‘Damn.’ Zoë unhooks the bouzouki from the wall of Pavlo’s room and gives it to Sólon. ‘We can’t leave it here for those sister-fuckers,’ she says, grinning at the sight of Sólon holding the instrument. ‘You look like a proper mangas, Sólon. Pavlo liked you. I know you sometimes couldn’t tell with him. But he did.’

‘Do you remember the time he kicked me in the balls?’ Sólon mutters, bending down to pick up their cases.

‘At that wedding! I thought you two would be enemies for life.’

‘I caught him a couple of days later and gave him a real thrashing. So after that, we were even. But do you know what? It was Ioannis who never forgave Pavlo. Strange, isn’t it? He felt the family honour had been humiliated. By a Turk. That’s how he thinks: Greeks and Turks. Greeks and communists. Right. Let’s go.’ As Sólon straightens up, Zoë sees the butt of an automatic pistol jutting from the waistband of his trousers. I’ve always thought Sólon was a bit ridiculous, with his glum face and his uniform, she thinks. But there’s nothing ridiculous about him at all.

‘You keep saving me, Sólon Pandelis,’ she says.

‘The neighbourhood is my judge,’ he mutters. His face is turned away, so she never knows, afterwards, what she might have seen there.

Sólon opens the door, leans out and gives a low whistle. Zoë hears the rumble of engines further down Hozanitas Street. She recognises the sound of German trucks, the sort the Security Battalions use. Sólon hears it too. ‘Right. We’re going over one block. Run. When we get to the van, climb in the back and get down.’

They race through the alley to where a police van is parked. The two men in front are uniformed gendarmes. They greet Sólon in whispers and he opens the back doors. The two women scramble into the small, musty space. ‘You’d better cover yourselves up,’ Sólon hisses.

‘Aren’t you coming, Sólon?’

‘I can’t. But I’ll see you later.’