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  “Another hoax?”

  He sits back, ensures he has everyone’s attention before he continues. “Well, assuming we have no spiritualists here, I take it we are all agreed that the original call to your radio programme was a hoax. Indeed it was admitted as such, even though your engineer’s test revealed that the person making the original call and the person making the confession were not necessarily the same. That does not negate the obvious conclusion that someone was, as they say, having you on, though the family suffered rather too much media attention as a result. I think you also mentioned that on your first visit to the house there were clear signs that this lady had been planning to leave before you got involved, so there’s no particular mystery around the empty house or the encounter you had with Amina and her uncle. I think you’ll agree, Sayeed...” he turns to an Asian man on his side of the table, “The protective, maybe over-protective, attitude shown by the uncle to the niece as described by Mr Niven is not untypical in traditional Islamic culture?”

  “Quite right, sir. Particularly when the lady has experienced some recent trauma, as is the case here.”

  “Exactly.” Finch looks at me across the table. “Let me suggest the hypothesis that Amina Begum Khan did indeed recognise you for who you really are when you came in posing as Mr...?”

  “Etherington.”

  “Etherington, thank you. That imposture might have been quite provoking, don’t you think, to a lady who has had her fair share of trouble from the media when all she wants to do is sell her house and get on with her life? Perhaps her dramatic turn was nothing more than her way of getting her own back. Reasonable theory, or not?”

  “Not,” pipes up Sam, sitting next to me. “Excuse me, but I was inches away from Amina when she gave me her warning. I can assure you, she wasn’t acting.”

  “And you could see that clearly through a full-face veil?” The policeman smiles thinly at Sam.

  At the head of the table Neville begins to shuffle uncomfortably. “You know, Marc,” he starts, tapping his forefinger on the polished surface, “I did caution this could be much ado about nothing, but you would insist...” He’s interrupted by a cough from the bottom end of the table. One of Finch’s men – I’m guessing a senior detective, though he’s quite a young man – has been looking through the printouts I’ve supplied of the shots taken at the house, together with the press cuttings I’ve culled from the library.

  “If I might put in a word, sir.” He’s addressing his boss, not mine. Mr Finch nods at him to continue. “I might be one hundred percent mistaken here, but I have a strong hunch that the face I’m looking at in this picture could be Imam Zaid bin Ali.”

  Sayeed immediately takes an interest, reaching for his glasses and putting his other hand out for the paper, which the guy at the end passes up the table.

  “Remind me...?” says Finch.

  “Security Service have been watching him on and off for a while now, since his days in Birmingham. Suspected of preaching militant jihad, radicalising the young men at the mosque. They had started gathering evidence through infiltration when he moved up here maybe a year ago. That’s when they touched base with us, though there’s been precious little to write home about since, to be honest.”

  “I know of him,” says Sayeed, looking at the picture. “He’s connected with the Springhill mosque now. It’s a moderate community, however, perfectly respectable.”

  “On the surface, maybe,” mutters the detective.

  “I’ve heard nothing to suggest otherwise,” Sayeed shoots back, obviously peeved by a comment that presumes to doubt his professionalism. In the silence that follows Finch appropriates the printout from under Sayeed’s nose and studies it before he speaks again.

  “We don’t expect you to be the fount of all our Asian intelligence, Sayeed, so forgive me if my question is naive, but are you aware of any blood relationship between this man and the family Khan?”

  “I’m not familiar... I would say it’s unlikely.”

  “Mmm.” Finch looks up from the image to take in Sam and me opposite. “Tell me again about the room arrangements you noticed in the house.”

  I recount what little I’d gleaned from my visits to the unfurnished property, even down to the location of telephone points and the fact that the upstairs sockets had plastic guards on though the downstairs ones didn’t, as well as the more obvious features such as the toilet conversion and the partition at the top of the stairs. I keep it factual, as I’ve done from the start of this meeting, making no mention of my original supposition that the house had been used as a brothel, because I’m now thinking I must have been mistaken about that, but also because I have made no mention at this stage of Edona or Emmanuel. The fear of a terrorist plot has relegated all of my other concerns, and I don’t want to further complicate matters that seem complex enough already. Nor, frankly, do I want to give my employer the impression that I’ve been consorting with prostitutes.

  “What’s your take on all this, Liam?” Philip Finch asks his colleague at the other end of the room after I’ve gone through my account a second time, with some extra contributions from Sam. “Have we come across a cell on our patch?” I thought he meant prison cell until I work out from the response that he means terrorist cell.

  “Sounds like it might have been used as a safe house,” says Liam. “The thorough cleaning of the dustbins suggests they were trying to remove all possible traces when they vacated. The whole Hassan thing is a mystery at the moment. I remember when that little media storm blew up a couple of weeks ago we doubled-checked the records on his accident and we have a positive DNA match to the body as well as other evidence, so mistaken identity is not an issue. Amina also intrigues me. She told Marc on the phone that she was being held against her will, and obviously her behaviour corroborates that. That could perhaps explain the lockable door upstairs, except for one thing that niggles.” He directs himself at me. “Marc, you told us that when you first went to watch the house you saw Amina walking freely out in the street, dressed in western style, with her little boy in the pushchair. That doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of it. How sure are you that it was the same person you saw in the burqa, and in this press picture?” He points out the cutting on his pile of paper.

