Could she, should she, have guessed what might be in store from Sami’s account of the Adviser and the beautiful woman alongside him? No, she told herself, her time with the man had been spent four summers before – the night of that restaurant dinner was the first time she’d seen him since that ordeal. As for the woman – she’d been told about her but never set eyes on her till that evening. There was nothing from what she’d known or experienced of the man – or woman – for such scant strands to make that connection so many years later. Even if, now that she’d seen the photograph and Sayyid’s letters, and heard Sami’s story, the strands were joining up.

A further implication was chillingly clear. Whoever had recorded and photographed that evening would have made it their business to find out more about each person who was there – including her.

Were they tracking her now? Damn them. She crept downstairs, trying not to disturb her father – there was a weak light from the sitting room – and eased open the front door. The evening was clearing, broken clouds making patterns in the sky, the first pale show of moon flitting in and out of their animal-like shapes.

She walked into the middle of the road, stretched her arms upwards, beginning a circle to the clouds’ rhythm, as if to say, ‘I am free no matter what happens here on earth.’ Halfway round she stopped. They were still there. She stood, staring. No reaction.

As she neared the front door, headlights flashed on and off and an engine started. She quickened, closed and locked the door and heard a car accelerating fiercely past.

Back in her room, she picked up the photograph and held it close to her eyes. Something was nagging her about it. She tried to remember the exact date, then realised it could be on the photograph itself. There was a tiny white scratching on the bottom right corner. 23rd June. No year; she didn’t need to be told that.

She looked again at the three faces front on to the camera but furthest away from it. She didn’t recall being introduced to the man on the far right – she’d hardly noticed him as all her attention and conversation was focused on the man beside her. But now looking closely at that face, there was a familiarity – a connection lodged deep in her memory. She googled to check, hoping it was only a resemblance; the consequence of it not being was too horrible.

A photograph came up on Wikipedia. She linked to two news sites which also had photographs. She manoeuvred the three photographs into three corners of the screen, isolating the face from the restaurant photograph into the fourth corner.