‘Where were you tonight?’ Jia said, ignoring him. ‘What were you doing that made them think you were kerb-crawling?’ The intercom buzzed loudly before he could answer, and Jia pushed the button to let the visitors in. She looked at Benyamin. ‘This is your mess,’ she said. ‘You should get this.’

A look of uncertainty passed over Benyamin’s face. He walked to the door slowly, turned the handle and stepped outside to find Officer Swan pulling up alone in her unmarked car. There was no sign of her colleagues. She climbed out and walked to the front steps, her face burning up as she approached. Benyamin, confused at first, regained his composure, remembering who he was.

‘Officer Swan,’ said Jia, stepping forward. ‘I believe you have something to say to my brother.’

The policewoman stuttered and stammered her way through an apology. Something about crossed wires, Chief Constable Briscoe, and being more careful next time. Jia watched, her eyes on Benyamin; he seemed rooted to the spot with relief. She hoped that this would go some way to making him whole again. Even though it was Nowak who had inflicted the most recent wounds, Jia knew the trauma ran deeper than that. It had started years earlier with Zan’s brushes with the law. Benyamin had been a child then, but those who had raised him had been coloured by the incident.

Her father had used bribery and corruption to keep the police in his pocket, and now Jia had sweetened the deal with favours and buttoned them in for good.

CHAPTER 42

An elderly man in a tired suit carefully spooned biryani into his mouth, his eyes on the curry house, watching customers order, eat, pay and leave. Despite the late hour the restaurant was filled with families young and old. Children played in between the tables as parents and grandparents folded pieces of naan into morsels and dipped them in sauce for them. Across the other side of the restaurant, Elyas was dining with John.

They’d been eating at Café de Khan for as long as John could remember. The place was a cultural institution, having been around since the sixties. One of the first Pakistani eateries in the country, through the years its clientele had gone from homesick immigrants looking for a taste of home, to Hindi film stars and white middle-class food connoisseurs. Now with branches across the country, its newer establishments were slick, with modern interiors. But the original restaurant maintained its old-fashioned school-canteen feel. Prices were low and service was fast, and alcohol was strictly prohibited, but that didn’t stop the crowds.

‘Will you put that thing down, for God’s sake!’ said John to Elyas. He’d been on his phone since they arrived.

‘What? I’m working! That’s why I am who I am and you are not,’ said Elyas.