The escorts leapt onto the platform, covered Asif’s head and yanked him out of the barn. ‘Don’t you move!’ one said to Sami.

He stayed seated, gut burbling, heart thumping, body sweating from head to toe. A minute passed, then another.

Then gunshots crashed in Sami’s ears, ringing around the stone building. One. Two. A pause. Three. The dam broke and a stinking muddy brown river cascaded over the wooden seat and down its legs.

It was the smell of himself Sami never forgot. At the car park exit, as he threw a final glance behind, he could feel that same gurgling in his gut, just like all those years ago.

He broke into a jog on the roundabout and sprinted in the direction of Ewood Park. He wasn’t on shift that night, but it was the nearest place of safety he knew. After a couple of hundred yards, he had to slow, lungs burning, heart pumping. He staggered to the gates and looked back down the road, half-expecting the man’s car to draw alongside. If there was any sign, he’d enter the ground and find one of the guards on duty.

Nothing. No sign of the man or car. He hoped never to hear or see him again, but knew he couldn’t ever, ever assume he was free of them.

Back home, he went straight upstairs, ignoring the light in the kitchen where his mother would be waiting for him. He counted the notes – fifteen. Seven hundred and fifty pounds.

Dirty money; money he’d sworn to himself he’d never take again, after those weekly bundles from the smart-suited policeman twelve years ago.

Chapter 11

11

Sara let herself into the Inquiry office with her main entrance pass card – the reception area was deserted. An overnight commissionaire had been deemed an unnecessary spend; security was maintained by exterior CCTV cameras, burglar alarms, pass cards and individual code numbers on each floor. They were also beneficiaries of the round-the-clock monitoring of the neighbouring American Embassy, including guard patrols with dogs. Big Brother or Uncle Sam – depending on your viewpoint – on the doorstep.

She walked up the two flights of stairs to the second floor, entered her pass code and walked through the entrance corridor – toilets and kitchen to the left, the internal wall of Pamela Bailly’s office to the right – and into the open-plan space of the secretariat. There was no Clovis at the desk guarding Pamela Bailly’s door. A reading lamp hung over just one computer screen and keyboard. In front of them sat Rayah Yaseen, a research officer in the Inquiry secretariat, head bowed over flying fingers with turquoise nails. So far, Sara had hardly spoken to her, and took the chance.

‘Hi, Rayah.’

She looked up. ‘Oh, hi.’

‘Working late?’

She stood up. ‘Hardly late. I’m nearly done.’