on the anorak, wrapped the scarf around his nose and mouth, pulled the hat down over his forehead and extracted sunglasses from a trouser pocket.
He pedalled out of the exit, which faced the new American Embassy in Vauxhall, then two hundred yards along Nine Elms Lane before joining the Thames Path. Feeling pinpricks of sweat on skin tightly covered by his chosen clothing, he cycled past the MI6 building, through the tunnel beneath Lambeth roundabout and carried his bike up the steps to Westminster Bridge, avoiding the crowds milling around the London Eye. Across the bridge he turned onto the Embankment and, after a few hundred yards, north into Carmelite Street, just east of the Inns of Court.
The heat now stifling, and anxiety flooding his body, he turned into Knightly Court, locked the bike on the black railings, rang the bell of number fourteen, climbed the stairs and, with a mumble of ‘Letter for Miss Shah’ in his best south London accent, dropped his envelope in front of a receptionist. She hardly looked up.
Morahan scurried back down the stairs and reclaimed his bicycle; only when he had reached the south side of the river did he remove the scarf, hat and jacket. He had paused, though not by design, opposite the Houses of Parliament. For the first time in years, decades even – perhaps right back to that moment when his brief spell as an MP and then Cabinet Minister had begun with the General Election victory of 1997 – Francis Morahan buzzed with excitement and anticipation.
She was the link; the one person able to make the connection he needed. And yet, if he told her that, she would surely run away. He had shaken the dice and dared to roll them. But, for the game to start, Sara Shah must agree to play.
Later that afternoon, the addressee of Morahan’s envelope walked back from court to her Chambers with a senior QC.
‘He’s as bent as a coiled python,’ said Ludo Temple.
‘Hardly as deadly,’ said Sara Shah.
‘That’s not the point, he’s a crook.’
‘Do I really care?’ Striding side by side down Old Bailey, Sara turned sharply to the bulky, puffing figure on her right. Her bright blue Chanel scarf flicked over a shoulder and her teasing eyes cast him a look of mischief.
He stopped, caught his breath and glared. ‘A Ponzi scheme’s a Ponzi scheme.’
‘But a wine-selling Ponzi scheme…’
‘Yes, and it’s poor old buggers like… like what I’ll end up as, conned into thinking they’re buying bloody good claret without realising the pension’s going straight into the man’s pocket. And when they try to retrieve it, the whole lot’s been sold to finance his floating palace on the Med.’
‘So what? I don’t drink.’
‘I don’t say prayers five times a day.’
‘Ludovic!’
He knew that whenever she scolded him, he was near to overstepping the mark. But that was the fun of her – even if you did, she was quick to forgive; though he’d seen others shrivel under her silent raising of an eyebrow.
Over the past year, he had become ever more fond of Sara Shah – and ever more admiring. The greatest pleasure had been the change in his more cynical colleagues. ‘Let me get this clear, Ludo,’ Peter Alexander, Head of Chambers, had said at the chamber QCs’ meeting, convened to discuss her. ‘You want a Muslim human rights lawyer to join this criminal law chambers.’
‘Yes, Peter.’
‘And she wears a hijab.’
‘Yes, Peter, rather nice and expensive scarves as it happens. Blue usually.’
‘And you haven’t forgotten that our principal earnings come from fraud, in which she has little or no experience.’
‘No, Peter. She may have spent the last few years doing liberal luvvie stuff with Rainbow, but she began with criminal, including fraud, is well-grounded in all aspects of law, wants a change and is extremely clever. And extremely attractive too.’
‘Aha,’ piped up Percy Fairweather QC, rubbing his hands.
‘Stop it, Percy,’ said Amanda Fielding QC.
In fact, Amanda had been the main objector, saying she had no issue with either another woman – the more, the better – or a Muslim. But a Muslim woman covering up her hair was inappropriate for a chambers which should be seen as secular and progressive. ‘Honestly, Ludo, will she insist on looking like that for the website photo?’
‘Have a coffee with her,’ he’d said. Which Amanda had. She waived her objection almost before taking a sip.
Sara herself knew there would be undercurrents. She also knew why even the stuffier members of 14 Knightly Court might see an advantage in bringing her on board. Briefs for Serious Fraud Office and HMRC cases were by far the most lucrative Crown Prosecution activity for a top criminal QC; as the law tried to move with the times, having a visibly observant female Muslim on the team ticked useful boxes. And how helpful it was that British justice still required barristers to turn out in black robes and a wig – to dress modestly and cover their hair. In a courtroom, the secular state and the dress choice she’d made for herself happily co-existed.
‘You know me better than to expect an apology,’ smiled Ludo as they turned into Ludgate Hill.
‘I also know you well enough not to rise to it,’ said Sara.
‘But I was making a point,’ he continued. ‘I will never allow myself to feel sympathy for a man – or woman – I’m prosecuting. I couldn’t care less if they’re loveable old geezers, or if their victims deserved what was coming to them.’
‘What about when you’re defending them?’
His chuckle turned into a wheeze. ‘When I’m prosecuting, he’s a bad chap. When I’m defending, he’s a good chap.’ He paused to cough. ‘Hell’s bells, Sara, do you have to walk so darned fast?’
Knightly Court, at the eastern reaches of the Temple, lay equidistant between the Old Bailey and the Royal Courts, manageable walks even for Ludo. They entered No. 14 and climbed the gloomy, twisting stairs to the first floor, emerging into the broad light space of a modern reception. The receptionist stood to give Sara her envelope.
‘Delivered by courier, Miss Shah.’
Sara glanced at her hand-scrawled name and ‘PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL’ written large on the top left corner.
‘Expecting something?’ asked Ludo with no attempt at hiding his curiosity.
‘No,’ said Sara. ‘I’ve no idea.’ He knew she was telling the truth.
She bypassed her office and headed for the ladies. The lengthening daylight hours made it easier for Asr – mid-afternoon prayer – as it followed the court rising. Zuhr – midday prayer – was more of an interruption and once again she had missed it. She would not leave court while it was in process and today’s lunch had been earmarked for an update with the instructing Crown solicitor – an opportunity to impress a hand that fed both her and her chambers. She would try to make it up, resist the urge to flag.
She locked the door of a cubicle containing both toilet and basin and washed her hands the required three times, gargled, cleaned her nose and rinsed her face, clearing away displaced flecks of eyeshadow and liner. Wudhu offered a double soothing – the preparatory cleansing was also a relaxation of the courtroom tension. She cradled water in her left hand and washed her right arm three times up to the elbow. She repeated the actions on the other side. She passed water over her head, wetting the skin behind her ears and neck. ‘Oh lord, make my face bright on the Day when the faces will turn dark.’ Finally, she removed her tights, sliding them below her three-quarter-length black skirt to bare her feet. One at a time, she raised each foot into the basin and submerged it, cleaning between her toes with her fingers.
She stood straight, inspected her eyes, saw the fatigue and sighed before heading