KIA ABDULLAH is an author and travel writer. She has contributed to The Guardian, BBC, and Channel 4 News, and most recently The New York Times commenting on a variety of issues affecting the Muslim community. Kia currently travels the world as one half of the travel blog Atlas & Boots, which receives over 200,000 views per month. kiaabdullah.com

Take It Back

Kia Abdullah

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Kia Abdullah 2019

Kia Abdullah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008314699

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008314682

Praise for Take It Back:

‘With razor-sharp insight into the lives of her characters, Kia Abdullah gives readers much more than a courtroom thriller. A timely reminder that the tentacles of scandal are long – and they touch everyone’

Christina Dalcher, Sunday Times bestselling author of VOX

‘Intense, shocking and so real you can literally feel its heartbeat … the best book I’ve read this year’

Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me and The Party

‘Kia’s novel is an excellent addition to the court-based criminal dramas we’ve come to love. It’s made even more shocking by its basing itself in one of the most challenging environments; rape and diversity. It’s a great read and draws you in with fast pacing and real characters’

Nazir Afzal OBE, Former Chief Crown Prosecutor, CPS

‘I was blown away by Take It Back. From the explosive premise to the shockingly perfect ending, I loved every word’

Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice

‘Brave and shocking, a real welcome addition to the crime thriller genre. Kia’s is a fresh voice and a thrilling novel’

Alex Khan, author of Bollywood Wives

For Peter

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Praise

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Chapter One

She watched her reflection in the empty glass bottle as the truth crept in with the wine in her veins. It curled around her stomach and squeezed tight, whispering words that paused before they stung, like a paper cut cutting deep: colourless at first and then vibrant with blood. You are such a fucking cliché, it whispered – an accusation, a statement, a fact. The words stung because Zara Kaleel’s self-image was built on the singular belief that she was different. She was different to the two tribes of women that haunted her youth. She was not a docile housewife, fingers yellowed by turmeric like the quiet heroines of the second-gen literature she hated so much. Nor was she a rebel, using her sexuality to subvert her culture. And yet here she was, lying in freshly stained sheets, skin gleaming with sweat and regret.

Luka’s post-coital pillow talk echoed in her ear: ‘it’s always the religious ones’. She smiled a mirthless smile. The alcohol, the pills, the unholy foreskin – it was all so fucking predictable. Was it even rebellious anymore? Isn’t this what middle-class Muslim kids did on weekends?

Luka’s footsteps in the hall jarred her thoughts. She shook out her long dark hair, parted her lips and threw aside the sheets, secure in the knowledge that it would drive him wild. Women like Zara were never meant to be virgins. It’s little wonder her youth was shrouded in hijab.

He walked in, a climber’s body naked from the waist up, his dirty blond hair lightly tracing a line down his chest. Zara blinked languidly, inviting his touch. He leaned forward and kissed the delicate hollow of her neck, his week-old stubble marking tiny white lines in her skin. A sense of happiness, svelte and ribbon-like, pattered against her chest, searching for a way inside. She fought the sensation as she lay in his arms, her legs wrapped with his like twine.

‘You are something else,’ he said, his light Colorado drawl softer than usual. ‘You’re going to get me into a lot of trouble.’

He was right. She’d probably break his heart, but what did he expect screwing a Muslim girl? She slipped from his embrace and wordlessly reached for her phone, the latest of small but frequent reminders that they could not be more than what they were. She swiped through her phone and read a new message: ‘Can you call when you get a sec?’ She re-read the message then deleted it. Her family, like most, was best loved from afar.

Luka’s hand was on her shoulder, tracing the outline of a light brown birthmark. ‘Shower?’ he asked, the word warm and hopeful between his lips and her skin.

She shook her head. ‘You go ahead. I’ll make coffee.’

He blinked and tried to pinpoint the exact moment he lost her, as if next time he could seize her before she fled too far, distract her perhaps with a stolen kiss or wicked smile. This time, it was already too late. He nodded softly, then stood and walked out.

Zara lay back on her pillow, a trace of victory dancing grimly on her lips. She wrapped her sheets around her, the expensive cream silk suddenly gaudy on her skin. She remembered buying an armful years ago in Selfridges; Black American Express in hand, new money and aspiration thrumming in her heart. Zara Kaleel had been a different person then: hopeful, ambitious, optimistic.

