The family with young children were gone. Their table was a mess. The teenagers were drinking soda and finishing off French fries, no doubt cold at that point. Another booth was occupied by three young men who hadn’t been there earlier. They had their heads down over dripping kebab wraps. I waited. I could see Nazari’s shadow in the backseat. Two big women in tight jeans walked into Le Foxy Kebab. I stepped to the side and counted two minutes. One to get comfortable at the counter and the attention of the baseball hat guy. Another minute to start ordering.

The traffic circle was over to my right. Beyond it I could make out the street lights. On the other side, to my left, was Les Brosses. But there were buildings in the way and I couldn’t see the towers. I just knew they were there. I looked straight ahead at the Peugeot. Nazari’s head was in shadow, upright, alert and watching.

Two minutes. I turned and walked into the restaurant.

The three young men had the look, branded sportswear, short buzzed haircuts. They were occupied with their kebab wraps, juices dripping through paper, flowing over hands and fingers and onto plastic plates in front of them. I ignored the teenagers. The women were standing at the counter tapping impatient fingernails on plastic. I went past, screened by their bodies. The baseball hat counter guy was turned towards the kitchen, fixing an order slip to the steel shelving unit. I opened the toilet door and slipped in. Closed it behind me.

The corridor was dark, illuminated only by an unseen window. So I waited for my eyes to adjust. To the left, the corridor stepped down and continued into greater darkness. A toilet sign was fixed to the wall. A finger pointed. To my right were stairs, as I’d guessed there would be. I climbed up to a landing, where the window was located. The stairs switched back to the second floor corridor. Here, the floor was tiled and the walls were bare except for a framed photograph of a Mediterranean beach. Opposite the photo was a door.

I tried the handle but it was locked.

I pulled the burner phone and called The Woodcutter’s number. The tropical disco beat sounded off above me, through the ceiling. I stopped the call. Retraced my steps out of the office and closed the door behind me. I walked back to the stairwell and heard the door open from the restaurant down below. I stopped moving. Waited to hear breathing, or footsteps coming up the stairs, or away, to the toilet. The only thing I could hear was noise from Le Foxy Kebab.