The white-robed man stretched out his hands, palms faced upwards. ‘Mashallah. Welcome. Can I call you Sami?’ His voice was soft, precise, clear; to Sami the tone and accent seemed in some way to belong to a rich and ancient civilisation; this man must be the Adviser. ‘I know you have suffered.’ He further stretched out his arms and Sami fell into his embrace. They hugged until the Adviser pulled away, yet without breaking his intense, powerful gaze.

‘So, my brother Sami, now we must talk. Please sit.’

‘Yes, Master.’ He didn’t know why he’d used that word rather than ‘brother’, only that this was a man he, in his weakened state, must submit to. He slumped into a hard wooden chair the guard placed behind him.

The woman spoke. ‘Do you know why you have come here, Sami?’ Her voice was soothing, enfolding him.

‘No, sister.’

She stared at him with surprise. ‘No?’

‘They came for me. That’s why.’

‘Why did they come for you, brother?’ It was the second man, his Pakistani accent rougher. He recognised a Lancastrian tinge.

‘I dunno, brother.’ He tried to read their three faces; nothing emerged. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

‘Is it good or bad to do nothing?’ asked the Adviser.

‘I dunno. What you want me to do?’ he answered with the yearning of a starved dog.

‘No, Sami, it is what you want to do.’

A tear trickled down his cheek. ‘I dunno.’

‘You must not tell us lies,’ said the woman.

‘That’s right, Sami,’ said the second man, walking around the end of the table to stand over him. He bent down, placing his mouth against Samir’s right ear.

‘We want to know whose fucking side you’re on!’

His shout was so furious that Samir flinched wildly to his left, crashing off his chair onto the bare wood of the platform. The man hoicked him up.

‘There is no need for unkindness or hurt,’ said the Adviser. ‘We must be friends. Return to your room and pray to Allah. You must think about your conscience and truth. We will pray for you too.’

The Adviser nodded once to the second man. He grabbed Sami by the shoulder, turned him and kneed him in the small of the back so violently that he crumpled.

Asif Hassan’s family address of twelve years ago was 24 Pond Street. Obeying Patrick’s rule of ten, Sara would only have to knock on two doors before arriving at the target house. No. 4 answered, detaining her for the ten minutes it took to speed through the questionnaire. Sara walked slowly by the next five doors. Her phone rang – Patrick, she assumed. Unhurriedly, she removed it from her bag; a number she didn’t recognise. She felt that lurch in the stomach and took a deep breath.

‘Yes?’

‘Is that Sara?’

She punched the air, relief surging through her. ‘Hey, is that you, Sami?’

‘Yeah. You said I could call?’