Once in his office, he walked over to a cluster of chairs by his desk and sank into one. ‘Please. Have a seat. Mum hasn’t gone walkabout again, has she?’

‘No, no. She’s at the shop with your sister.’ I sat down, leaving Dan by the door.

‘I’ve offered to put her up in one of my flats but she won’t hear of it. At least Agnieszka can keep an eye on her there and she’s not going to toddle off. I’ve been running out of ideas for how to help her. It’s distressing to see her struggle needlessly.’ An air of unease had come over him. ‘So, how can I help?’

‘We’re here to get some background information.’ It was strange seeing the boy I’d known from the newsagent’s. It was as though we were back there, and I was someone different from the person I’ve become.

He looked at me properly for the first time. The hair at his temples was sprinkled with grey, and I caught a glimpse of the same kindness and patience in his eyes I recalled.

He laughed. ‘I remember you asking lots of questions. I’m not surprised you became a cop.’ He looked embarrassed briefly.

‘Do you mind explaining why you called Indra about the fire at the soup shop? Is there a connection between the two of you?’

Tomasz shook his head. ‘Someone rang and told me, so I wanted to let them know. I was at Mum’s yesterday morning and noticed the shop was shut. I tried Simas’ phone and it went straight to voicemail. It made sense to ring Indra and Marta.’

What he said was plausible, but it occurred to me that I didn’t know if Tomasz was married, and if something was going on between him and Indra . . . ‘You just happened to have her number?’

He laughed. ‘I have Indra and Simas’ numbers because their shop is opposite Mum’s. It’s useful to be able to contact them sometimes if I can’t get hold of her. I’ve got lots of her neighbours’ numbers. I have Marta’s because she works in the bar here.’ He hesitated, as though he had forgotten something, or thought perhaps I had. ‘It’s how Brick Lane works.’ He held my gaze fleetingly. ‘Or – it was.’

Maya, 5.30 p.m.

Maya, 5.30 p.m.

Dan and I were back in the street outside Tomasz Feldman’s bar. Black cabs and double-deckers thundered along the bus lane on Hackney Road, while lorries and cars sniffed each other’s bumpers and waited for a gap to jump ahead.

‘D’you think we need to consider Tomasz a suspect?’ I was trying to reconcile the man of today with the boy I knew growing up. I’d left the bar feeling more confused than when we arrived.