Eddie arrives and offers them a stick of chewing gum. ‘I’m going to bash Crombie when I see him,’ he says. ‘I’ve learnt some moves.’ He does a bit of shadow boxing for Bee and it makes her laugh.

‘Can I trust him?’ Violette asks. ‘Your father, I mean. He’s everywhere. Who’s he working for?’

‘I think he’s working for you, Violette. I think my dad wants to save every kid in England because he couldn’t save his own.’

There wasn’t much talk in the pre-boarding lane at the port of Calais. Absolutely none at French border patrol. And only an intake of breath by Sarraf once they reached the UK Border Force. Bish handed over his passport and watched the officer process the information in his computer. A moment later the man looked up, not quite suspicious, but whatever he had read seemed to demand a silent stare. First at Bish and then at Sarraf. Wordlessly the officer held out a hand for Sarraf’s passport.

‘Jamal,’ Bish prodded, and when he glanced at Sarraf he saw beads of sweat on his brow, the strange pallor of his skin. He looked as though he was about to have a meltdown. Was it the memory of having been here all those years ago and being told he wasn’t allowed back into his country?

When Sarraf finally handed over his passport it drew another raised eyebrow. This time the officer beckoned a senior operative in the next lane, who was giving a carload of lads a hard time over their duty-free booze allowance. Bish and Sarraf were now under double scrutiny. Then the senior officer walked away and made a phone call. Bish saw plenty of nods. A resigned sigh. More staring in their direction.

‘Welcome back,’ was all the man said upon his return. Having been out of the country for approximately fifty minutes, Bish figured he wasn’t the one being addressed.

Sarraf swallowed hard as Bish started the ignition.

‘You’re working for the Home Office,’ Sarraf said.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Visa and Immigration answer to them. I should know.’

‘I’m not working for anyone,’ Bish said as he drove onto the ferry.

On the A2, his passenger seemed to be in his own world and Bish didn’t attempt much conversation. When they reached London, he wondered what was going through Sarraf’s head. The working-class pockets of the city had been so different all those years ago. While many argued that gentrification had brought about much-needed improvement to some boroughs, others believed it had destroyed communities, especially those of the immigrants who could no longer afford to live in the areas they had been forced into on arrival so many years before. As they drove through Shepherd’s Bush, though, he heard a sound of disgust.

‘It’s Westfield shopping mall,’ Bish said. ‘Biggest in the northern hemisphere.’

‘What the fuck?’

Sarraf stared at the walls around him as they walked through Holloway’s gates. Jamal Sarraf had been only a bit older than Bee was now when he was arrested. One month shy of his eighteenth birthday. Which was how he ended up in Belmarsh and not a place for young offenders. Bish could see the memory of it on his face now.