I am back in Somers Town, half-heartedly attempting to get residents on Tariq’s old estate to talk to me about the problem of knife crime in the area, when I get the call.

‘I’ve conferred with a colleague,’ Professor Mansfield says as soon as I answer. ‘It turns out my suspicions were right. Of course, the Balkans aren’t strictly my speciality, hence the need for corroboration …’

He leaves a dramatic pause. ‘The language you heard on the tape, it is Gorani. I’m assuming you won’t have heard of it? The speakers are Slavic Muslims, little known to us over here. They come from the Gora region in southern Kosovo between Macedonia and Albania. Over the years the poor fellows have been claimed by Albanians, Bosnians, Bulgarians, Macedonians and Serbs, but the general view is that they should be treated as a distinct minority group, indeed that is how they see it. Rather primitive folk, really, had a tricky time of it during the war, in the Nineties.’

I can picture him expanding, in his element.

‘In the main, they sided with the Serbians during the war, then when it officially ended they were left bedded between Albanian territories with much of their culture swallowed up. Most of them fled, all over the place. I believe there is quite a community in London, actually – relatively speaking. Haringey, mostly. Left rather a ghost town back home, I’m afraid to say. Not much there now, though still terribly beautiful, of course …’

He clears his throat and when he speaks again his tone is less self-assured. ‘As for what they are saying … I’m afraid that’s rather harder to say. There are very few words we can pick out, it’s all very garbled. The recording is terribly unclear.’

There is a moment’s disappointment, but then I feel my spirits rise again. I may not know what they are saying, but I am ahead of where I was this morning. I have a language. I know where they are from. Feeling a strain of hope, I speak quickly.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much – and if there’s anything I can ever do to return the favour …’

‘Actually, I do have a new book coming out next year. If you fancied giving it a write-up in the paper that would be extremely satisfactory …’

Chapter 34

Gabriela

Paddington was heaving, a throng of commuters bustling for space beneath the departures board. Gabriela squinted up at the platform numbers, cradling a cup of coffee in one hand, her overnight bag in the other.