Sarraf was alerted to his presence by one of the old guys, and Bish saw fear cross his face. He knew it wasn’t fear of him, but of what he might have to tell him about his niece. And nephew.

‘Violette and Eddie are fine,’ he said straight away. ‘She rang yesterday.’

Sarraf wasn’t going to express thanks for the news, but he looked relieved all the same.

‘Has she contacted you?’ Bish asked.

‘I’ve had my phones tapped by your people for the past week and a half. If she had rung me, you’d know about it.’

‘No, you’ve probably had your phones tapped by the French,’ Bish said. ‘I can’t imagine them letting the Brits in for a listen.’

‘Thanks for correcting that assumption,’ Sarraf said.

‘Those kids have managed to stay hidden this long but I don’t know how much longer their luck will hold out.’

‘Luck?’ Sarraf’s laugh had little to do with humour. ‘My niece is the daughter of two incredibly smart people. That’s why no one’s found them yet.’

‘Can we talk somewhere private?’ Bish asked.

‘No we can’t.’

‘Even if it’s in Violette’s best interest that we do?’

‘I don’t trust that you have Violette’s best interest at heart.’

‘But Violette does, so you’re going to have to accept that the daughter of two incredibly smart people chose me to trust.’

Somewhere private was a bar on Rue du Duc de Guise. Sarraf wasn’t going to let Bish into his flat above the gym. The barman placed a pot of tea in front of Sarraf and gestured at Bish with a raised chin and a look at Sarraf that meant either ‘What does he want?’ or ‘Who is he?’ Bish insisted on ordering his own coffee in his best French, which didn’t seem to impress anyone.

Once or twice someone clapped Sarraf on the back as they passed him by and there was a brief exchange of handshaking and small talk. Those who stood at the bar for their coffee were out within minutes. Others sat and were served wordlessly. Familiarity: Bish missed it. He missed being known. He had spent the past three years avoiding the sort of regularity that invited conversation. Had gone from having one local pub to a few, so as not to draw attention to being rat-arsed every second night.

‘I want you to speak to your sister,’ he said after he’d finished his coffee. ‘You need to put your heads together to bring these kids in.’

‘Five-minute conversations on two-pound phone cards don’t exactly allow for a shitload of communication between Noor and me.’

‘I’ll give you half an hour with her,’ Bish said. ‘Face to face.’

Sarraf stiffened. He stared at Bish in disbelief. Or was it fury?

‘What are you playing at, Ortley?’

‘Go get your passport,’ Bish said. He put five pounds on the counter and heard an irritated sound from the barman. Sarraf swapped the pounds for euros and gave him back some change.