, coincidence, or sheer misadventure could at a stroke change lives – and, sometimes, arbitrarily cut them short.

He managed to insert the hammer claw into the gap below one side of the lid and the lever on the car spanner beneath its head. Kneeling, he pressed down on both with the palms of his hand. He felt upward movement and with his knee eased the lid an inch to the right. One more shove and he should be able to slip his fingers beneath. He was sweating; he stood up and breathed deeply. How could this be necessary? Was his resolve being tested? He bent down again and repeated the process. The gap was now sufficient to show the edge of a slim brown plastic package, again A4 size. He forced his hand through, scraping the knuckles against the stone’s sharp edge, far enough to grab the package between his second and third fingers. He stood up with it, back aching, heart thumping from the exertion, and concealed it in his coat.

On the walk home, he saw a dark-coloured Mercedes saloon parked ahead. Someone was in the driver’s seat. He paused. Who? Why? Should he turn round, try to bypass it? No, stop being paranoid – too old for that. As he passed, he could make out the shape of a capped man, face burrowed down into a thick collar, sitting in the front, listening to the radio – Magic or Kiss or one of those other all-night stations churning out trans-generational beats. He glanced back at the rear window. It showed the round green disc of a licensed taxi. He relaxed.

At home, Iona’s bedroom light was off. He sat down at his desk and gazed blankly for a few seconds at the package, lifted it and turned it through 360 degrees. No words, no markings on the brown beneath the plastic. He slid the envelope out and opened it with the paper knife. He extracted the small pile of contents. They were headed by a note in the same font.

Dear Sir Francis,

Thank you for your response.

This initial package contains personal files on five young British Muslims.

I have made two redactions.

The first is the KV2 serial number. This is information you do not need and would present an extra danger both to you and me.

The second is the name of the operation this was part of. Later I may give you this name, though not in writing. Knowledge of it is the most highly classified secret of British intelligence both now and since its inception. It is confined to very few.

Nothing else is blacked out (unlike the intelligence files your Inquiry has so far received where redactions render them effectively useless).

Of these five persons some are, or have been, combatants, others 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 and take a risk both personal and professional.

‘Effectively, you’re inviting me to go rogue.’

‘Some might say that. But I am entitled to define my own legitimacy.’ He sat back on the bench, disengaging eyes, peering blankly into the distance, trying to keep his shoulders straight. She saw a man battling to overcome his fears, confronting something he had never been faced with before, no more bolts to shoot.

He swivelled away from her towards the evening gloom. ‘I could have turned him down, you know.’

‘Who?’ She was bemused; the remark seemed so out of context.

‘Sayyid. The informant. Whoever it really is. He – she perhaps – gave me the option. I didn’t have to. I could have let it go by. Perhaps I should have.’ He suddenly seemed grieving over some loss or error; a fork in the road. This was something more than fear. Vulnerability – that’s what it was. A man, once wounded, who might be wounded again.

‘But you didn’t turn him down,’ she said softly.

‘No. No, I didn’t. You know why? I feel affronted. Personally affronted. It’s not just their country to protect. It’s my country too. All of ours.’

She wanted to do something alien to her – to place an arm around his shoulder, to comfort him. She leant towards him, then stopped herself. ‘Are you afraid?’

He stirred. ‘I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I don’t believe our intelligence services shoot people in the head or drop them out of helicopters, or out of boats with lead in their boots. Or “disappear” them into cement mixers and car crushers or stuff them into suitcases or any of the other crude rubbish so beloved by the fantasists.’ He paused; the late breeze rustled leaves and stroked the pond. ‘My fear is different. It’s not for me, I’m getting on. It’s what there may be to find out. Not what may be about to happen, but what has happened. That there was some kind of more sophisticated… more invisible… evil.’

She had an overwhelming, even oppressive, sense that this was the most important conversation of both their lives.

‘There was one other thing Sayyid indicated,’ he said. ‘If I move on what he’s given me, it must be fast. In his words, I – we – have to stay ahead of them. It’s immediate or not at all.’

He stood up, plea made, apparently no more to say. He made to leave, then halted, looking down on her.

