The man who had been brought in to translate was what the sergeant had referred to as, “A local toerag,” and while his English was good, it wasn’t half as clear as the visible contempt he’d shown for both officers when he’d come strolling into the station.

He was in his mid-twenties, Hamza guessed, with hair that had been bleached to silvery white some weeks before, and now showed black at the roots. He wore a bright blue and orange tracksuit, and an assortment of jewellery that he’d apparently selected based on levels of chunkiness alone.

Hamza wasn’t sure what sort of look the man had been going for, but he presumed the one that he’d arrived at—a young Jimmy Savile—was probably not it.

Still, conversation was flowing freely between the newcomer and the witness now. All Hamza needed was for some of it to start filtering in his direction, and his plan would have paid off perfectly.

“What’s she saying?” he asked, after a particularly lengthy burst of Polish from the cleaner.

The tracksuited toerag—Jakub—held a hand up for silence, and continued to nod along to whatever Magda was telling him. It was traumatising, whatever it was, as the cleaner had emptied out the box of tissues now, and was making a solid dent in the station’s supply of toilet roll.

Jakub replied to the woman in Polish, then reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. It was a small show of kindness, but it was genuine. It bumped the man up in Hamza’s estimation by a point or two, although he still remained comfortably below the five-point mark.

“Right. So, what do you want to know?” Jakub finally asked, turning his attention to the DS.

Hamza clicked the top of his pen and positioned the point on his pad. “Everything.”

“Everything?” Jakub asked, suddenly doubtful. His accent was a strange blend of Polish and teuchter, suggesting he’d grown up in the Highlands. “She said a lot of stuff.”

“Aye. I noticed. And I need you to tell me what it was.”

“Yes, but… all of it?”

“All of it,” Hamza confirmed.

Jakub blew a jet of air out through both nostrils, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and rolled his eyes all at the same time. “Fine. Everything,” he said. “You ready?”

Hamza nodded. “Ready.”

“First, she asked how my mother is.”

Hamza’s pen started to move, then stopped after a swirl or two.