Crossing the Kings Road, she saw a news stand and picked up the Standard. Morahan’s face dominated the front page. ‘MYSTERY DEATH OF JUDGE,’ screeched the headline. The vultures had moved rapaciously. She turned the first page. Inside was a double spread – night pictures of the Inquiry offices and ambulance outside. Sensing the worst, she turned the next page. Daylight, more photographs. There it was – herself and Patrick leaving the building, police car alongside. There was even a byline: ‘Morahan Inquiry solicitor, Patrick Duke, and junior counsel, Sara Shah.’

Information in the accompanying article was scarce, speculation fevered. A brief torrent of words thrown together in minutes. The wildness of some of the guesswork suggested that, at least, nothing concrete had emerged from anyone at the heart of the Inquiry or its staff. Journalistic phrase-making was now reframing the Morahan Inquiry as ‘highly controversial’ and ‘at the heart of the Prime Minister’s drive to open up Britain’s security services’. The judge himself had become a ‘fiercely independent and committed delver into truth’. The writer who invented that last line might, thought Sara, have unwittingly created his own truth.

Her phone rang. The number showed private, triggering a quiver of agitation. ‘Hello, who’s this?’

‘Sorry to bother you, Miss Shah, it’s DS Buttler from Kennington CID.’

Relief merged into dread. ‘I thought you’d done with me.’

‘Yes, just about. One or two loose ends. Could you pop down to the station to help me sort them out? Informally, of course. The Inquiry office is under siege so not a place for a quiet chat right now.’

‘I can see that. When?’

‘Might now suit?’

‘Now?’

‘The quicker we can put it to bed, the better. The media are crawling all over it.’

Sara looked at her watch. 1.15 p.m. ‘An hour or two be all right?’

‘Whatever time suits you, Ms Shah, I’ll be here all afternoon.’ She cut the call, distrusting the detective’s friendliness and claim of informality.

She hailed a taxi, unsure where she wanted it to take her. The words ‘Webster Road, Tooting, please,’ came out of her mouth. The cabbie sighed as she opened the door and stepped inside.

She opened her bag, felt the package and rummaged beyond it for her phone. She hit on Patrick’s number and relayed Buttler’s call.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said instantly.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘He’s devious. I’m coming. Where are you?’

‘I’m going home, have lunch with my dad. Find some sanity.’

‘You’re a good daughter, Sara, see you there 2.30.’

She told the driver to drop her at the turn into Webster Road. She walked warily up the pavement, eyes constantly swivelling through 360 degrees. No thing, no person seemed out of place. No car resembled the one with the two men during the night. The house was empty – it was her father’s lunch day with the group from the depot.