“Just checking if she was telling the truth.”

“Right, let’s go.”

“I’m not ready yet, Hannah.” He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. “Let’s have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he’s been in.”

They walked down the pavement toward the shop, and behind them, Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.

The sign on the shop window said M. PATEL. Dillon nodded. “Indian, that’s good.”

“Why, particularly?” Hannah asked.

“Because they’re smart and they don’t screw around. They’ve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let’s see what Mr. Patel has to say and let’s use your warrant card.”

The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.

“Can I help?”

Hannah produced her warrant card. “Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr. Dillon is a colleague. We’re pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs. Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?”

“Of course I do.”

“Her son’s away,” Dillon said. “ New York, I understand?”

“Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Patel, everything’s fine. Mrs. Morgan is friendly with a Dr. Ali Selim. You know who he is?”

Patel’s face slipped. “Yes, I do.”

“And don’t like him.” Dillon smiled. “A Hindu-Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs. Morgan, he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks he’s Russian.”

“That’s right, he is. He’s called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.”

Hannah glanced up at the security camera. “Was that working?”

He nodded. “I was busy, so when the tape stopped, I didn’t run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.”