Zara Kaleel had been a planner. In youth, she had mapped her life with the foresight of a shaman. She had known which path to take at every fork in the road, single-mindedly intent on reaching her goals. She finished law school top of her class and secured a place on Bedford Row, the only brown face at her prestigious chambers. She earned six figures and bought a fast car. She dined at Le Gavroche and shopped at Lanvin and bought everything she ever wanted – but was it enough? All her life she was told that if she worked hard and treated people well, she’d get there. No one told her that when she got there, there’d be no there there.

When she lost her father six months after their estrangement, something inside her slid apart. She told herself that it happened all the time: people lost the ones they loved, people were lost and lonely but they battled on. They kept on living and breathing and trying but trite sentiments failed to soothe her anger. She let no one see the way she crumbled inside. She woke the next day and the day after that and every day until, a year later, she was on the cusp of a landmark case. And then, she quit. She recalled the memory through a haze: walking out of chambers, manic smile on her face, feeling like Michael Douglas in Falling Down. She planned to change her life. She planned to change the world. She planned to be extraordinary.

Now, she didn’t plan so much.

It was a few degrees too cold inside Brasserie Chavot, forcing the elegant Friday night crowd into silk scarves and cashmere pashminas. Men in tailored suits bought complicated cocktails for women too gracious to refuse. Zara sat in the centre of the dining room, straight-backed and alone between the glittering chandelier and gleaming mosaic floor. She took a sip from her glass of Syrah, swallowing without tasting, then spotted Safran as he walked through the door.

He cut a path through soft laughter and muted music and greeted her with a smile, his light brown eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Zar, is that you? Christ, what are you wearing?’

Zara embraced him warmly. His voice made her think of old paper and kindling, a comfort she had long forgotten. ‘They’re just jeans,’ she said. ‘I had to stop pretending I still live in your world.’

‘“Just jeans”?’ he echoed. ‘Come on. For seven years, we pulled all-nighters and not once did you step out of your three-inch heels.’

She shrugged. ‘People change.’

‘You of all people know that’s not true.’ For a moment, he watched her react. ‘You still square your shoulders when you’re getting defensive. It’s always been your tell.’ Without pause for protest, he stripped off his Merino coat and swung it across the red leather chair, the hem skimming the floor. Zara loved that about him. He’d buy the most lavish things, visit the most luxurious places and then treat them with irreverence. The first time he crashed his Aston Martin, he shrugged and said it served him right for being so bloody flash.

He settled into his seat and loosened his tie, a note of amusement bright in his eyes. ‘So, how is the illustrious and distinguished exponent of justice that is Artemis House?’

A smile played on Zara’s lips. ‘Don’t be such a smart-arse,’ she said, only half in jest. She knew what he thought of her work; that Artemis House was noble but also that it clipped her wings. He did not believe that the sexual assault referral centre with its shabby walls and erratic funding was the right place for a barrister, even one who had left the profession.

Safran smiled, his left dimple discernibly deeper than the right. ‘I know I give you a hard time but seriously, Zar, it’s not the same without you. Couldn’t you have waited ’til mid-life to have your crisis?’

‘It’s not a crisis.’

‘Come on, you were one of our strongest advocates and you left for what? To be an evening volunteer?’

Zara frowned. ‘Saf, you know it’s more than that. In chambers, I was on a hamster wheel, working one case while hustling for the next, barely seeing any tangible good, barely even taking breath. Now, I work with victims and can see an actual difference.’ She paused and feigned annoyance. ‘And I’m not a volunteer. They pay me a nominal wage. Plus, I don’t work evenings.’

Safran shook his head. ‘You could have done anything. You really were something else.’

She shrugged. ‘Now I’m something else somewhere else.’

‘But still so sad?’

‘I’m not sad.’ Her reply was too quick, even to her own ears.

He paused for a moment but challenged her no further. ‘Shall we order?’

She picked up the menu, the soft black leather warm and springy on her fingertips. ‘Yes, we shall.’

