Now, the farmer was dead and they had to leave. She hadn’t needed to hear the gunshot to know that blood had been spilled. Mariam had been witness to too much death over the years not to recognise its black stench. She whispered long and low to the small band of illegal immigrants, who spent every day dreading this news but had prepared for it nonetheless. In four minutes, all of their worldly possessions were packed. They took a path over the farmer’s land away from the main roads, sticking to the trees where they could, walking spaced in groups of two or three so as not to draw too much attention if they were seen.

Mariam had gone back into the farmhouse only once before they’d set off. Standing well back from the man whose bed she’d shared for nearly a year, she said goodbye, filled a knapsack with all the food that would travel, emptied his wallet – certain he wouldn’t have objected under the circumstances, they were all owed some pay – and picked up his ancient mobile.

In spite of her lack of options, the sex partnership she’d entered into only under duress and all the other advantages taken of her, she was sad to be going. The next step was an unknown. If they had to steal to eat, they’d be discovered sooner or later, and then it was anyone’s guess what would happen. Incarceration was the best option. A forcible return to Mali – to disease, unemployment, to constant violence of one degree or another – was unthinkable.

They walked for hours before finding an abandoned set of greenhouses, in which they could rest until dark, and only then did she make the call, keeping it as brief as possible. Not to the police. They recorded their calls. People often made the mistake of thinking illegal immigrants were stupid. The truth was that she’d had to be resourceful in ways hard even to contemplate, to get her family to safety and find a man willing to take them in. She didn’t have the luxury of keeping the word ‘stupid’ in her vocabulary. Instead, she phoned the local pub, one of the few numbers the farmer kept in his contacts list.

‘Morning, Baldie,’ a voice answered. ‘What can I do you for so early in the day?’

‘He’s dead,’ Mariam said plainly, doing her best to keep any recognisable accent from her voice. ‘Call the police to the farmhouse.’