‘It’s bad, Sis. These bhain-chods have been tryin’a cause trouble. But…t’be honest, it’s been comin’ for a while. The Jirga han’t been listenin’ t’us younger folks, y’know? Times have changed an’ some kids have got degrees and shit. Our people, they never hurt children or women. Akbar Khan would never allow it. He would skin us alive before we even considered it, but these Eastern Europeans have no honour. Our children mean nothing to them, and our women are fair game, Sis. They have no izzat.’ His words had taken her by surprise; they were sharp and burning, like acid, and seeped into her skin. She had little to do with her father’s business, and hardly any knowledge of what it had become. According to Jimmy Khan, the edifice that was her father’s castle was crumbling, and with it, it seemed, was the protection it had afforded people who looked like her.

‘I was high when I got the call,’ Jimmy had said, the words reluctant to leave his lips, his shame evident. ‘I’m not high any more. I’m never high now.’ He’d shifted, his voice navigating emotion like a new driver, his accent thickening with every bend. ‘I’m here because of your dad. Out of respect for what he’s done for me and my family. My wife…she took our daugh’er to her homeland to see ’er family. We needed money. An’ the kuttee listened to some shit her cousin said.’ The disbelief was still written large on his face.

His daughter had been admitted to hospital with severe abdominal pain. Doctors found half a kilo of cocaine in her stomach. ‘I wanted to fucking kill my wife, but your dad and Idris convinced me to go to the police. Fat lot of good that did – arrested some stooge of Nowak’s on bullshit charges. But then I heard you were representing him and I had to come and see you.’

Andrzej Nowak, the man she’d supposed was at the wheel of the supercar. When Jia had met him that one time with her client, most of his questions had been posed with the assurance of a public schoolboy. At times he had turned to his cousin, appearing to reassure him in their mother tongue. He’d been charming, dapper, young – his silver hair, like his money, was inherited. Jia remembered being struck by how soft his hands were, and how tapered his fingers. He was not used to getting his hands dirty.

‘Jimmy, I wish you’d come to me sooner,’ she’d told him. ‘You know I’d do anything to help you. But you should know that Andrzej Nowak is not my client.’

‘Nah, but his fall guy is.’