Safran’s presence was like a balm. His easy success and keen self-awareness was unique among the lawyers she had known – including herself. Like others in the field, she had succumbed to a collective hubris, a self-righteous belief that they were genuinely changing the world. You could hear it dripping from the tones of overstuffed barristers, making demands on embassy doorsteps, barking rhetoric at political figureheads.

Zara’s career at the bar made her feel important, somehow more valid. After a while, the armour and arrogance became part of her personality. The transformation was indiscernible. She woke one day and realised she’d become the person she used to hate – and she had no idea how it had happened. Safran wasn’t like that. He used the acronyms and in-jokes and wore his pinstripes and brogues but he knew it was all for show. He did the devil’s work but somehow retained his soul. At thirty-five, he was five years older than Zara and had helped her navigate the brutal competitiveness of London chambers. He, more than anyone, was struck by her departure twelve months earlier. It was easy now to pretend that she had caved under pressure. She wouldn’t be the first to succumb to the challenges of chambers: the gruelling hours, the relentless pace, the ruthless colleagues and the constant need to cajole, ingratiate, push and persuade. In truth she had thrived under pressure. It was only when it ceased that work lost its colour. Numbed by the loss of her father and their estrangement before it, Zara had simply lost interest. Her wins had lost the glee of victory, her losses fast forgotten. Perhaps, she decided, if she worked more closely with vulnerable women, she would feel like herself again. She couldn’t admit this though, not even to Safran who watched her now in the late June twilight, shifting in her seat, hands restless in her lap.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Jokes aside, how are you getting on there?’

Zara measured her words before speaking. ‘It’s everything I thought it would be.’

He took a sip of his drink. ‘I won’t ask if that’s good or bad. What are you working on?’

She grimaced. ‘I’ve got this local girl, a teenager, pregnant by her mother’s boyfriend. He’s a thug through and through. I’m trying to get her out of there.’

Safran swirled his glass on the table, making the ice cubes clink. ‘It sounds very noble. Are you happy?’

She scoffed. ‘Are you?’

He paused momentarily. ‘I think I’m getting there, yeah.’

She narrowed her eyes in doubt. ‘Smart people are never happy. Their expectations are too high.’

‘Then you must be the unhappiest of us all.’ Their eyes locked for a moment. Without elaborating, he changed the subject. ‘So, I have a new one for you.’

She groaned.

‘What do you have if three lawyers are buried up to their necks in cement?’

‘I don’t know. What do I have?’

‘Not enough cement.’

She shook her head, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.

‘Ah, they’re getting better!’ he said.

‘No. I just haven’t heard one in a while.’

Safran laughed and raised his drink. ‘Here’s to you, Zar – boldly going where no high-flying, sane lawyer has ever gone before.’

She raised her glass, threw back her head and drank.

Artemis House on Whitechapel Road was cramped but comfortable and the streets outside echoed with charm. There were no anodyne courtyards teeming with suits, no sand-blasted buildings that gleamed on high. The trust-fund kids in the modern block round the corner were long scared off by the social housing quota. East London was, Zara wryly noted, as multicultural and insular as ever.

Her office was on the fourth floor of a boxy grey building with stark pebbledash walls and seven storeys of uniformly grimy windows. Her fibreboard desk with its oak veneer sat in exactly the wrong spot to catch a breeze in the summer and any heat in the winter. She had tried to move it once but found she could no longer open her office door.

She hunched over her weathered keyboard, arranging words, then rearranging them. Part of her role as an independent sexual violence advisor was filtering out the complicated language that had so long served as her arsenal – not only the legalese but the theatrics and rhetoric. There was no need for it here. Her role at the sexual assault referral centre, or SARC, was to support rape victims and to present the facts clearly and comprehensively so they could be knitted together in language that was easy to digest. Her team worked tirelessly to arch the gap between right and wrong, between the spoken truth and that which lay beneath it. The difference they made was visible, tangible and repeatedly affirmed that Zara had made the right decision in leaving Bedford Row.

Despite this assurance, however, she found it hard to focus. She did good work – she knew that – but her efforts seemed insipidly grey next to those around her, a ragtag group of lawyers, doctors, interpreters and volunteers. Their dedication glowed bright in its quest for truth, flowed tirelessly in the battle for justice. Their lunchtime debates were loud and electric, their collective passion formidable in its strength. In comparison her efforts felt listless and weak, and there was no room for apathy here. She had moved three miles from chambers and found herself in the real East End, a place in which sentiment and emotion were unvarnished by decorum. You couldn’t coast here. There was no shield of bureaucracy, no room for bluff or bluster. Here, there was nothing behind which to hide.

