‘This contains photocopies I’ve made from Sayyid’s folder.’ He handed the envelope to her. ‘For Patrick, and anyone else, the story is that you are working initially from cases you came across at Rainbow which you hope will lead to others. It would appear that your first trip will be to the North.’

‘Wherever it leads.’

They stood up together. ‘Three people know about Sayyid. You and me. And my wife, Iona. I’ve put her in the picture and she understands the meaning of the word “secret”. She also knows about you.’ He ushered her to the door, then stopped. ‘Of course there’s a fourth person who knows too. Sayyid him- or herself. But once you start ringing doorbells, other ears and eyes may be alerted. For good or bad, we are a surveilled society.’

Sara returned to the Legal office. Patrick peered up, noticing the envelope under her arm. ‘Secrets from the Chairman?’ he asked teasingly.

Sara kicked herself for the carelessness and hoped she betrayed none of the thuds with which her heart had just rattled her ribcage. ‘Chairman’s induction,’ she replied. ‘He strikes me as a man who likes things done in a certain way.’ She put it in her case. ‘I honestly don’t think I’ve the energy right now for house rules and regs. Might make my mark with Sylvia instead.’

‘Good luck.’ Patrick pulled a child-like grimace and returned to his screen.

Deliberately leaving the case by her desk to suggest nothing unusual, she went next door to the library.

Sylvia Labone looked up fiercely. ‘You’re back.’

‘I thought I’d give you a rough idea of prayer times – though they keep changing, of course.’

‘Would you like me to vacate?’

‘Not at all, you won’t be disrupted.’

She looked Sara up and down. ‘Do you smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Of course not. Right, let me show you around.’

She walked Sara up and down the shelves, describing her colour coding for submissions, authors, reports and originally commissioned research. ‘Of course, this material is all digitally stored too but our distinguished panel members often prefer to read hard copies. When they read anything at all.’

‘It’s impressive,’ said Sara, trying to soothe a woman whom life seemed to have made congenitally angry. ‘What about police and intelligence files?’

‘Coming to that,’ replied Sylvia irritably. ‘Their research reports and general assessments are handled in the same way. However, since Snowden, anything classified, shall we say, is, frankly, fog and mist, subject to endless redactions. Most of them look like a sea of black waves.’

‘Surely we can get more,’ asked Sara brightly.

‘You’d better get to work on our chairman,’ she replied. ‘Names. Names, places, times, addresses. It’s all scrubbing brush without those, isn’t it?’

At 5 p.m., Sara tapped on Morahan’s half-open door.

‘Come in, Sara, come in,’ he beamed. His informality continued to surprise her.