Got you.

‘His name was Bilal Essa, right?’

The shake of Mansour’s head was almost imperceptible. Almost.

‘OK. Then what was his name, Nizar?’

This time the shake was more obvious. Tears were beginning to fill Mansour’s eyes, tracing down the premature wrinkles that marked his sun-damaged face.

‘Was he a part of this, Nizar? Did he plant the bomb with you?’

‘He did . . .’

Mansour’s voice broke as he tried to answer. When he could not finish his own words, he just shook his head, peppering the table with his tears.

‘Did he use his access as a baggage handler in Heathrow Airport to plant the bomb for you? Because that’s what he was, wasn’t it? He was a baggage handler at Heathrow, for Pan-Atlantic Airlines.’

‘He did . . . he did nothing.’ This time Mansour found the words, his voice stronger but strained with emotion. ‘He was nothing to do with any of this. NOTHING!’

‘Then who was he?’ Bull demanded, his own voice rising. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘HE WAS MY BROTHER!’

The roar was primal, screamed towards Bull as Mansour half-rose to his feet. As if he was physically discharging any remaining denial of his brother’s fate, he remained on his feet afterwards, doubled over in pain.

Bull sat back into his seat in silence and watched as Mansour began to sob.

For Bull the new information had been unexpected, but not as unexpected as Mansour’s change of demeanour.

None of this is how it should be, he thought. None of this fits the template. This is . . . it’s just not what terrorists do.

The door to the interview room opened, a response to Mansour’s shout. The wide-shouldered officer was there, ready to come to Bull’s aid in case of violence.

There would be none.

Bull dismissed the interruption with a discreet shake of his head and his hand. With the door closed, he turned his eyes back to Mansour, now back in his seat and still crying. Bull moved forward again, placing his fingertips gently on the table.

‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ Bull kept his voice gentle. Quiet. ‘Because this is all looking wrong to me. Your brother’s death. The way you came to be here. Even your confession. There’s more to this, Nizar. Tell me what it is.’

Mansour didn’t answer, but this time his silence was neither obstinate nor absolute.

It’s only a matter of time. I just need to ask the right questions.

‘I know you didn’t kill your brother.’ Bull believed what he was saying. He might not know very much, but he was confident of at least that. ‘Tell me who did kill him and maybe I can help you.’

Mansour looked up, as if seeing Bull for the first time.

‘Tell me,’ Bull continued. ‘If you tell me, I can help you.’

‘No one can help me now,’ Mansour growled. His voice was lower. Guttural, almost. And it sounded certain. ‘No one.’