‘His name was Tom and he was nice,’ says Zoë. ‘Could I have a drink, please, Niko? Some water?’ Zoë’s head is really starting to hurt. Niko softens immediately.

‘Christ on the cross … I’m so sorry, my darling one. There. Have a cigarette. I’ll get something for you to smoke. Micho! Fetch a water pipe! Make Zoë a coffee, you bastard! Bring some tsipouro!’

Micho, who has plainly just come in to help Niko with his carpentry, takes these orders with good humour. He puts a tray together and comes over, limping in his exaggerated mangas style. A bottle of tsipouro, a carafe of water, three glasses, an arghile water pipe with a fresh clay bowl. A lump of black hash on a dented old silver saucer. Glowing nuggets of charcoal in a crude earthenware cup. Niko pours a glass of water for Zoë, and a good measure of tsipouro each for himself and Micho.

‘Have some of this, my love,’ Niko insists, pouring Zoë a slug when she has finished her water. She adds more water, though her hands are trembling so badly that Niko has to steady the carafe for her. All the hours she spent in the car with the lieutenant, trying to keep from going to pieces … But she can’t do it any more. She watches the liquid swirl like opals, turn milky. She takes a mouthful, feels it burn her tongue. When she swallows, it begins to glow inside her chest.

‘Vangeli. Vangelaki. I can’t believe it,’ Niko is saying. ‘Did he suffer? What did those bastards do to him?’

‘He didn’t suffer,’ says Zoë. She drains her glass, lets Micho pour her another. She closes her eyes as the tsipouro burns its way down, but opens them when Vangeli’s mangled body swims out of the darkness. ‘He was killed straight away. Apostoli is all right. Pavlo got a bang on the head and I think he broke some ribs. But he was more upset about his bouzouki. Took a fistful of pills and went on holiday.’

‘What a madman,’ Micho says admiringly.

‘He had blood pouring down his face, but all he wanted was his precious bouzouki. Which he’d gone all the way to Khalkis to buy …’

‘In the middle of a war,’ Micho observes.

‘Yes, but they’re going to make a record,’ Niko says, as if that explains everything. ‘Stop interrupting.’

‘And do you know?’ Zoë watches the milky swirl in her glass. Her voice seems to belong to someone else. ‘There wasn’t a scratch on that bouzouki.’

‘Aman! We’d better call Semsis!’ Niko is busy with the hash, softening a piece that he has gouged onto the end of a thin knife, holding it over the charcoal.