‘But what has any of that got to do with James, Ash? He didn’t give her heroin, I swear. He didn’t have sex with her. I know that for a fact.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He slammed the car door so violently that I flinched. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, your husband’s mess.’

‘It must be linked. The coincidence is too great.’

‘All I know, Mrs Miller, is –’ and I felt him set his teeth – ‘all I know is I need to be back in the Commons for a vote at ten – and you need to go. I don’t know anything about your husband, and Huriyyah, well, she died a long time ago.’

‘You must have been very sad. I hadn’t realised she was your girlfriend.’

He glowered at me. He was imbued with utter rage, I could sense it, palpable in the air between us. But I stood my ground. ‘Is your father here?’

‘My father?’

‘Yes.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Mr Hadi Kattan.’

‘No. He’s in Iran. And I wouldn’t believe anything you hear about my father, you know. He’s a chameleon. A shape-shifter.’

‘Really? You sound angry with him.’

‘Mrs Miller, I really am not going to discuss the complexities of my family with you.’ He was disdainful, rattling the keys in his hand impatiently. ‘So if that’s all—’

‘It’s been adjourned, you know. My husband’s trial,’ I said.

‘Really?’ His surprise was unconvincing. ‘Why would that be?’

‘I’m not sure yet. You wouldn’t know anything about it, I suppose?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he spat. I took a deep breath. I had to press on.

‘So, you buried Huriyyah? Poor girl.’ I was emboldened by his rudeness.

‘Much as I esteemed her, she was weak in the end. Weakness never pays. Look at your great friend Dalziel,’ he sneered.

Unconsciously I clenched a fist. I remembered the Lucifer debate, I remembered the crackling animosity between the two boys.

‘And you, Rose Miller, you need to decide what your path is.’

I was surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you trying to save the world? Or are you just trying to find a story, a headline where there is none?’ He pocketed his keys and stepped towards the house. ‘A terrorist – or an innocent Muslim? A sad drug addict – or an imprisoned daughter?’ He turned away from me, so I could see the beauty spot on his cheek, the elegantly curved nose. ‘A true reporter – or latching on to a cause célèbre? Go home, Mrs Miller. There’s nothing for you here.’

He was so angry that he no longer looked handsome, his face so taut, pale eyes wide, and I suddenly realised who he reminded me of. I thought of the first cutting in Peggy’s office. I thought of Lord Higham standing behind Alia Kattan in that early photo, their hands brushing.