Gordana’s house is several streets away – a purpose-built, one-up, one-down with yellow bricks and a nondescript front garden. On either side the houses are immaculate, the gardens planted with carnations and roses in bright pinks and reds; to the left an old lady scrapes a broom up and down a pristine path. I feel the old woman’s eyes follow me through the gate towards a dark brown door. If it wasn’t for her burning stare, I might have lost my nerve, but under her scrutiny, I find myself pressing the doorbell. When there is no answer, I look up and catch a curtain flickering in the upstairs room.

Invigorated by the sighting, I take up the knocker, this time banging hard, causing the old lady to start.

When there are no footsteps on the stairs I reach for the letterbox and push my mouth against the lightweight tin flap.

‘Hello?’ I clear my throat and then call out again. ‘Gordana?’

A moment later there is a shuffling in the hallway and the door pulls open a crack.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a journalist. Can I come in?’ I ask, though it is more of a statement than a question. ‘Or we could talk here.’

The woman’s eyes are like shards of glass. I feel the door press back against my toes as I try to work my way inside, but then Gordana spots the neighbour whose broom has slowed to a hovering position over a spotless front step.

‘Through here,’ she says, ushering me into the kitchen, which is sparsely furnished with a small table and three chairs, a blue highchair pushed into one corner.

Without taking her eyes off me, Gordana backs herself against the counter, pulling at the scarf framing her face.

‘Who are you?’ she says, her voice hard and wary.

When I don’t answer, she repeats herself. ‘I asked you a question. Who are you and what are you doing in my home?’

There is more than a hint of threat in her voice now, and I feel my hands clench. Gordana spots it, and glances warily at the clock above the sink.

‘Expecting someone?’ I ask.

Her eyes flash with a hint of amusement. ‘I’m curious. You are very brave coming to my house. Walking into the home of a perfect stranger. Whoever you are, you are very brave. Or very stupid.’

‘But that’s it, you see; you’re not a stranger to me, Gordana. There’s a lot I know about you. We have a mutual friend. A Gorani girl. Eva is her … sorry, was her name. You remember her, don’t you? I see from your face that you do. It’s admirable really,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘Considering how many girls you’ve helped traffic into this country.’

Gordana hisses, ‘I would choose your words very carefully if I was you …’