All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.

In the small sitting room, the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.

Hannah said, “I just thought I’d check on you, Mrs. Morgan, as we happened to be passing.”

Dillon, more direct, said, “Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. Have you heard from him?”

Her voice was muted, and she coughed. “Oh, he’ll be too busy. I’m sure he’ll phone when he’s got time.”

Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded, and she carried on reluctantly. “Have you seen Dr. Selim lately?”

“Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son’s away, Dr. Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. It’s not far. He’s been very good, Dr. Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry, to discover our faith.”

Hannah felt wretched. “I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.”

“Yes, he’s called round two or three times since Henry’s been away with his friend.”

There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, “And who was that?”

“Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.”

Dillon said sternly in Arabic, “Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?”

She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, “There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.”

Hannah said, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.”

Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs. Morgan on the forehead. “There you are, my love.” He turned to Hannah and led the way out.

Outside, she said, “What a bastard you are. What were you saying?”