‘Mazda MX5,’ she said through a mouthful of pancakes. ‘Porsche 911.’ Her brown eyes widened. ‘BMW X5 – like us!’

I looked out at the morning traffic on Charterhouse Street.

‘That’s a BMW X6.’

Scout craned her neck, looking doubtful. ‘Is it?’

‘You’re slipping, kiddo. The X6 has a smaller back window than the X5.’

Scout was not convinced.

‘What – you don’t believe me?’ I said. ‘You used to think I was infallible.’

I thought she might ask me what infallible means – she couldn’t possibly know at six years old, could she? – but instead her face split into a happy smile, revealing a gap where she had lost a couple of her lower centre milk teeth.

‘Edie,’ she said.

Through the steamed-up windows, we watched Edie Wren coming our way. It was another freezing day, the sky steely grey and too cold for snow. Edie was dressed to climb mountains. Puffa jacket, boots, her red hair tucked up inside a beanie. She pushed through the big glass doors of SOS, grinning when she saw Scout. Stan stirred between our feet.

‘You should get the pancakes, Edie,’ Scout said. ‘They’re very good in here.’

‘Pancakes are good everywhere,’ Edie said, scratching Stan behind the ears. ‘I bet even the worst pancake you ever had was still pretty good, right?’

They smiled at each other. But Edie’s face was lined with exhaustion. I could see she was still shaken up from what we had discovered in Chinatown yesterday morning. I pulled out a chair for her, wondering what she wanted, but she lifted her chin, indicating that it could wait until we were alone.

‘You two enjoy your breakfast,’ she told me.

When the pancakes and porridge were gone, we all walked to school, Edie holding hands with Scout, Stan trotting by my daughter’s side, the dog expertly slipping between the meat porters and their empty trolleys as they wound up business for the night. As we got closer to the school, the sound of the children rose like birdsong in the bitterly cold air. Someone called Scout’s name and she was immediately off, never looking back. She was with her friends now. Edie and I were forgotten.

We stood in silence at the school gates, listening to the sound of the children. Then a bell rang from somewhere inside the school and we turned away.

‘Anything in Chinatown?’ Edie said.

‘Ginger Gonzalez gave us a name,’ I said. ‘Asuman Jenkins. Formerly Asuman Ata. Turkish. Asuman is of interest because she was trafficked into the country and worked at some kind of lap-dancing joint where they only used illegals.’

‘So they can keep the girls on a tight leash, right?’ Edie shook her head. ‘Bastards.’