It had been years since he’d driven through the city. It was a set of memories to him, memories filled at first with sunny days, walking through town eating bags of salty chips from the shop on the corner of Moonbridge Road, and later with dark and rain-soaked days, collar pulled up and battling through the wind to catch the bus home. He couldn’t say exactly when the warm and bright had turned to cold and gloomy, but it was then that he had made the decision to leave. Today, as he drove through the same old streets with the same grey skies overhead, past the broken windows and peeling paintwork of the stone buildings, few signs of the city’s better days remained.

His time here had been mixed, but Elyas still loved this city. To him, she was a grand old lady who’d enjoyed her time in the sun, but had burned too brightly and faded all too fast. During her glory days in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, her beauty and potential drew traders from far and wide. With the merchants came lucrative deals and soon mills of honey-coloured stone began to spring up against the green landscape. Thousands of workers followed, crossing continents in the hope that some of her success would rub off on them. She became the wool capital of the world, and the district of Hanover was the jewel in her crown, home to her courtiers, who built huge houses for their families.

But then the textile industry moved overseas, where production was cheaper, and the mills that had once been filled with looms, humming love songs to her bounty, stood empty. As her charms faded, so did her suitors. The merchants fled when the money dried up, taking their families with them, leaving behind only high ceilings, covings and mouldings. Neighbourhoods dropped out of favour, prices fell. Immigrants and factory workers moved into the opulent Victorian houses. The multiple floors, numerous bedrooms and large living spaces made them perfect for the extended family system of the city’s South Asian communities.

It was to one of the old mills that Benyamin had been taken, rumour had it. Driving to it through the city meant taking a refresher course in clutch control, and as the car engine revved at the traffic lights on top of another steep hill, Elyas realised he had missed driving through this quiet beauty.

He arrived at the mill to find it cordoned off, two policemen patrolling the perimeter. He parked up and jumped out, taking the road in his wide stride as he walked towards them. ‘What’s going on, officer, if you don’t mind my asking?’ he said.

‘There was a nasty incident ’ere last night,’ the policeman replied, his accent white working class, but his tone warmer than expected. ‘From press, I s’pose,’ he added, watching as Elyas pulled a notebook from his pocket.