‘Mind if I look around?’ said Elyas.

‘Knock yourself out, mate. Not past the cordon, obviously. The press officer is on her way if you’re looking for information – if you are, you know, press, like. Because if you were…I’d tell ya to ask in that shop over there.’ He pointed at a minimart across the road. Elyas thanked him and headed over to it.

Inside, an old man at the counter was chatting with an equally antiquated fellow behind it. Deep in conversation, they were oblivious to the arrival of new customers. Elyas looked around at the shelves. They were half empty except for crisps and chocolate, bread, booze and dust. A musty smell permeated the air, almost as if emanating from the old men, dense and pungent. Elyas lurked behind the shelves, eavesdropping on their chatter. He picked up a faded bar of chocolate. They were talking in heavy dialect, one he’d heard before but wasn’t fluent in. The shopkeeper noticed him loitering. He used the words ‘lamba’, ‘gora’… They were talking about him as though he was white.

‘Just this, please,’ Elyas said, coming forward and handing over his money. The old man fumbled in the cash register before giving change. Elyas thanked him. ‘Do you know why the police are here, Uncle?’

The shopkeeper shook his head vigorously, his eyes shut tight. ‘I no know what happened,’ he said in a thick accent. Elyas nodded and thanked him again, this time in Urdu.

‘You speak Urdu? Where you from? You Pakistani? You no look Pakistani,’ he said.

‘Yes, I am. Well, my grandfather was. He’s Pathan,’ Elyas replied.

The shopkeeper’s face lit up. ‘OK! You wait. Wait, OK?’ he said, picking up his phone. The man dialled a number and spoke to someone on the other end, then held out the phone. ‘Here, speak to my son, he will tell you everything,’ he said.

Elyas took the battered old Nokia and put it to his ear. The warmth of one’s own kith and kin, and their need to pass on what they knew, never failed to inspire him. ‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Bloody drug dealers, in’t it!’ said a heavy voice on the other end. ‘They moved in couple o’ weeks back. Rented some storage units. Said they were selling mineral water. Tried to give me some.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said no thanks! Best steer well clear of them Eastern Europeans. Two weeks after they moved in and they’re driving round in flashy cars. I knew it were dodgy. I mean, who sells water and makes enough for a Lambo? Then water board came out, sayin’ summat about a water leak. Sayin’ we usin’ too much of it. Think they moved premises after that, kept the units for storing their cars.’