  “Can’t say I’m entirely sure except for the height and build. To be perfectly honest, I can’t say I’m sure of anything very much at this stage. One thing I am certain of, and Sam was making the same point earlier, this woman is not party to any hoax. She’s genuinely frightened, definitely in some sort of danger.”

  Neville interrupts. “I think we’d better let the police be the judge of that, Marc.”

  “Actually, Neville,” says Finch, “I think Mr Niven is probably right. Despite my earlier reservations I do now think we have a genuine case for investigation here. Directly after this meeting I’m going to be asking for the full involvement of the Security Service. MI5, if you will. Obviously I’m going to have to ask everyone here for the utmost discretion and cooperation.”

  Sam stirs. “What about Amina? Shouldn’t your first priority be to find her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, this man here knows where that imam person preaches.” Sam indicates Sayeed, who acknowledges her silently. “And there’s the estate agent. They must have a contact.”

  Finch’s smile is a touch patronising. “Yes, but we also have to look at the bigger picture. Safety and security are paramount, but sometimes it can be more effective to gather and wait until the right moment before you pounce, otherwise the whole flock gets away and you end up grasping at thin air.”

  I guess Liam can see from Sam’s expression that she is not satisfied with his chief’s answer, so he steps in to reassure her. “Don’t worry, we’ll be making every effort to locate Amina, even if we don’t charge in as soon as we find out where she is. Actually, the fact that you had the presence of mind to give her your mobile could be a godsend.”

  “Not if she doesn’t get
the chance to use it again.”

  “Even if she doesn’t we should be able to get a rough fix on her last location from the call she made to Marc. The telephone company may still have the information stored. Better still if she does make another call, or even if she just keeps the phone switched on. Electronically speaking, the phone will be looking for the nearest cell tower. There’s a system called triangulation that looks at the signals to the different base stations and from those can work out where the phone is. Well, within about fifty yards or so, anyway. Once we’ve tracked her down we can start getting people into position so we can secure her safety at the critical time.”

  “What about Marc’s safety?” Sam asks. I wish she’d stop being so fearful, but I could kiss her for her concern.

  The detective seems about to answer until Finch raises a finger and commandeers the response. “We appreciate your anxieties, but let’s assess this situation calmly. If a plot is going to unfold as envisaged it is the phone-in programme, not the particular presenter, that is of interest to the conspirators. On the other hand, of course we see Marc as absolutely key on our side because that is where the connection is being made with the lady we might think of as our mole in the camp. We’ll be looking after him, but round-the-clock police protection carries the risk of being detected by the other party, causing them to change their plans, which could be more dangerous still. Currently we have a chink of light, no more, on what these people are intending to do. If we lose that we’re all in the dark.” Finch is obviously fond of his metaphors. He pauses for us to appreciate his latest, then carries on. “In these situations it is very important to view things through the mind of the criminal. No purpose will be served by their causing Marc harm. They want to use him as a conduit for their message. Oh, and Neville...” he turns to his friend, “I imagine our intelligence people will want to talk to you about fixing some extra lines into your studios.”

  Neville is expansive. “Just say the word – anything you need from us you can have, of course, it goes without saying. You know...” He chuckles as if he is about to share an anecdote. “I should feel flattered that our little station is regarded as such an important channel of communication, even by these...” he struggles for the word and amazingly comes up with blackguards. “By these blackguards. But you wonder why they don’t tackle the national boys. I mean, I’m very proud of our reach, but for impact beyond the region...”

  This is a man masquerading as a media professional. Time to help him out. “Well, number one, they’re statistically far less likely to get through to somewhere like Five Live on any given night. Number two, they’re already guaranteed national, probably worldwide, coverage if what they’re planning is big enough.”

  “Why bother with us, then?”

  “Because the bomb, or whatever, is the act but not the message. Not an articulated message anyway, one they can control and transmit directly. This group wants the chance to justify what they’re doing in terms of their mission, and to take credit for it. They might only reach a local audience at the time they call, but they know full well, once it’s done, it will be replayed on every station that carries news, plus YouTube... everywhere. You will be ruing you can’t sell ads on the back of it, Neville – you’d kill for an audience that size.”

  Talk about my boss’s choice of words, that last phrase was a lead balloon moment from Marc Niven. All the eyes that were on me are lowered at once, and I feel a prickle at the nape of my neck. Finch comes to my rescue with a speech of his own, alerting us to it by tapping a pen twice on his glass of water, and squaring his shoulders in the military style that Neville tries on sometimes when he’s addressing a group of staff. Finch is more successful at commanding the meeting than Neville ever manages. “Gentlemen, and lady, I’m conscious that time is pressing, and we all have a lot of urgent work to do. Can I just say to everyone, I’m grateful for the information you have given me today, and for your continued cooperation. This may yet prove to be a mere squib of a thing – and in many ways I hope it does – but if not, if it is the turn of our city to be the target of terrorism, I’m confident we can beat it by working together.” It’s easy to see how Finch got to be where he is today (says the residual cynic in me) but I can’t help feeling just a smidge inspired.

