‘I’d like that option.’

‘As you will.’

Pamela guided her back along the corridor to a side door they had passed. ‘Finally you. Legal.’ She knocked and entered an office of similar size to Morahan’s but with four desks, smaller windows and walls lined with book shelves. One desk was occupied.

‘Morning, Pamela.’

‘May I introduce Patrick Duke, Government Legal Department. In my view an inelegant change in terminology from Treasury Solicitors,’ said Pamela, again with that edge. ‘Patrick, this is Sara Shah. Sara, I’ll leave you in his hands.’ She bestowed a quick smile on them, turned on her heel and closed the door behind her.

Patrick grinned and shook Sara’s hand. ‘She’s a piece of work.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Sara.

‘Welcome.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely if you have it.’

‘I’m prepared. Builder’s, Earl Grey, peppermint, chamomile.’

‘Builder’s is good.’ His grin broadened and he strolled to a corner containing a kettle, cups and a mini-fridge. Though she was annoyed with herself for it, Sara couldn’t help her surprise. He was tall and thin. And black. Unequivocally black. She followed him to the mini-kitchen corner.

‘People tend to call me Paddy – rather a feeble joke from my days of incarceration at one of England’s great schools, which I’m afraid has stuck.’ He was well-spoken with a deep-voiced singer’s projection. ‘You know. A black paddy. Ha ha. You get a hit on two races in one. All terribly good-natured of course, old boy.’ With only a small stretch of his own accent he escalated to an exaggerated upper-class honk.

‘I think I’ll unstick it and call you Patrick if that’s all right.’

‘Suits me. Sugar and milk?’

‘Just as, please.’

He wandered over to a window. The view was dominated by one corner of the American Embassy which she had seen more fully from Morahan’s window. ‘Good to know our cousins watch over us,’ said Patrick.

‘What are those conical steel things hanging off the walls?’ asked Sara.

‘Secret anti-aircraft whizzbangs,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s why it’s such a monstrous mass of a building, not a nice slender spire. Packed full of rockets and helmeted men in black special forces suits ready to scale down the walls and occupy the streets shouting Delta and Zulu.’

Sara laughed. They sat down at neighbouring desks.

‘Well…’ he began. She tilted her head to the side, encouraging him. ‘Our Chairman says he wants you to get out and about. Talk to people. He feels he’s lacking actual, unmediated accounts from young Muslims themselves.’

‘Yes.’

‘Rather unusual? For counsel, I mean.’

‘Not really, I did on-the-ground work for Rainbow.’

‘But that’s a campaigning chambers.’

‘And we shouldn’t be here?’

‘There’s no should or shouldn’t. It’s whatever Sir Francis wants. With one condition.’

‘Oh?’

‘I accompany you.’