Zara read over the words on the screen, her fingers immobile above the keys. She edited the final line of the letter and saved it to the network. Just as she closed the file, she heard a knock on her door.

Stuart Cook, the centre’s founder, walked in and placed a thin blue folder on her desk. He pulled back a chair and sat down opposite. Despite his unruly blond hair and an eye that looked slightly to the left of where he aimed it, Stuart was a handsome man. At thirty-nine, he had an old-money pedigree and an unwavering desire to help the weak. Those more cynical than he accused him of having a saviour complex but he paid this no attention. He knew his team made a difference to people’s lives and it was only this that mattered. He had met Zara at a conference on diversity and the law, and when she quit he was the first knocking on her door.

He gestured now to the file on her desk. ‘Do you think you can take a look at this for the San Telmo case? Just see if there’s anything to worry about.’

Zara flicked through the file. ‘Of course. When do you need it by?’

He smiled impishly. ‘This afternoon.’

Zara whistled, low and soft. ‘Okay, but I’m going to need coffee.’

‘What am I? The intern?’

She smiled. ‘All I’m saying is I’m going to need coffee.’

‘Fine.’ Stuart stood and tucked the chair beneath the desk. ‘You’re lucky you’re good.’

‘I’m good because I’m good.’

Stuart chuckled and left with thanks. A second later, he stuck his head back in. ‘I forgot to mention: Lisa from the Paddington SARC called. I know you’re not in the pit today but do you think you can take a case? The client is closer to us than them.’

‘Yes, that should be fine.’

‘Great. She – Jodie Wolfe – is coming in to see you at eleven.’

Zara glanced at her watch. ‘Do you know anything about the case?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘Abigail’s sorted it with security and booked the Lincoln meeting room. That’s all I know – sorry.’

‘Okay, thanks. I’ll go over now if it’s free.’ She gestured at the newest pile of paper on her desk. ‘This has got to the tipping point.’

Carefully, she gathered an armful of folders and balanced her laptop on top. Adding a box of tissues to the pile, she gingerly walked to ‘the pit’. This was the central nervous system of Artemis House, the hub in which all clients were received and assigned a caseworker. It was painted a pale yellow – ‘summer meadow’ it had said on the tin – with soft lighting and pastel furnishings. Pictures of lilies and sacks of brightly coloured Indian spices hung on the wall in a not wholly successful attempt to instil a sense of comfort. The air was warm and had the soporific feel of heating left on too long.

Artemis House held not only the sexual assault referral centre but also the Whitechapel Road Legal Centre, both founded with family money. Seven years in, they were beginning to show their lack of funds. The carpet, once a comforting cream, was now a murky beige and the wallpaper curled at the seams. There was a peaty, damp smell in the winter and an overbearing stuffiness in the summer. Still, Zara’s colleagues worked tirelessly and cheerfully. Some, like she, had traded better pay and conditions for something more meaningful.

Zara manoeuvred her way to the Lincoln meeting room, a tiny square carved into a corner of the pit. She carefully set down her armful and divided the folders into different piles: one for cases that had stalled, one for cases that needed action, and another for cases just starting. There she placed Stuart’s latest addition, making a total of twelve ongoing cases. She methodically sorted through each piece of paper, either filing it in a folder or scanning and binning it. She, like most lawyers, hated throwing things away.

She was still sorting through files when half an hour later she heard a gentle knock on the door. She glanced up, taking just a beat too long to respond. ‘May I help you?’

The girl nodded. ‘Yes, I’m Jodie Wolfe. I have an appointment?’

‘Please come in.’ Zara gestured to the sofa, its blue fabric torn in one corner, exposing yellow foam underneath.

The girl said something unintelligible, paused, then tried again. ‘Can I close the door?’

‘Of course.’ Zara’s tone was consciously casual.

The girl lumbered to the sofa and sat carefully down while Zara tried not to stare.

