‘We should never have fucking left London. The Beast might think the countryside is lovely, but have you ever heard of anyone who works on the paper actually going to the countryside? Maybe Brython – he’s a true believer – but not me; I’ve never gone to the countryside since the day I arrived in Britain.’

‘Which bit of Turkey did you come from?’

That interrupted her mood and she cackled, then called out, ‘Oi, Max, your rugrat just asked me what bit of Turkey I’m from.’

Max turned and walked backwards for a couple of paces, saying, ‘Don’t murder him before anyone else does. We’ll need all the bodies we’ve got this evening.’

Just as Will was becoming embarrassed because he didn’t understand, she said, ‘I’m not from Turkey at all. I’m Greek. Greek Cypriot. My family was booted out in the invasion. So: Turkish Anna. What a bunch of cunts.’ She shook her head, pleased by the mark of belonging.

Will looked at her. He thought Greeks were supposed to have straight noses rather than hooks. But he supposed there’d been so much intermarrying there wasn’t much ethnic difference any more. ‘That must have been awful,’ he said politely, ‘having to leave your home and come over here.’

‘Damn right it’s awful here. You should hear the stories my snappers bring back when they have to go to the countryside on a job and can’t help meeting the readers. They’re all nicey-nicey racists on the outside like everyone else, but by the time we’ve been in the pub a few hours some old gent in a tweed suit’ll be asking permission to suck you off in the loos.’

To make sure he fully understood the depravity of country folk, she started to tell him the anecdotes she’d heard from her snappers. Will guessed that the reason she talked about sex so much was because she wasn’t getting any; and wondered whether she had her dark eye on him. He listened, dismantling her tales to understand how the photographers worked, how you spoke to them and how you got them to do things.

Soon they reached the first few cottages and then a road sign announcing Upper Bucklebury. Small houses looked out at each other from under low roofs of curving clay tiles speckled with moss. The street was narrower than a normal road, with slender pavements, and a little crooked. Trees opened like umbrellas over some of the houses. There must be a medieval church around here somewhere, and a village green.