He looks pleased with himself. Ortley seems uncomfortable, his attention on the furnishings.

The Sarrafs have no more family living in the UK. So each time there’s a bombing, the media call on Layla. Once or twice it was Layla’s sister Jocelyn they went to, since she’d been Noor’s best friend. But most people know not to approach Ali Shahbazi’s wife and kids. Ali has the power and money to sue anyone who hassles his family. These clowns in her office know that too, which is why they’ve come here first and not to Jocelyn’s home.

‘So what are you thinking, Layla?’ Elliot asks.

‘It’s Ms Bayat to you, and what I think, Elliot, is that deep down you want to fuck me, but you’ve seen photos of Jamal Sarraf so you know I don’t go for pale middle-aged men with little dicks.’

There’s the hint of a smile on Chief Inspector Ortley’s face.

‘Now get out,’ she tells them.

Phillip Grayson is in her office before the men have reached the lift. ‘What was that about?’

Layla dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. ‘They can’t afford us.’

Phillip offered her a job when she was straight out of university and competing with candidates whose connections and qualifications were better than hers. Layla never quite understood why he chose her, but she worked hard enough to ensure that he never regretted his decision.

‘Are you ready for next week?’ he asks, referring to the interview for junior partner.

‘I’ve been ready since you interviewed me eight years ago.’

The purse of his lips means she’s going to get a reprimand.

‘When you’re up in front of the rest of the partners, sweeten the tone,’ he says.

She tries to smother the anger. Fails, like always. ‘Did you give Luke the same advice?’ she asks. ‘Or Damien?’

Irritation on his face. ‘Don’t turn this into accusations of sexism, Layla.’

She feels as if everything is slipping through her fingers. If it isn’t the fact that she’s a woman, it’s that she once lived next door to the Brackenham Four. A week before the most important interview of her life, she doesn’t need two men in suits screwing with her head.

Phillip stops on his way out the door. ‘Tell me that bombing business with the LeBrac girl is not going to touch this firm, Layla.’

She gives him a smile. She has a killer of a smile, she’s always been told. ‘Whatever you’ve heard about my family and hers is doubtless exaggeration and fabrication,’ she lies. ‘My sister and I can hardly remember living next door to those people.’

One thing was always certain to the people of the Brackenham council estate: the greatest war in the Arab world took place on Uxbridge Road back in the 1970s, between two women, Mariam Bayat and Aziza Sarraf. It wasn’t over religion or territory or water rights, or the fact that they were born on opposite sides of Beirut, or that one was married to an Iranian and the other to a French Egyptian. It started with their firstborn children, Jocelyn and Noor. Who was more beautiful? Who spoke first? Who was meant for greater things? Fifteen years later, when both mothers coincidentally gave birth to their second children, the Sarrafs won by having a boy. From the very beginning Layla was the lesser in her mother’s eyes. Not so much when compared to Jocelyn – well, anyone was lesser than Jocelyn – but compared to Jamal Sarraf. Layla didn’t stand a chance alongside him. When five-year-old Jimmy showed signs of being the estate’s football prodigy, Aziza’s boasting was drowned out by Mariam’s declaration that her elder daughter was the greatest beauty Brackenham had ever seen. Photos of Jimmy holding up trophies that weighed more than he did were all over the community noticeboard in the foyer of the main building, only to be replaced by photographs of Jocelyn being presented with a bouquet of flowers by the ex-Duchess of York for her work with the Great Ormond Street Hospital Children’s Charity, or of Jocelyn’s portrait, painted by an award-winning artist as part of his Women of Persia exhibition.