‘While we’re waiting for your phone, can anyone vouch for you being in the office all day yesterday?’ Dan leaned against the worktop.

Something flashed across Olaf’s face. ‘You mean, do I have an alibi?’

‘If you like.’

‘Yes. My PA, Sara Baranska.’

‘We’ll need her address.’

‘Of course. Ah, here we go. Bloody thing’s starting up at last.’

While they were waiting, Dan continued to assess their surroundings. On the worktop by the microwave, crayons and pens were stacked neatly, and colourful drawings clustered above the timetables. Plastic containers of cereal sat in rows next to the toaster, and a toddler’s drinking beaker was on the draining board.

Across the room, Olaf was fiddling with his phone.

‘You sure you let the payments lapse?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ snapped Olaf. ‘I’ve got the email. I know I have. It’s just that I’ve got so much spam in my inbox, it’s a nightmare finding anything.’ Several minutes passed while he continued to swipe at his phone screen. ‘Would you like me to forward it onto you? No point wasting time.’

‘Who was the site hosted with? That’s got to be the easiest way of searching.’ Dan was itching to take the man’s mobile and do it himself.

‘Oh, it was only a cheap one. Got it on special offer. Web4U, I think it was. Something like that. Paid ten upfront. Here we are. Oh. No, that’s not it.’ Olaf pushed the phone away from him to get a better view. ‘That’s strange . . . ’ He repeated the gesture. ‘I can’t seem to . . . I must’ve deleted them when I ran out of space on my Gmail account. I can’t find any emails from Web4U.’

‘That’s a coincidence.’ Dan knew his voice was impatient. ‘Because your website is still active and has been promoting all sorts of criminal activities. As things stand, it’s still currently registered to you. How do you explain that?’

Olaf’s face froze.

Maya, 6.45 p.m.

Maya, 6.45 p.m.

Back at the station, Dan and I hurried to the incident room for briefing. The office stank of leftover pizza and stale coffee. On the large plasma screen, Carly, the Sky News reporter, was standing outside a large red brick building, facing a camera. It was the converted Synagogue in Belvedere Street, and children and teens were trailing in and out as she spoke. Above her head, a large Star of David had been carved into a strip of cream stone.

‘I’m here at the busy Coley Youth Centre in Brick Lane . . . ’ she said into her microphone.

I paused to listen briefly, hoping the coverage would be helpful.