‘I’m sure I put a box of them in here after the funeral. I couldn’t bear to keep seeing them. Try at the back.’ She cupped her left hand round the aching fingers.

‘Shift over then.’

Rosa shuffled out of Agnieszka’s way. ‘I’ve checked under the stairs and they aren’t there. There may be some in the loft, but before either us gets up that dreadful ladder your father put up, I want to check the privy.’ Rosa had been without Józef for a year and every day had been almost unbearable. Maya’s anguish last night had moved her. For their father to have left, and for the family to have never found out whether he was dead or alive, they must have lived a daily hell.

Agnieszka got the shed door properly open and began rummaging. ‘This needs a bloody good tidy.’ She stopped. ‘Can’t we do this a bit later? Let me get dressed, and grab a coffee, and I’ll clear it out for you. What’s so urgent that we’ve got to find the photos now?’

‘They’re for DI Rahman.’ Rosa told her daughter what Maya had said about Kazi.

‘I think I remember something about that. They never found out what happened?’

‘That’s what she said. The thing is, I woke up this morning and remembered that Kazi came to your dad’s funeral. Kazi, Ody and Cyril. I saw them there, as clear as day.’ Rosa put her hand to her forehead. ‘But now I’m wondering if I imagined it and I don’t want to tell her unless I’m absolutely—’

‘He did. He was there. They all were. I remember because Mr Rahman was telling the girls about the canal.’ Agnieszka stopped. ‘Given he was at Dad’s funeral, most likely he’s still alive. She must realise, surely?’

Rosa shook her head. ‘It’s why I don’t want to tell her unless I’m sure.’

Agnieszka pushed the shed door shut and flicked the latch. ‘C’mon. Let’s go inside. I’ll find the photos in a minute, even if it means getting up that bloody ladder.’ She placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders and gently guided her towards the back door of the shop. ‘I’ve probably got some snaps of the funeral on my old phone. If I haven’t, I doubt it matters. The local paper covered the funeral. They’ll have loads of photographs. They’re bound to have one of Mr Rahman.’

Brick Lane, 1984 – Maya

Brick Lane, 1984 – Maya

I can smell the sweetness of the dough as it cooks in the enormous ovens, and I yank my hand free of Jasmina’s, and skip into the bagel shop. Behind us, even Sabbir is excited about the prospect of a warm, chewy bagel.

‘Where’s Dad gone?’ I shout over my shoulder.

‘Next door, to get a haircut,’ Jasmina replies.