‘Nah.’ He cut across her; she felt a frisson of alarm. ‘So, Sara,’ he put a heavy emphasis on her name, ‘what you doing here?’

‘I told you. The survey.’

‘Nah.’

‘What?’ Nerves jangling, she gave him the most puzzled expression she could muster.

‘What you really doing here?’

‘What do you mean, “What am I really doing?”’

‘Not hard to understand. I’m not an idiot.’

‘Of course you’re not an idiot.’

‘The way you spoke to me, looked at me when you was leaving… there’s something else.’

She put down her cup of tea and gazed at him imploringly. She hadn’t begun to anticipate this. He might be her only chance of achieving something on this trip; she had seconds to stop him slipping through her fingers. He sat impassively, impossible to read, not giving her anything. She’d no idea whether he was operating from instinct or some kind of theorising he’d concocted overnight. Perhaps he’d talked to a workmate.

‘Tell me, Sami,’ she said, ‘what is it that’s been going through your mind?’

‘That’s not the point.’ He sounded rougher. ‘I wanna know what you’re doing here.’ He paused. ‘It’s all right. Mum’s here. Ain’t no harm gonna come to you. Just wanna know.’

She sensed his implacability and sighed, wanting to convey a sign of defeat while she worked out how much to give him. ‘Can I trust you, Sami?’

‘Depends, don’t it? More like whether I can trust you.’

‘I understand.’ Now she needed to show submission. She picked up her workbag, took out the clipboard with the questionnaire and a folder beneath. She was on her own. She gambled. ‘You’re right, Sami.’ She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose and wiped a non-existent tear from her eye.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, softening. ‘You can trust me.’

She buried the tissue inside her sleeve. ‘It’s true I’m researching the opinions and experiences of young Muslims. It’s also true,’ she spoke with intensity, ‘that anything we discuss now is on the basis of total confidentiality. But yes, you’re right.’ She retrieved the tissue and sniffed again. ‘I’m not a market researcher. I’m a lawyer working on behalf of an independent inquiry examining how the British government has treated young Muslims in recent years.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The inquiry is chaired by a judge called Sir Francis Morahan.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to have. The important point is that he’s independent. Unbiased. And, Sami, at the heart of what he wants to understand is why some young British Muslims went off to fight. To be jihadists. How were they chosen? Who paid? And what’s happened to them?’

A dark frown clouded his face. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with me?’ He looked around. ‘Why you come to me anyway? I ain’t done nothing.’