Joel didn’t care, he reminded himself. He couldn’t, because they barely knew one another. Yes, they’d fucked, but then, he’d fucked an undercover constable in a public lavatory: he wasn’t like Aaron, holding back from the sins of the flesh until it felt like that flesh had turned to stone. Aaron wouldn’t find the answer to anything in his arms, unless he counted the question, ‘How can I most quickly ruin my career?’

But all that aside, Aaron owed Joel a meal, and he wanted to see him. He’d wanted to see him so much that he’d delayed and delayed what he owed, until fury had driven him to send the telegram.

Perhaps he’d delayed so long that Joel had thrown his telegram in the waste-paper bin. Perhaps that was for the best. He usually ate alone anyway, and he came to Shafi’s often enough that he was on excellent terms with the owners. Rahim Mohammed was on the floor tonight, with his brother in the kitchen.

“You ready to order, Mr. Fowler?” Rahim asked. He was a forward-thinking young man who’d come to England to study, recoiled in horror at the food, and seen a gap in the market for feeding his equally appalled compatriots. Business was thriving.

“I’m hoping a friend will join me, so I’ll wait a few more minutes, if I may.”

“Something to nibble on,” Rahim decreed, and waved at the overworked waiter. “You’re well, Mr. Fowler?”

Aaron agreed he was, and asked after the family. They chatted for a couple of moments, until the doorbell jangled and Rahim looked over. “Is that your friend?”

It wasn’t a great deductive leap, since most of the clientele here was Indian, and the few other white faces belonged to regulars. “It is, yes.” Aaron raised a hand.

Joel’s cheeks were pinked from the cold, and he had a slightly wary look on his face which flickered into a smile as he saw Aaron, then dropped away almost immediately.

If he wanted to change his mind and leave, he didn’t stand a chance. Rahim scooped him up with an enthusiastic cry of “Mr. Fowler’s friend!” relieving him of coat, hat, and umbrella like a top-class pickpocket.

“Goodness,” Joel said, sitting down since he wasn’t being given a choice. “They seem to like you here.”

“I come a lot. The food is excellent and it’s very peaceful.”

Joel glanced round at approximately fifty Indians talking at full volume in multiple languages. “It is?”

“Well, I find it so. Everyone here is entirely concerned with their own business, and nobody gives a damn about me. Whereas there’s quite a few restaurants where a CID man walks in and half the clientele leaves.”

“And who could blame them. It seems nice, anyway. Smells marvellous. Is the food very hot? My landlady’s beef curry was a painful experience.”