Which is true. Rashid comes from a culture where you fear the police, and, whilst he’s adapted well to life here, some feelings run too deep to ever entirely eradicate. But I don’t want to go to the station; I want to sit back and watch the ripples and let the Sour Hound ease that tension away. I look down at the grinder only to discover I’m out. And the Sour Hound I’ve already inhaled has fled, tail between its legs.

I’m just about to say no when the idea hits: if Joel’s around I could drop in on him on the way back. I don’t buy from coffeeshops if I can help it. All that low-grade stuff they produce for the tourists is covered in pesticide residue and half the time grown so poorly they have to drench it with illegal research chemicals bought in bulk from China just so it has some nominal effect.

That’s junk. I need medicine. Which is where Joel comes in.

‘Call it repayment for the rock thing,’ Jansen says, breaking into my thoughts.

‘Well, shit, if I’d known you’d be so bitter … All right, I’m on my way.’

I fire off a text to Joel and get ready to leave. As I shrug on a fresh hoody, my arm still sore, I remember the letter. I pull it out of my jeans and drop it on the table.

Despite the darkness I can’t help but notice a few drops of blood on it.

I don’t know why, but I bend over and sniff it.

Sucked Back In

‘Seriously, how much?’

I’m with Rashid, we’re walking down Marnixstraat, the station less than two minutes away, and I’m listening to the electrician reel off his fees for an out-of-hours call. Out of hours? The way I see it, it’s dark, the most likely time you’re going to need light. Try telling the station chief that you’re not heading out to the crime scene because it’s out of hours and see what happens. I ask what the in-hours rate is and just as he answers a tram judders past and I have to get him to repeat himself. I settle for an appointment tomorrow morning. By the time I hang up my phone’s like a hot coal.

‘Will I have to see him?’ Rashid asks. He’s in jeans and an Ajax sweater, a team he’s embraced with a fanatical zeal that some of his countrymen pour into headier philosophies than football.

‘Most likely he’ll be in a room. You’ll be able to see him but he won’t be able to see you,’ I reassure him.