Jodie’s right eye was all but hidden by a sac of excess skin hanging from her forehead. Her nose, unnaturally small in height, sat above a set of puffy lips and her chin slid off her jawline in heavy folds of skin.

‘It’s okay,’ misshapen words from her misshapen mouth. ‘I’m used to it.’ Dressed in a black hoodie and formless blue jeans, she sat awkwardly on the sofa.

Zara felt a heavy tug of pity, like one might feel for a bird with a broken wing. She took a seat opposite and spoke evenly, not wanting to infantilise her. ‘Jodie, let’s start with why you’re here.’

The girl wiped a corner of her mouth. ‘Okay but, please, if you don’t understand something I say, please ask me to repeat it.’ She pointed at her face. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to form the words.’

‘Thank you, I will.’ Zara reached for her notepad. ‘Take your time.’

The girl was quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice that was soft and papery, said, ‘Five days ago, I was raped.’

Zara’s expression was inscrutable.

Jodie searched for a reaction. ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, more a statement than a question.

Zara frowned. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t?’

The girl curled her hands into fists. ‘No,’ she replied.

‘Then I believe you.’ Zara watched the tension ease. ‘Can I ask how old you are?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’

‘Just my mum.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘I haven’t told the police.’

Zara nodded. ‘You don’t have to make that decision now. What we can do is take some evidence and send it to the police later if you decide you want to. We will need to take some details but you don’t have to tell me everything.’

Jodie pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves and wrapped them around her fingers. ‘I’d like to. I think I might need to.’

Zara studied the girl’s face. ‘I understand,’ she said, knowing that nerve was like a violin string: tautest just before it broke. If Jodie didn’t speak now, she may never find the courage. She allowed her to start when ready, knowing that victims should set their own pace and use pause and silence to fortify strength.

Jodie began to speak, her voice pulled thin by nerves, ‘It was Thursday just gone. I was at a party. My first ever one. My mum thought I was staying at my friend Nina’s house. She’s basically the daughter Mum wished she had.’ There was no bitterness in Jodie’s tone, just a quiet sadness.

‘Nina made me wear these low-rise jeans and I just felt so stupid. She wanted to put lipstick on me but I said no. I didn’t want anyone to see that I was … trying.’ Jodie squirmed with embarrassment. ‘We arrived just after ten. I remember because Nina said any earlier and we’d look desperate. The music was so loud. Nina’s always found it easy to make friends. I’ve never known why she chose me to be close to. I didn’t want to tag along with her all evening – she’s told me off about that before – so I tried to talk to a few people.’ Jodie met Zara’s gaze. ‘Do you know how hard that is?’

Zara thought of all the corporate parties she had attended alone; how keen she had been for a friend – but then she looked at Jodie’s startling face and saw that her answer was, ‘no’. Actually, she didn’t know how hard it was.

Jodie continued, ‘Nina was dancing with this guy, all close. I couldn’t face the party without her, so I went outside to the park round the back.’ She paused. ‘I heard him before I saw him. His footsteps were unsteady from drinking. Amir Rabbani. He—he’s got these light eyes that everyone loves. He’s the only boy who hasn’t fallen for Nina.’

Zara noted the glazed look in Jodie’s eyes, the events of that night rendered vivid in her mind.

Jodie swallowed. ‘He came and sat next to me and looked me in the eye, which boys never do unless they’re shouting ugly things at me.’ She gave a plaintive smile. ‘He reached out and traced one of my nails with his finger and I remember thinking at least my hands are normal. Thank you, God, for making my hands normal.’ Jodie made a strangled sound: part cry and part scoff, embarrassed by her naivety. ‘He said I should wear lace more often because it makes me look pretty and—’. Her gaze dipped low. ‘I believed him.’

Jodie reached for a tissue but didn’t use it, twisting it in her hands instead. ‘He said, “I know you won’t believe me but you have beautiful lips and whenever I see you, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”’ Jodie paused to steady her voice. ‘He asked if I would go somewhere secret with him so he could find out what it was like. I’ve never known what it’s like to be beautiful but in that moment I got a taste and …’ Jodie’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I followed him.’ She blinked them back through the sting of shame.

Zara smarted as she watched, dismayed that Jodie had been made to feel that way: to believe that her value as a young woman lay in being desirable, but that to desire was somehow evil.

