‘You’re the greatest whisper of them all,’ she says. ‘It’s human nature. You make people feel good about their lives. Because whatever they’ve experienced, it can’t be worse than what happened to Jimmy Sarraf.’

‘I don’t want my niece to be a whisper.’

He takes the envelope of money from his pocket and holds it up. ‘Alfie and the lads. Can you get it back to them somehow?’

She gets off the bed. ‘That Brackenham lot don’t part with their money too easy. If they’ve given it to you, they mean you to have it.’ She brushes past him.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘Rough day,’ is all she says.

He follows her into the kitchenette, where she puts on the kettle.

‘Do you know the guy who owns the Algerian restaurant on the corner?’ she asks.

‘No, but he’s watching me.’

‘His name is Bilal Lelouche and he stopped me tonight because he’s one of the hundreds of people who know you’re staying with me.’

She doesn’t seem happy about that fact.

‘He asked if you could drop in for supper. He knew Noor and Etienne, apparently.’

Jamal gives a shake of his head. It sounds like a set-up.

‘I’ve never heard anything bad said about him,’ she says. ‘Great restaurant. People come from all over to eat there.’

‘No clean clothes.’

‘I’ll find you something.’

‘No thanks.’

He hadn’t meant it to sound judgemental. He just doesn’t want to be wearing some other guy’s clothing.

‘I’ve got some stuff of Ali’s that Jocelyn wants me to give to a Brackenham charity,’ she says.

He has no excuse now. ‘Will you come with me?’ he asks.

The restaurant is packed but there’s a table set for them down the back. Jamal and Layla exchange a look and follow the waiter. The moment they sit down the food comes, and doesn’t stop coming for the next hour.

‘Love the French,’ Jamal says, wolfing down the best kefta he’s ever eaten. ‘Hate their food.’

Layla laughs and it’s a good laugh to hear, and even better to see. ‘My favourite treat is a French restaurant,’ she says.

‘Hate the food with a passion,’ he says.

With a meal this good, there’s no room for being polite. It’s the survival of the fastest and Layla likes her food as much as he does. There’s less room for talk too, which is fine, because he has to accept that they’re strangers now. She’s guarded and it makes him tense; he wants to be anything but. When he brings up her work she dodges the subject. Asks about his instead. He tells her about the gym, and working at one of the bars downtown.

‘As a bouncer?’ she asks, soaking up the last of the chakchouka with her pita bread.

‘Not a bouncer.’

‘You work behind the bar?’ she says.

‘Who said I was working behind the bar?’

He reaches over and finishes the eggplant dip on her plate. They eye each other. The old Jimmy and Layla always ate from each other’s plates. There was an intimacy to it.