‘No, no,’ she says, gently. ‘Let me see.’

She sees a man’s face lit by the light of the match he is holding to his cigarette. Soldiers huddled under netting. A beak-nosed man with a pipe clamped between his teeth. And then, the car. The burning car.

‘That’s all there is,’ he is saying, and she feels him easing her fingers very gently away from the pad. ‘I’ve been …’ He clears his throat, and makes a business of fumbling with the buckles of his leather case. ‘I’ve been too busy to do any more.’ He stows the case under the seat and turns towards her. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what on earth were you doing on the road in the middle of all this?’

Zoë rakes her fingers through her hair. Hanks of it are solid with dried blood. What can she tell this kind, serious young man that will not sound mad? Because it had been mad. ‘It was my brother,’ she says eventually. ‘He is a musician – we are all musicians. Apostoli, the one who stopped you, and Vangeli …’ She feels her mouth tremble.

‘It’s all right,’ the Englishman says hurriedly. ‘I don’t need to know.’

‘No, no. You were very kind. I should tell you. My brother, Pavlo – he was sitting under the tree – plays the bouzouki. You know what it is … You know what a bouzouki is?’ He shakes his head. ‘A Greek instrument. Pavlo is, really, maybe the best bouzouki player in Athens.’ Zoë feels a small rush of pride. ‘And we had a big, a huge explosion in Piraeus Harbour a few days ago. His best bouzouki was ruined.’

‘That would have been the Clan Fraser,’ the Englishman says. ‘Yet another disaster.’