Jodie kneaded the tissue in her fingers. ‘He led me through the estate to an empty building. I was scared because there were cobwebs everywhere but he told me not to worry. He took me upstairs. We were looking out the window when …’ Jodie flushed. ‘He asked me what my breasts were like. I remember feeling light-headed, like I could hear my own heart beating. Then he said, “I ain’t gonna touch ’em if they’re ugly like the rest of you.”’ Jodie’s voice cracked just a little – a hairline fracture hiding vast injury.

Zara watched her struggle with the weight of her words and try for a way to carry them, as if switching one for another or rounding a certain vowel may somehow ease her horror.

Jodie’s voice grew a semitone higher, the tissue now balled in her fist. ‘Before I could react, his friends came out of the room next door. Hassan said, “This is what you bring us?” and Amir said he chose me because I wouldn’t tell anyone. Hassan said, “Yeah, neither would a dog.”’

Jodie gripped her knee, each finger pressing a little black pool in the fabric of her jeans. Her left foot tap-tapped on the floor as if working to a secret beat. ‘Amir said, “She’s got a pussy, don’t she?” and told me to get on my knees. I didn’t understand what was happening. I said no. He tried to persuade me but I kept saying no …’ Jodie exhaled sharply, her mouth forming a small O as if she were blowing on tea. ‘He—he told his friends to hold me.’

Zara blinked. ‘How many were there?’ she asked softly.

Jodie shifted in her seat. ‘Four. Amir and Hassan and Mo and Farid.’

Zara frowned. ‘Do you know their surnames?’

‘Yes. Amir Rabbani, Hassan Tanweer, Mohammed Ahmed and Farid Khan.’

Zara stiffened. A bead of sweat trickled down the small of her back. Four Muslim boys. Four Muslim boys had raped a disabled white girl.

‘I—’ Jodie faltered. ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone because …’ her voice trailed off.

‘You can tell me.’ Zara reached out and touched the girl’s hand. It was an awkward gesture but it seemed to soothe her.

‘Because if a month ago, you had told me that any one of those boys wanted me, I would have thought it was a dream come true.’ Hot tears of humiliation pooled in her eyes. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I said that.’

A flush of pity bloomed on Zara’s cheeks. ‘I won’t,’ she promised.

Jodie pushed her palms beneath her thighs to stop her hands from shaking. ‘Farid said he wasn’t going to touch a freak like me so Hassan grabbed me and pushed me against the wall. He’s so small, I thought I could fight him but he was like an animal.’ Jodie took a short, sharp breath as if it might stifle her tears. ‘Amir said he would hurt me if I bit him and then he … he put himself in my mouth.’ Jodie’s lips curled in livid disgust. ‘He grabbed my hair and used it to move my head. I gagged and he pulled out. He said he didn’t want me to throw up all over him and …’ A sob rose from her chest and she held it in her mouth with a knuckle. ‘He finished himself off over me.’

Zara’s features were neutral despite the churning she felt inside. ‘What were the others doing?’ she asked gently.

Jodie shook with the effort of a laboured breath. ‘I—I couldn’t see. They were behind me.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap. ‘Hassan pushed me and I fell to the ground. He tore my top and undid my jeans and then … he started.’ Jodie’s features buckled in anguish. ‘He—he came on my face, like Amir.’

Zara closed her eyes for a moment, stemming the weakness knotting in her throat.

Jodie’s words came faster now, as if she needed them said before they broke inside. ‘Hassan turned to Mo and said, “she’s all yours”. Mo said he didn’t want to but they started calling him names and saying he wasn’t man enough, so … he did it too.’ Jodie’s voice cracked, giving it a strange, abrasive texture. ‘Mo has sat next to me in class before. He’s helped me, been kind to me. I begged him to stop, but he didn’t.’ She swallowed a sob, needing to get through this.

Zara listened as the words from Jodie’s mouth fell like black spiders, crawling over her skin and making her recoil. The sensation unnerved her. Part of Zara’s talent as a caseworker was her ability to remain composed, almost dispassionate, in the face of the painful stories told between these walls. Today, the buffer was breached.

