Of course I know. I want to shout down the phone, Of course I fucking know.

I keep my voice as level as I can. ‘But what about the brick through my door?’

‘Issy, what about the bloody brick? You can hardly say you’re surprised. Frankly, I’m shocked it hasn’t happened before. You’re a journalist, for God’s sake – and a pretty fucking relentless one at that – of course people want to shut you up. Christ, if I was a criminal I’d want you …’

His voice is running out of patience, hissing down the line. I imagine his colleagues have finally cleared the room and he can now speak freely.

‘I mean, what the hell were you even doing in a bush on the Heath at six a.m., Issy? Seriously. Actually, please don’t answer that.’

Stop calling me Issy, I want to shout at him.

I hear him cover the mouthpiece with his hand and mutter a greeting to someone before clearing his throat and resuming his lecture, his tone altered again.

‘Sounds like you’ve had a bit of a mental weekend. Why don’t you take a couple of hours, yeah? Go home and have a rest. I’m sure the paper will survive without you for one day …’

Holding the phone away from my ear, I find myself unable to speak, not that he notices.

‘It would be good to see you soon anyway. Give me a shout if you’re—’ Before he can finish his sentence, I have ended the call and shoved my phone back in my pocket, pressing the button to stop the bus.

The warehouse stands on a secluded backstreet just off Holloway Road, a makeshift mixture of concrete and corrugated iron. Determinedly ignoring the gazes of a throng of builders nearby, I buzz the intercom and when a man’s voice answers, I reply.

‘I’m here to see Tariq.’

‘Tariq ain’t here.’

‘Tell him it’s Isobel,’ I insist. ‘Tell him it’s important.’

I look up at the camera above my head. The voice goes briefly quiet and then a moment later the door clicks open, and I take a breath as the smell of skunk hits me inside the hallway.

By the time I reach the next internal door, the final bolt is pulled open by one of Tariq’s minions. He looks me up and down with disapproval as I step into the room, and I hold his gaze before taking in the familiar scene: a makeshift bar on one side of the room, a pool table with men scattered around it casually smoking spliffs and talking in muted voices.