Was Dame Isobel a woman who, at cost to her own morality, was doing her best for her country? Or the most accomplished liar she’d ever met?

Chapter 32

32

Three weeks later

Her father was practising ‘oo’s and ‘ou’s. The daily pattern of home visits from speech, physio and occupational therapists – young women with sunny smiles and breezy voices – was erasing the memory of the motionless figure on a hospital bed, invaded by needles and tubes. He slurred slightly and sometimes the right word refused to emerge from his mouth. But she could see the mind was functioning ever better. Soon she’d be able to leave him for long enough to allow a partial return to work.

That would not be to the Inquiry’s office in Vauxhall. The day after the encounter with Isobel Le Marchant, Sara had been invited by Pamela Bailly for a chat about the future. It was a one-way conversation.

‘I’m very sorry about everything that’s happened,’ Pamela had begun. ‘Patrick’s death is a tragedy. I now understand you’ve also been coping with misfortune at home. You should have told me; I’d have said take however long you need.’

‘You didn’t need to be troubled by it,’ said Sara.

‘A decision has been taken about the future of the Inquiry,’ she continued briskly. ‘Sir Roger Knell will be seeing things through in place of Sir Francis.’

‘Sir Roger Knell?’ said Sara, bemused. ‘He was Permanent Secretary at the Home Office, wasn’t he? He’s parti pris with MI5.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Pamela, ‘the Secretary of State has made his decision. Furthermore, rather than proceed with hearings, Sir Roger will now oversee the writing of the Inquiry’s report on the basis of submissions received.’

‘You mean no more research, no more interviews. No examination of witnesses. No calling to account.’

‘It is not for me to comment.’

‘And no further role for me.’

Pamela offered a short smile. ‘We will, of course, pay the final weeks of your contract. To be honest, Sara, if I were you, I’d feel pleased and relieved to be excused from any further responsibilities here and able to return to your own world.’

In the days since, Sara had asked herself what her own world now was. So far, she’d given the benefit of her doubts to Isobel. In her more detailed session with Reading police, she’d bided her time, truthfully answering questions limited by their unquestioned acceptance that Patrick’s death was a suicide.

She looked across at her father, smiling at his attempts to flirt with the speech therapist. If, she sometimes thought, she hadn’t had him and his recovery to devote herself to, she might have folded. Wasn’t this all that really mattered – the happiness of loved ones and providing the support they needed?

Her phone rang. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that Miss Sara Shah?’