Morahan stepped out, easing the door shut; the car accelerated smoothly out of sight. Tucking the envelope under his coat, he walked fast, pausing briefly to make a 360-degree sweep of the street. The only sign of life was the reflection of a foraging fox’s eyes. He glared back and it scurried into undergrowth. Hunter and hunted.

Back home, he opened the front door and from the hall heard the sounds of Iona above stepping onto the landing. He looked up.

‘All right?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ He forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ve an early start, so off to bed.’

‘I think I might work on a while.’

‘As you will. Don’t stay up too late.’ She retreated.

He went into his study, sat down and placed the envelope on the desk. He pulled out the contents. First was a single murky photograph. A table with a group of what looked like diners in the foreground, hints of more tables beyond. All unidentified. Was there something about one of the faces? He studied it. Probably not, must be his imagination. Too shadowy to make out anyway.

The second, and only other object in the envelope was a cassette tape. Remembering Sayyid’s words, he took from the middle drawer of the desk the dictaphone on which he liked to record first drafts of judgements.

He inserted the cassette and pressed play. The tape revolved. After several seconds of hissing, he began to hear chatting against the background of what, assuming a connection with the photograph, had to be restaurant bustle. Whoever was recording must have been able to swing a directional microphone to eavesdrop on specific conversations. Some he could make out, others were inaudible or rendered unintelligible by background noise.

He settled himself to listen.

Initially, Sara was grateful for her solitary evening; time to relax, to think, to pray. Dinner at the Savoy Inn had been an unappetising prospect – not just the food but the stares of transient males freed of their wives. She’d bought a veggie wrap and a Coke from a petrol station on the road along from the hotel. Peeling off the plastic cover revealed a sogginess to the touch, and an affront to the nose like the distant whiff of a rubbish collecting lorry. She dumped it in the bathroom bin and washed her face and hands. The cure would have been the spiciest offering of Blackburn’s hottest curry house but it hardly seemed the town for a stranger sitting alone and wearing a scarf.