‘Jodie.’ Zara swallowed hard to loosen the words. ‘I am so, so sorry for what you went through.’ Her words, though earnest, rang hollow, echoing in a chamber of horror. ‘We’re nearly there. Can you tell me what happened after?’

‘They just left me there.’ Her words held a note of wonder. ‘I wiped everything off me using some old curtains. I tucked my top into my jeans so it wouldn’t keep splitting open and then I walked home.’

‘Did you see anyone on the way? Any passing cars or revellers from the party?’

Jodie shook her head. ‘I stayed off the path. I didn’t want to be seen.’

‘Were you injured at all? Bleeding?’

‘No.’ Jodie took a steady breath, appeased by the simplicity of this back and forth questioning.

‘What time was it when you got home?’

‘I walked for fifteen minutes so around twelve I think.’

‘Did you tell your mum?’

‘Not that night. She was in bed and I let myself in. I went to my bedroom and then I cleaned myself up.’ Jodie pointed at her backpack, a bare and practical navy so she couldn’t be teased for signs of personality. ‘I’ve brought the clothes I was wearing.’

‘Washed?’

‘No. I didn’t want to be stupid like you see on TV.’

Zara blinked. ‘Jodie, nothing you did or didn’t do could be called stupid. Please understand that.’

The girl gathered her perfectly formed hands in her lap but gave no sign of agreement.

‘Did you tell Nina or anyone else what happened?’

‘How could I?’ Jodie’s voice was soft but bitter. ‘How could I tell her that a boy who doesn’t even want her wanted me? How would she ever believe that?’

Zara looked up from her notes. ‘Hey,’ she said, drawing Jodie’s gaze from her lap. ‘No matter what happens, I want you to know that I believe you.’ Zara studied her for a moment, noting the dozen different ways in which she kept control: the tensing of her jowls and the squaring of her jaw, the curl of her fists and feet flattened on the floor. ‘I believe you,’ she repeated.

Fresh tears welled in Jodie’s eyes. ‘So you will help me?’

‘Yes, I will help you.’ Zara watched her wilt with relief. ‘Is there anything else I need to know? Anyone else who was involved?’

‘No. That’s everything.’

Zara drew two lines beneath her notes. She watched Jodie dab at her dripping nose and wondered how a jury would view her. A rape trial usually hinged on power – one person stripping it from another – but in this case, it would be difficult not to consider desire. Zara believed Jodie – had seen too much devious behaviour, met too many appalling men to doubt the young girl’s story – but felt a deep unease at the thought of her facing a jury. Could they imagine four young men wanting to have sex with Jodie even in some twisted gameplay?

Zara reached for her box of tissues and handed a fresh piece to Jodie.

She took it with a quivering hand. ‘What happens now?’

Zara’s lips drew a tight line, a grimace in the guise of a smile. ‘We would like to conduct a medical exam. All our doctors here are female. After that, if you’re ready, we can help you make a formal statement with the police.’

Jodie blanched. ‘Can we go to the police tomorrow? I want to think about it for one more night.’

‘Of course,’ said Zara gently. ‘We can do the exam, store the samples and see how you feel.’

Jodie exhaled. ‘Thank you for being on my side,’ she said, each few syllables halting before the next.

Zara offered a cursory nod.

‘No, I mean it.’ Jodie hesitated. ‘I told you it was hard to be at that party alone. The truth is it’s hard to be anywhere – everywhere – alone.’

Zara leaned forward. ‘You won’t be alone in this – not for any of it.’ She gestured to the door. ‘If you want me in the exam room, I can sit with you.’

Jodie considered this but then shook her head. ‘I’ll be okay.’

Zara led her to the exam room and left her with the forensic medical examiner, a brisk but matronly Scotswoman who ushered Jodie inside. Zara shut the door with a queasy unrest. A small, delinquent part of her hoped that Jodie would change her mind, that she would not subject herself to the disruptive, corrosive justice system that so often left victims bruised. The law stress-tested every piece of evidence and that included the victim – probing, pushing and even bullying until the gaps became apparent.

Beneath her concern, however, she knew that Jodie needed to pursue this. A horrifying thing had happened to her and only the arm of the law could scrub the stain clean and serve justice.

Erin Quinto watched the strange little girl walk to the exit with Zara, her metronomic shuffle almost jaunty in its motion. With unheard words, they said goodbye and Zara headed back to the pit.

