Nowak smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, old man,’ he said, baring his teeth, then his smile vanished. ‘Now, get out.’ His clipped accent added to the directness of his words. The owner of the restaurant backed away quickly, relieved to be able to do so. He knew men who had lost their limbs for less.

Sitting across from him, Jia waited patiently. ‘Would you like this with your coffee or later?’ she asked, pointing to a box by her feet. The words ‘World’s Finest Sweethouse’ were embossed on it, a claim as confident as the gold it was written in.

‘Later. We can deal with these things in good time. I don’t like to do business without getting to know my associates first. Let us get acquainted,’ he said, and smiled wide, every tooth visible. ‘Last time we met, you weren’t very forthcoming, as I recall. Funny, isn’t it? You were working for me then, and a fine job you did.’ He paused. ‘My cousin, whose name you helped to clear, he was there on Friday when your brother tried to steal from me. In fact, he’s the one who’s been looking after him.’

Something in the way he said the words made a shiver run down Jia’s spine, though she did her best to hide it.

Nowak sat forward, his long, tapered fingers clasped into a steeple, and Jia was transported back to the café where he’d approached her a year ago. He was wearing the same cologne. It was gentle, inoffensive, expensive. ‘You know, in my country, women usually pour the coffee,’ he said, leaning in as if about to share a secret and then changing his mind. ‘I like the ways of the English. They claim to make no distinction between men and women. But you and I know they do.’ He paused, waiting for her to agree, continuing when she didn’t. ‘I like my coffee strong, like my loyalties. How do you take yours?’ he asked, lifting the pot.

‘I am your guest, I will take whatever you offer,’ she said. The room was hot, the air musty, like the red velvet curtains that were draped across the windows, blocking out sunlight and any sign of a breeze. Nowak’s talk left Jia impatient, but she knew men like him must be indulged and so she thanked him, putting the cup to her lips gently. The coffee tasted even worse than it smelt but she drank it as if he’d handed her nectar.

They were at the county’s longest established and only authentic Polish restaurant. The owner was a trusted friend of the Nowak family and his daughter was married to a young Pathan from Mardan. The restaurateur worried about his grandchildren, their health, their well-being, their future, and so in a world of lines and sides he had negotiated himself a neutral place.