‘I’m not going to run out of steam and I’m not going to give up on this, Noor. I grew up living in everyone’s shadow. Jocelyn’s. Yours. Jimmy’s. And ever since the bombing I’ve been living in its shadow. What if I’m selfish and I’m doing this for me too?’

‘If you take this on you’ll be begging to get back into that shadow. And if you lose you’re going to spend the rest of your life doing conveyancing for your extended family, and everyone on the block.’

Noor isn’t telling her anything she doesn’t know herself.

‘You can’t do this without a barrister and no one will touch it,’ she says.

But Layla would rather spend the rest of her life doing conveyancing than go back to selling her soul on the tenth floor for Silvey and Grayson. ‘Leave the barrister to me,’ she says.

Outside she rings Ortley, but it goes straight to voicemail. Layla decides to put her niece to work. She suspects Gigi and Bee Ortley text each other obsessively about their common denominator, Violette, despite the fact that they don’t consider themselves friends.

Can you ask your frenemy what hospital her mum’s in?

Next stop, William Harvey in Ashford. Rachel Ballyntine smiles questioningly when Layla walks into her private room She’s nursing a baby with a thatch of red hair much like its mother’s.

‘Hi Rachel. My name’s Layla Bayat. I’m Noor LeBrac’s solicitor. I know this probably isn’t the best timing but I’m wondering if we can talk about her case.’

Rachel is staring at her. The baby in her arms doesn’t seem to like the change in its mother’s mood. Badgering a woman while she’s breastfeeding her newborn is a bit on the low side, but Layla can’t back down now.

‘I’ve just had a C-section and I haven’t slept for two days,’ Rachel says coldly. ‘Can you please leave?’

Layla places the chocolates on the bedside table with her business card. At the door she stops and turns. ‘Did you know they forced her to confess during labour? She was giving birth to Eddie. They gave her forty-eight hours with him. Noor didn’t let go of him that entire time because she knew she’d never see him again.’

The baby is crying now and Rachel tries her best to comfort it. There are tears in her eyes. Angry ones. Full of sorrow.

‘Oh Layla,’ she says. ‘You don’t play fair.’

When Bish pulled up on the Rue Delacroix on Monday morning Sarraf was standing on the pavement looking annoyed.

‘I meant nine am in France,’ he said, getting into the car. ‘Not nine am in the UK.’

Bish wasn’t in the mood to apologise about the misunderstanding. ‘So what’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Bilal found Khateb.’

That took some processing. ‘He did?’ Bish asked. ‘He had no idea who Ahmed Khateb was when I spoke to him.’

‘But he knows every wealthy Algerian within a radius of two hundred miles, which includes Paris, and wealthy French Algerians have staff. Khateb’s wife works as a live-in for a family in Paris. A cousin of a cousin of a cousin of Bilal’s. If some fucker’s caught on camera arguing with my niece, we want to know why. Turn left at the bottom of the street.’