Phoebe’s eyes shifted pointedly towards the doorway of the room next to where they were standing. Inside, a woman was sitting on a chair, facing the desk: fortyish, attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair, in a dark coat and low-heeled shoes; professional, he guessed, educated. Phoebe leaned towards him. ‘Mrs al-Awati, the mother of the hostel bomber. Vernon invited her.’

If she heard them talking about her, she gave no indication of it. Instead, she stared into the middle distance, as if to avoid focusing on anything.

‘How come?’

Phoebe leaned closer. ‘He wants to show some magnanimity. He thinks it’s a good message to send out that he’s capable of forgiveness – and, of course, it’s a great photo-opportunity.’ She gestured at a photographer sitting on a bench further down the corridor, surrounded by his kit, reading the Sun. ‘Give me a sec, will you?’

Tom went into the room. ‘Mrs al-Awati, good afternoon. I’m Tom Buckingham. I work with Mr Rolt.’

She started to get up.

‘No, please.’

Her face was etched with grief, her eyes marbled with red, as if she had been crying for days. A handkerchief was balled up in her fist. Tom took her other hand as he sat down beside her. It was stone cold. He was tempted to keep hold of it just to add some warmth. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

Over the years he had had to comfort the parents of fallen comrades, but nothing like this. Her face crumpled. She lifted the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. ‘Thank you. Do you know you’re the first person to say that to me? I still can’t entirely believe it. Maybe I never will.’

‘That’s an understandable reaction.’

She began to cry again.

‘It’s very courageous of you to come here today.’

She said nothing to this, just stared into her lap.

‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about him? He was in Syria. For how long?’

‘Why he went – I’ll never understand. He had a good job with the Co-op, a pharmacist. Not medicine, as we’d hoped, but still – respectable, you know. Then last September I got a text. He said he’d flown to Turkey. I thought he’d gone on a last-minute holiday. He was there five months. They wanted him for his shooting skills.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Clay-pigeon shooting was his sport. He won a lot of cups for it – he was so skilled. They’re all still in his room.’

‘Did he come back to you when he returned to the UK?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what was he like, when he came back?’

‘He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t see his old friends. He was on his phone all the time, I don’t know who to.’

‘And what happened – with the authorities?’