‘Lynching a man is a bit different from giving the away supporters a good hiding,’ she said.

I shrugged.

‘Look what they did to his daughter,’ I said. ‘Come on.’

We got out of the car and found the flat.

Barry Wilder opened the door. He had a shaved head and a short-sleeved Ben Sherman shirt with fading tattoos on arms that had been built up by manual work rather than a gym. THE JAM, said one tattoo. MADNESS said another. He was a forty-something skinhead but he looked as though life had kicked all the aggression out of him. He glanced at our warrant cards but seemed too shy to make eye contact.

‘Mr Wilder? I’m DC Wolfe and this is DC Wren. We would like to ask you some questions about Mahmud Irani.’

He nodded. ‘All right. You don’t need to talk to our Sofi, do you?’

‘It’s you we’re interested in,’ Edie said, and he seemed relieved.

He let us into the flat.

A large, heavy-set blonde was sitting by the window, furiously smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the warm summer day. Unfiltered Camels. Her mouth flexed with loathing at the sight of us.

Jean Wilder. Sofi’s mother.

‘Ma’am,’ I said, and my greeting was ignored, and she continued to smoke her cigarette as though she hated it.

Edie and I sat on the sofa, Barry Wilder in the armchair opposite us. I got a closer look at the body art on those thick arms. There were some ancient football tattoos, as faded as Egyptian runes. You couldn’t even tell if he was Tottenham or Arsenal.

‘You’re aware that Mahmud Irani has been murdered?’ I said.

I heard a door open, glimpsed the face of a young woman, frightened and pale, and watched the door silently close.

Sofi.

‘Mr Wilder, I hope you understand that we have to talk to you because of the relationship between Mahmud Irani and your daughter.’

The woman at the window exhaled.

‘They didn’t have a relationship,’ Mrs Wilder said quietly. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘What do you think? They were boyfriend and girlfriend? Relationship! Why don’t you ever do your job? It’s not much to expect, is it?’

‘Ma’am,’ Edie said. ‘Please.’

‘You’re in my home,’ Mrs Wilder said, totally calm. ‘And you’re talking about my daughter.’

Edie looked at me and let it go.

‘I need to ask you about threats that you made on Mahmud Irani’s life,’ I said to the father.

Mrs Wilder stubbed out her cigarette with something like fury. But the big man in front of us nodded mildly, his hands rubbing together as if he was washing them.

I tried to make my voice as neutral as possible.

‘This is what you were heard to say in court, OK?’

‘OK.’