‘We experience the sort of pain that would kill a man in order to give birth and carry on his family name. I am a mother. I know your fears. If our sons get caught up in this, the police will not give us justice. We have already lost some of our children to this violence. My cousins Razi and Raza have just returned from paying a heavy price. We can’t allow others to do the same.’

And so when the violence started, they were ready and waiting to take their sons home. It was a Friday afternoon when things began to simmer; Jumma prayers had just finished and people were returning to their places of business. It was contained at first, having started within a mile radius of where the two bouncers had been shot, but by midnight it had spread out past Valley Parade and into Burlington and Hanover, and on the other side from Bowling towards Leeds.

It was 2.00P.M. when Elyas stepped out of the cafe and into the growing demonstration. In the time he’d had lunch, police in riot gear had moved into the centre of the city and were gathered around the edges of Centenary Square. Protesters with placards filled the place. ‘Education + Opportunity = Integration,’ read one; ‘Laundry is the only thing that should be separated by colour,’ said another, and ‘Why should we integrate with those who denigrate?’ A line of mounted officers hemmed them in, watching from the perimeter, their eyes hawk-like, waiting for trouble to kick off.

Elyas’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and hit the green symbol. ‘Yeah. I’m right in the middle of it!’ he said. ‘I can’t see much…’ He turned to find a mob moving towards the steps of City Hall, their faces contorted in anger. The police circle began to tighten. Elyas broke into a run. ‘I’m on my way back.’

On the other side of the city centre, Nowak and two of his henchmen were getting ready to hide their money. They walked into the travel agency that had been helping them launder and transfer their ill-gotten gains, each one of them carrying a black holdall. Previous monies had been small amounts, but this was the big one. Dressed in suits, they looked like three business reps about to sell generic paracetamol to a chemist. The owner of the establishment, Hajji Taj Mohammed Akram, ushered them in quickly before reaching up to the top of the turquoise door and turning the key in the heavy mortise lock. He repeated the procedure three times along the length of the door. No one could get in and no one could get out. He led the men into his back office and turned to face them. Each silently placed his holdall on the desk, unzipping it to reveal wad upon wad of neatly rolled banknotes. The travel agent looked up and grinned at Nowak.