  Sam remains to be convinced about Finch, though she is impressed with the young detective Liam Guthrie. “Why didn’t you tell him about Edona and the other house?” she says later. “I think he’d handle it well.”

  “Because Edona is relatively safe with us just now – I want them to focus on finding Amina. Besides, I’m less confident about the connection than I was. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Guthrie about Edona before long – I’ve got his direct line.”

  I’m pre-empted on that front by Fern, who finally has some news to give us when we meet up with her in the evening at Chrissie’s house. Edona stays downstairs this time, and it’s so nice to see her curled on the settee in comfortable clothes, drinking coffee with us and keeping half an eye on the TV that’s murmuring in the background, as ordinary teenagers do.

  “OK,” says Fern, “So what I’ve discovered is there’s an IOM shelter in Tirana which could be ideal for repatriating Edona safely.”

  “What’s IOM?” asks Sam.

  “International Organisation for Migration. Sorry, love, acronyms abound. Like somebody once said, the trouble with bureaucracy is too many TLAs.”

  “TLAs?”

  “Three Letter Abbreviations. Anyway, point is this is a damn good place. It’s secure, so the pimps and criminals won’t get to her. They’ve got counsellors, also people who can check out the family position, maybe even help them out financially. It’s part-funded by the Catholic Church - make what you will of that, but Edona tells me her family is of the faith so it’s a plus point in my book. And there’s a properly controlled migration programme that organises real jobs in Italy. On the downside most of these tend to go to the Albanian men in the programme, but ‘twas ever thus. It’s still an excellent scheme.”

  “What do you think of that, Edona?” I ask her.

  “Sound good. I like to see my family again when is possible. Maybe jobs in England too, from this place?”

  “Don’t know, love,” says Fern. “That might be more difficult.”

  “We’ll keep working at it this end,” Chrissie promises. “So when you’re old enough you can maybe come back. Very least you can come for a nice long holiday, stay with us, if you’d like to.”

  “I like, of course. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, any time.”

  Fern lifts both hands. “Whoa there. Remember, we’re just at first base. Edona’s existence isn’t even officially acknowledged yet, not by me nor anyone else. My understanding is there are very few places in the Tirana shelter, so we’ve got to make sure that Edona is seen as a priority. What I’d like to do is go through Save the Children – they have a close association with the IOM projects and they could provide us with the route we need.”

  “Great,” says Chrissie. “Can we call them tomorrow?”

  “It’s not as simple as that. I mean, how do they know Edona isn’t just any illegal immigrant? First, we have to provide some evidence that she’s been trafficked and prostituted. We also have to work with the police and other partners on getting that brothel closed down and the rest of the girls away safely. We’re going to need your help with this, Marc, otherwise Edona doesn’t have a witness.”

  I glance at Sam before I reply, and she gives a sort of internal shrug. How complicated can our lives get? “I’ll do anything to help, of course.” (I sound like Neville.) “But could we hold off a couple of days? There’s so much going on around me at the moment.”

  All my recent Brownie points with Chrissie suddenly count for nothing. “Yes, well, I know you’ve got to get your career back on track and all that, Marc,” she says snidely, “But I would have thought that Edona deserves... She’s been through a lot, poor girl.”

  Sam we
ighs in on my side. “It’s not all about Marc’s career, sis. There are things going on – confidential, important things – that could have major, major consequences. Sorry, we can’t say any more at this stage.”

  Chrissie’s disbelief is caustic. “Oh, yeah, well sorry if I’m not out saving the world, or whatever, only I’m the one with the house guest to look after, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I thought you said she was welcome anytime,” Sam shoots back, riled now.

  “Of course she is, that’s not the point. Marc standing up to his responsibilities, that’s the point.” The air is heavy with implication. It’s up to me, I feel, to smooth things over.

  “Look, I’m fine with whatever you want to do. Just push the button, Fern, and let me know where you want me to be and who you want me to talk to, whenever. Chrissie’s right, Sam. We’ve can’t neglect Edona while we deal with... everything else.”

  Well, I may have manoeuvred her sister back on my side with that little soft-shoe shuffle, but I can see by the expression on Sam’s face she’s now got her nose out of joint since I seem to have put her in the wrong. And, as she’s the first to remind me when we get back in the car, it was my idea to leave the Edona story out of the account I gave to the police. If I do ever quit broadcasting, perhaps the diplomatic corps would not be my best alternative.

  My kind of diplomacy these days involves avoiding full-on confrontation with Sam, so when we get back I decide another spell of solitary exercise might be a good idea, prompted by seeing Oliver’s camera still attached to my laptop from the morning’s printing session.

  “I think I’ll take a run across and give Ollie his camera back.”

  “What if Amina rings again?”