‘Did you call anyone?’

‘Look – you smashed my phone, man. I haven’t got one.’ There was a rising panic in Mirza’s voice.

‘Turn out your pockets. Now.’ Abu Mujahid was barely speaking above a whisper.

Mirza pulled his jogging-bottom pockets inside out. A crumpled tissue fell to the floor. ‘Honest, Sheikh, all I did was go for a walk.’

‘I believe you.’ And Abu Mujahid put his right arm out to Mirza’s. For a fraction of a second, Asad wondered if Abu Mujahid was going to embrace him. Mirza’s confused expression showed he felt the same. But then Asad saw a glint of silver in Abu Mujahid’s hand as his thumb hit a switch. A blade, three or four inches, shot out from the handle in his clenched fist.

Slowly, far too slowly, Abu Mujahid dragged his hand around Mirza’s throat, slicing deep into the flesh from right to left. Mirza opened his mouth in shock, but no words came from him, just a jet of blood that arced across the hallway and landed with a gentle splatter on the carpet. Mirza’s body crumpled immediately as the blood left him, and he fell to his knees, one arm outstretched, fingers touching the floor. Abu Mujahid wiped the blade on Mirza’s shoulder and slid it back into its case before dropping it on the floor.

Mirza’s throat was gurgling as the blood drained through the gash and his chest heaved. He slumped again to the floor, face down, and was still. Abu Mujahid went into the bathroom and returned with two towels which he draped over Mirza’s motionless head. The blood soaked up into them.

The three men stood in silence. What could they say, thought Asad. What words were appropriate now?

‘I’m going out to get some bags,’ Abu Mujahid said. ‘I guess I don’t need to tell you to stay here this time.’ And he smiled a toothless smile.

#

Wandsworth Common, South London

This time there was no pigeon mess, but the room still stank. They’d not been at the house in the daylight before and were surprised to see in the weak winter sunlight that the grand rooms were shabby, that the wallpaper was stained and peeling, and that the plaster roses and cornices in the downstairs rooms were crumbling.

‘Could do with a makeover,’ said the older of the pair.

‘Who do you think you are? Kevin McCloud? Fuck off, you queer,’ said the other.

They were interrupted by the click of a key in the lock. Nina O’Brien walked into the room.

‘I hope the smell in here isn’t you?’ She grinned, her eyes flashing. ‘I brought something – thought we deserved a little celebration.’ She rummaged in a red leather rucksack and pulled out a half-bottle of whisky and three plastic beakers. ‘Was going to bring single malt, but it’s too fucking expensive on the salary Hogarth pays me.’ She laughed and unscrewed the bottle, splashing whisky on the carpet as she poured three cups.