She led Sara out of her office, past Clovis’s gate-keeping desk and into an open-plan space. From six desks, six heads peered noiselessly up. Four further desks were empty. ‘This is the Secretariat,’ said Pamela nodding briefly to the upturned faces without introducing them. ‘Our junior counsel, Sara Shah.’ The murmur of hellos was almost inaudible. Sara noticed that, despite the nature of the Inquiry, only one face was Asian – a woman, probably in her late twenties, wearing a knee-length skirt and long-sleeved blouse, head uncovered. ‘The spare desks are for our distinguished panel members should they ever care to look in.’

A corridor led off the open-plan area; Pamela led Sara through the first door on the right. An older woman, full bosomed with long, steel-grey hair tied in an imprecise bun, looked up.

‘Sylvia Labone, our archivist,’ said Pamela. ‘Meet Sara Shah, our new junior counsel.’

Sylvia rose with a cough – ex-smoker, Sara immediately assumed. Maybe still – there was a yellowness on her fingers. ‘Good morning, Ms Shah.’ Her voice was throaty, confirming first impressions.

‘Sara, please.’ She looked around at long shelves of files on rails. ‘You’re the keeper of the secrets.’

Sylvia scowled before degenerating into a further cough. ‘If only.’

‘We don’t have a prayer room per se,’ said Pamela, ‘but there might be an appropriate corner here in the library. I mentioned it to Sylvia.’

You really are organised, thought Sara.

‘Of course,’ said Sylvia, ‘whenever you wish. Never mind me, I’ve seen and heard it all.’

Sara followed Pamela along the corridor to an end door that revealed a large office with a broad walnut desk, leather chairs behind and in front, windows to left and right, and a long sofa running along the inside wall. To one side, the view was dominated by the four-square-mass of the American Embassy; to the other, across Nine Elms Road, stretches of the Thames were visible between designer riverside apartment blocks.

‘Sir Francis’s office,’ said Pamela. ‘It was his decision to base us here rather than Whitehall or anywhere near the Law courts. I think he felt across the river was more…’ she searched for the word, ‘appropriate for some of our potential witnesses.’ She inspected the sofa and puffed up its row of cushions. ‘He apologises. He’d wanted to be here in person for your arrival but the Home Secretary asked for a catch-up at the last minute.’

‘Geoff Atkinson,’ said Sara.

‘Yes.’ Her tone hinted at contempt. ‘You’ll find that Sir Francis has his own working pattern. He tends to stay late on Thursday evenings to catch up with the week. I believe he likes the undisturbed peace of a deserted office. I understand his wife shapes her social diary around that. As for everyone else, we’re a nine to six operation and that’s the way I prefer it. If you need to work late, we’ll give you your own key and code.’