Suddenly, I caught a movement between the rows of jackets in a leather shop and then saw Mr Bashir’s bald head pop up. I strode past Sclater Street and continued walking towards Bethnal Green Road. Ahead, the crumbling remains of the soup shop were a sad sight behind vast hoardings. I signalled to the uniformed officer who was guarding the crime scene and ducked under the cordon. ‘Hi, Gary. Everything OK?’

‘Evening, Ma’am. Nothing to report.’

‘You haven’t seen a ten-year-old boy, have you?’ I described Ali.

‘No, Ma’am.’

I knew it was a long shot but couldn’t help hoping. ‘Let me know if you do, please.’

‘Will do.’

The water from the pumps had drained away now but even in the dim light, above the hoardings, I could see the white scars that water residue had left on the once pretty fascia. Where the windows had been, smoke charring hooded the masonry over every aperture like black eyelids. The gaping holes yawned into the darkness behind. It looked as though the building had had its teeth knocked out.

To the left of the soup shop, the glass-fronted barber’s was still open, and through the window, gowned men sat in chrome chairs having their hair cut and beards trimmed. It reminded me of how much Dad had loved popping in there in the evening, as much for a chat as for a haircut. I suddenly felt nostalgic for my childhood, and a life which was more innocent.

’S’cuse me, love.’ Behind me, a discombobulated voice penetrated my mind. ‘Can you ring her bell? I’ve got a delivery here and eight more to do after this one.’

I turned and saw a Waitrose delivery driver, holding a plastic crate of shopping.

‘Who’s it for?’

‘Mrs Feldman.’ He strode towards the door of the newsagent. ‘It’s her regular order.’

‘It’s OK. Leave it there. I’ll take it in for her.’

The puffer-jacketed driver didn’t seem bothered who I was, or need any further encouragement. He yanked the shopping bags from the box and stacked them against the shop front. ‘Cheers, darlin’.’

I rang the bell.

A few moments later, Agnieszka came down and opened the door.

‘Your mum’s Waitrose delivery has just arrived.’ I pointed at the bags. ‘I told the guy to leave—’

‘Come in. Come in. You’ve saved me. Mum’s got all Dad’s photographs out. I’ve seen them a million times, but she wants to show me each one again.’ She grabbed a couple of carrier bags.

Her good humour made me wonder whether she knew that we’d interviewed Olaf. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’