‘I have a British passport now. I’ll show you. My husband—’

I held up my hand. ‘We’re not questioning your right to residency. We wanted to ask you about how you found work after you arrived here.’

‘The travel agent arranged it,’ she said, slowly sinking on to the edge of the big black easy chair.

‘The travel agent?’ I said.

‘You mean the trafficker,’ Edie said. ‘The smuggler.’ Edie looked at me and grinned. ‘Travel agent!’

For the first time, I saw a flash of defiance in the woman’s face.

‘To you – he was a trafficker,’ Asuman said. ‘To me – he was a travel agent. I wanted to come to this country. In my home …’ She shook her head. ‘There was nothing for me. My father was very strict.’ She bit her lower lip, then shook off the memory. ‘So I went to the travel agent. And I paid him money. And he arranged my trip.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But all this is a long time ago. You must leave before my husband comes home.’

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I said.

‘We leave when our questions have been answered,’ Edie said. ‘If you want us to be gone by the time your husband gets home, then we should get cracking.’

‘Where did you meet this travel agent?’ I said.

‘There’s an area in Istanbul called Aksaray. They call it Little Syria. That’s where the travel agents are. If you want a travel agent – you go there. Ten years ago or today. I paid £1,240.’

She looked at us with suppressed rage, as if the steep price made the journey legitimate. The sudden sound of a car outside turned her head towards the window.

‘Mrs Jenkins,’ I said quietly. ‘We’re investigating the death of the twelve young women who were found in a lorry in Chinatown. If you’ve seen the news over the last twenty-four hours, I know you will have heard about it.’

‘Terrible,’ she nodded, getting to her feet. Edie and I looked at each other. Why was she so afraid of her husband?

‘We are talking to you now because we know a little of your history,’ I said. ‘We spoke to Ginger Gonzalez.’

Her face flushed. She would not meet my eyes.

‘That was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Another life.’

‘How did your travel agent get you here?’ Edie said. ‘Boat to a Greek island?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I caught a taxi. It was all overland. No boats to Greece in those days. Nobody drowning in the sea at that time.’ She took a breath. ‘A car from Turkey to Sofia in Bulgaria. Then a car to Niš in Serbia, then on to Belgrade in the same car. Then a different car to Zagreb and then a lorry to Stuttgart. And the same lorry all the way to England. And then on the ferry. Across the sea.’

‘The journey ended in London?’ I asked.