‘Yeah, but I’ve other men I can call on, so don’t concern yaself. Look, Eric, can you stop the car? I feel sick.’

As soon as he pulled over, Zara snatched her bag and hurried out. Before she closed the door, she said, ‘I need some fresh air. I’ll get a taxi later.’

A car hooted from behind and urged Eric to pull away. Zara didn’t look back; she stormed on ahead, hoping to weave her way into the council estate so that he couldn’t follow her. As soon as she was out of sight, she caught her breath and went over his words and tried to rationalize how he could have known the Lanigans’ men were back in Ireland. Leaning against the wall, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Who could she trust? Did Eric have anything to do with Neil’s stabbing? Surely to God, not. After a few gasps for air, she calmed her panic. Maybe Eric had overheard her on the phone, or, more likely, he’d been earwigging in the hospital.

Crouching down to rifle through her bag with her one hand, she cursed. Everything was twice as hard. Clutching her phone, she left her bag on the path and scrolled down for the name of a taxi company. She could have walked to her father’s former jewellery business. It was another one she needed to look over to see whether Ismail had cleared it out. She just hoped the shop wasn’t left in a state. That would break her heart. Her father had used the shop as a front. Behind it was his office, where he did most of his business dealings. Suddenly, she felt her eyes fill up. ‘Dad, if you’re up there, I could do with your help.’ It had become a pet saying of hers, ever since the moment she’d been locked up.

‘Hi. Yes, could you send a taxi to the Old Kent Road, the BP garage?’

She knew many of the drivers didn’t like to enter the estate, but the garage was relatively close by.

Once the taxi firm ended the call, she stared at her phone: there were more than twenty missed calls from Mike and four text messages. As she scrolled through, reading the excuses and pleas from Mike to call him back, she didn’t notice two men appear from one of the run-down maisonettes.

They were roughly in their twenties, with baggy jeans trailing below their pants. Lennon, the bigger of the two, a known Face in the area, gazed at her oversized Louis Vuitton bag, and then his eyes checked her out. Right away, he could see the pound signs adding up. Designer sunglasses, expensive clothes, and the latest phone in her hand, she was a walking gold mine. He stopped and nudged his sidekick Germaine. ‘I want that bag and phone,’ he slyly whispered.