‘I know there’s risk. Perhaps danger too. Terrorists and those who fight to contain them occupy another place. Albeit on opposing sides, they breathe the same air. The rest of us get occasional sightings – most of us through the distorting filter of the screens we watch and the newspapers we read. But I promise you, even if you and I must now breathe that air, I will look after you. Judges are a protected species.’ A gentle smile softened him. ‘My protection extends to you. I will always be there.’ He turned and strode briskly away, allowing no reply.

Morahan was uncertain whether he had done enough for Sara Shah to bite. He couldn’t remember the last time he had pushed so hard for something, surprising himself with the passion of his parting words. She was clearly perfect for the job. As she herself had said, there were other such young men, and women too, though very few, he suspected, to match her. But that was not the point.

That evening, returning briefly to the Inquiry office, he unlocked the desk drawer containing the Sayyid material and took out not one, but two folders. He had told Sara an incomplete story, one that deliberately missed its next chapter. Three days after the first delivery, a further note from Sayyid had dropped through his front door, instructing him to collect a second delivery from a different graveyard.

Morahan retrieved it without incident. This time the folder was thin, containing a single envelope. He’d wondered why Sayyid could not simply have dropped the envelope through his door. Perhaps, he reflected, it was because he was somewhere out there watching, making sure that he personally collected it.

Inside the envelope was a folded A4 print-out of a photograph and profile of a newly recruited barrister at Knightly Court chambers. Morahan vaguely recognised the face and name – perhaps he had seen her in court or at a conference. Stapled to it was a brief note.

This is the person you must recruit as your investigator. She has special knowledge and a connection which I will make clear to you when I know that you have recruited her. At that time, I will also give you a final folder of material.

Please trust me when I say that this investigation is vital for preserving this nation as a law-abiding accountable democracy. Sayyid

Sayyid’s tone and his assertion of some poison at the heart of the state chilled Morahan. Even more chillingly, he was now being asked to embroil a young woman into a project with unknown consequences and dangers without, he felt, being able to give her the reason why. It was one thing to tell her that he had been approached by an apparent whistleblower calling himself ‘Sayyid’; quite another to say that Sayyid had specifically pinpointed her as the route to whatever wrongdoing he wanted to expose.

Yet, however much he disliked himself for it, however much he had found Sara Shah a sympathetic, intelligent woman, he must resist the urge to come clean and tell her everything. For now anyway.

‘What are you going to do, Sara?’ her father finally asked, as he sipped his coffee and she her peppermint tea in the kitchen.

She’d explained the job offer but not the events described by Morahan that had led to it. She wished now that she had paraphrased his initial letter for her father, rather than allowed him to read it fully. If he ever knew the full circumstances, he would try to stop her.

‘What would you do in my shoes?’

‘How could I ever be in your shoes?’ he spluttered. ‘OK, let me ask this. Might it put you in danger?’

‘No, Dad,’ she smiled. It was her chance to row back. ‘He was being alarmist.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. So will it be good for your career? That’s the main thing.’

She rose, walked round the table behind him, and gave the top of his shiny bald head a gentle kiss. ‘I love you, Dad. Time to think.’

Two evenings later, mulling for the umpteenth time over the conversation on the Common, Sara sat at her desk staring out over the rooftops, sensing a door closing behind her. The question she’d raised at the very beginning lurked. Why her? Or rather, why only her? Yes, she did not underrate herself; yes, she could see how well-suited to it she must appear. But she was not the only one; to think that would not only be arrogant but untrue. Why was he so insistent?

Over those forty-eight hours memories dogged her with an uncontrollable viciousness. Was it to remind her that she’d once before had her chance to intervene, to save innocent lives? That time she’d failed. Was this her second chance? If she opted out or delayed for a second time now, would those memories ever fade away? Would she be consumed by guilt for the rest of her life?

She began to write the letter. Once it dropped through Morahan’s front door, there would be no turning back. As the thought sank in, she felt a first tinge of fear.

She gathered herself and went downstairs.

‘Dad, would you mind driving round with a second letter? Same address.’

He silenced the TV. ‘What did you decide?’

‘As you said, might be good for the career. So why not?’

What mattered was that he should never fully know what she was stepping into, nor Morahan’s fear of where it might lead.