‘It’s OK, Sami, I know that.’ She spoke softly, edging closer. ‘Can I trust you with something? Really, really trust you?’

‘I wanna see you properly. Under the scarf.’

‘I can’t do that.’ Sara felt a cramping in her stomach.

‘It’s your choice,’ he said. ‘If I can’t see you, I can’t trust you.’

Why was he asking? Simple curiosity? Some kind of test of her sincerity – or devoutness? A darker thought flared. Did he think she was wired up? Perhaps he had talked – but to someone better informed than a workmate.

First try the obvious. ‘Sami, I’m observing my religion – our religion – in the way I’ve chosen.’

‘My religion’s for me,’ he said sourly.

She’d made a mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed.’

‘Nah.’

‘Why’s this important to you?’

‘I told you.’ He stood up and crossed behind her chair to look out of the bay window. ‘You’re in my home. No one’s looking in. My mum’s in the back. You want me to trust you. But you deceived me. Now you gotta show trust in me.’

Was refusal or acquiescence the correct response? ‘My religion’s for me.’ What had he meant? There were enough signs of some kind of observant upbringing. Or had he lapsed and become suspicious of zeal? She suspected that the story he had to tell – she was now sure that he had one – would provide the answer.

She hesitated. This was the wrong way to allow herself to behave, let alone think, whatever tactical advantage it might bring. ‘Remember who you are,’ she told herself. ‘Remember the standards you’ve set yourself. Think of what you believe.’

She sensed him moving towards her and turned away. ‘I’m sorry, Sami, I can’t do that.’

He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Nah, thought you wouldn’t.’ She held her breath; was this it?

He sat down again. ‘It’s OK.’

She tried to withhold a sigh. There was nothing innocent now about Sami – but where lay his guilt? Slowly, saying nothing, she started leafing through the files on her lap. An instinct had told her at least to have them with her.

‘You asked why I’ve come to you.’ She picked out his file and handed it over.

He opened it and stared at the single sheet. ‘What’s this?’

‘2006. It’s probably police or Special Branch.’ She wouldn’t tell him it was MI5. ‘Its existence suggests that, at one point, you were suspected of being involved in jihadist activity.’

‘I never.’

‘I know.’ She stood up and crossed to his chair. ‘May I?’ She knelt down beside him and pointed to a column. ‘It says “file closed”. So nothing came of it.’

She fetched her workbag, judging she could give more. ‘This is private, Sami, yes? Just between you and me.’