Under the scrutiny of the camera, she detected an apprehension in the eyes, a trace of disappointment too perhaps. A figure that must be imposing peering down from the judicial bench under cover of the judge’s wig seemed unsettled. Was he an unhappy – or disenchanted – man? His biography showed the bare bones of a personal life; married Iona Chesterfield 1977, two daughters. Otherwise it outlined a seamlessly upward legal career interrupted only by a five-year stint, 1997–2002, in Parliament, ending with his resignation both as Attorney General and MP.

Or was it a lack of fulfilment those eyes betrayed? His resignation seemed never to have been fully explained. Journalists and, later, historians writing about the Iraq war, assumed Morahan had seen it coming and got out ahead. She wondered if he himself had encouraged that narrative – whether those eyes hid another story.

Press coverage of the Inquiry was patchy. On the day of its announcement by the Prime Minister the Guardian had hailed it as a ‘brave innovation to shine a chink of public light onto the security services’. The Times applauded the PM’s initiative but warned that ‘secret services must be allowed to keep secrets’.

She heard the front door lock click and footsteps below. She flinched. ‘Is that you, Dad?’ she shouted down.

‘’Course it’s me, who else are you expecting?’

Who else indeed? She collected herself, went downstairs and bound him in a close hug, tucking her chin against his ear from her greater height. They broke away and he gave her a puzzled smile.

‘Sara, you hug me tight. Are you OK?’

‘’Course I’m OK, just pleased to see you.’

He felt her relax. ‘You looked agitated to me. That’s not like my girl.’

‘Pressure, I guess.’

‘You gotta take it easy. Like me!’

‘If only,’ she laughed.

‘Anyway, I got something to celebrate. I landed a better squeeze tonight even than that one you just gave me.’

She shook her head in mock disapproval of him and handed him the sheet of paper she’d been holding. ‘You remember a while ago the government set up an Inquiry into the security services under a judge called Sir Francis Morahan?’

‘Rings some kind of bell.’ Tariq Shah was a news junkie, addicted to Channel 4 News and Newsnight. Sara was grateful for the short cuts it offered whenever she wanted to discuss something.

‘Read.’

Her father read the letter once quickly, a second time slowly. ‘I see why you’re jumpy.’

‘What should I do?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘For once I’d like you to tell me.’

‘You know I’d never stand in your way.’

‘But would you approve?’

She could feel him trying to read her. ‘You don’t need that, Sara.’ She looked silently down at the floor. ‘See the man. Maybe he’s in trouble, needs help. Maybe it’d be good for you. For your career.’ He handed back the letter.