‘Yes of course. Katya.’

‘I can give you an address. She lived with this foreign bird somewhere south of the river. Pole dancer, I think. Bit moody, Lana, but she’s all right. I expect she’ll know a bit more about her. Right pally, they were. Have you got a pen?’

I wrote the address down.

‘Only, Rose,’ Star was whispering now. ‘Can you not tell her, or Liam, who gave you the address?’

‘Why don’t you want him to know?’ I asked slowly.

‘Oh, you know,’ she was still so upbeat, ‘he don’t like me getting involved with the club. You know, business affairs, and that.’ She yawned. ‘Right then. I’m off to bed. Night night.’

‘Last favour, Jen, I swear.’ I wrapped the bobble round the end of Alicia’s plait, and kissed the back of her head. She was so skinny, her little shoulder blades jutted like the stubs of angel-wings from her narrow back.

Jen sighed. ‘It’s not that I mind having them.’ She widened her eyes, subtly indicating the kids. ‘I love it. Not least because it reminds me why I’m not ready to have any of my own.’

‘Jen!’

‘Joking, obviously.’ It wasn’t obvious. ‘But I just wonder – I mean, do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Of course.’ I didn’t. ‘You’re talking to the woman who staked out Arafat for a week until he gave me an interview, remember? This is just – stuff. Trying to help James.’

Trying to help myself too. Needing to know the truth.

‘It’s fine. Really. Just be careful, for God’s sake.’

‘It’s London, Jen, not Gaza. And when I get back,’ I looked at the twins’ blond heads, faces turned up like flowers to the sun of the television screen, where the immortal Scooby Doo ran from the baddies as he had done since my own childhood, ‘we’ll go and get pizza, shall we? My treat.’

Gaza it might not have been, but this part of Brixton was a dive. The road was run-down, bins overflowing, several buildings with smashed windows badly boarded. The house I needed was smart by comparison, the first-floor flat sporting beautiful window-boxes filled with violets and daisies, though the wheel-less pram in the front garden slightly ruined the effect.

I rang the doorbell insistently, but there was no answer. A middle-aged Rasta with an enormous hat and a small mongrel in tow rounded the corner. ‘She never up before midday.’ He winked at me. ‘Fancy a brew while you waiting?’

I looked at him, at his calm face, and I smiled. ‘That’s really kind but I don’t have much time.’ I buzzed again.

A cross voice suddenly floated out of the intercom. ‘Yes?’

‘Lana? I left you a message this morning. Rose Miller, the – er – the club gave me your number.’

There was a pause.

‘Please, Lana. It’s really important.’

A sigh. ‘Hang on.’