‘What’s her story?’ asked Erin.

Zara sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Oh yeah, I’m just a babe in the woods, me.’ Erin laughed, deep and throaty, and followed Zara to her office. Inside, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a manila file. ‘I’ve got something for you guys.’ She placed it on the desk. ‘Can you give this to Stuart when he’s back? It’s the San Telmo financials he was after.’

Zara raised a brow. ‘Of course. I don’t want to know how you got them but thank you.’ She watched Erin, her angular features and lanky limbs clearly poised in thought. With her cropped hair, leather jacket and big dark eyes, she looked like a comic book anti-hero: an anime goth designed to drive a certain type of man wild.

Fittingly, beneath the dark hair and piercings, she was as wily as a snake. It was why Stuart had hired her as an investigator to freelance for Artemis House. It was five years ago and he was in the midst of his first big battle: Lisa Cox against Zifer Pharmaceuticals. The company’s sparkling new epilepsy drug, Koriol, had just hit the market. Alas, no one was told that depression was a rare but possible side effect. When Lisa Cox stepped in front of a moving train, she miraculously escaped without injury. The media went wild, Big Pharma went on the defensive and the Medicine Regulatory Authority denied all wrongdoing. When Lisa decided to sue, she was smeared as a money-hungry whore with little regard for herself or the three children she would have left behind. Lisa lost her job and almost lost her home. She was an inch from surrender when Erin – young, laconic, beautiful – strode into the Whitechapel Road Legal Centre and handed Stuart a file. Inside were memos between regulatory officials and Zifer acknowledging the drug’s dangerous side effects. Stuart couldn’t use the documents legally but a well-timed leak prompted an investigation that not only exonerated Lisa but made her a very wealthy woman.

Stuart immediately offered the mysterious young Erin a job. She refused to take it and instead offered her freelance services pro bono, and now here she was pushing classified documents across a cheap fibreboard desk.

Zara placed the folder in her bottom-right drawer, the place she reserved for sensitive material.

Erin watched her, then asked, ‘Seriously, what’s the girl’s story?’

Zara locked her drawer and set down the key. In a measured tone, she relayed Jodie’s story, recalling the horrors of the story she’d told.

When Zara finished, Erin leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and said, ‘Tell me what you need me to do.’

Zara handed her a piece of paper. ‘Find out everything you can about these boys.’

Erin scanned the handwritten note. ‘Wait.’ She looked up. ‘They’re Muslim?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. You’re telling me that four Muslim boys raped a disabled white classmate?’ Erin whistled softly. ‘The tabloids will have a field day when this gets out – not to mention the Anglican Defence League. Those right-wing nutjobs will besiege anyone that’s brown.’

Zara nodded tensely. ‘That’s a concern, but we can’t be distracted by what could happen or might happen. We need to approach this with a clear head.’

Erin’s features knotted in doubt. She smoothed the note on the desk and traced a finger across the four names. ‘What if I tried talking to one of them?’

Zara held up a hand. ‘No, don’t do that. Leave it to the police.’

‘Screw the police.’ Erin’s voice was heavy with scorn. ‘You think they’re going to get to the heart of this?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘Look, the way I see it, these boys did the crime or they didn’t. Either way, the police are going to fuck it up. You think they can get more information out of these bastards?’

Zara thought for a moment. ‘Fine,’ she ceded. ‘Please just wait until the formal statement. We’ve overstepped the mark before and we can’t do it again.’

Erin’s eyes glinted in the sun. ‘Tell me which one refused to take part.’

‘Farid, but it wasn’t out of sympathy.’

Erin smiled. ‘Yes, but maybe he’ll confess to save his skin. When are you going to the police?’

‘Wednesday. Tomorrow.’

‘Perfect. I’ll scope him out on Thursday.’ Erin slipped the piece of paper into her leather jacket and readied to leave. ‘Four Muslim boys. Well, no one can accuse you of upholding the status quo.’

‘Yeah,’ Zara said dryly. ‘Rock ‘n’ roll.’

The bells of St Alfege Church cut across the quiet, sending birds fleeing across the early evening sky. Canary Wharf shone in the distance – Zara’s favourite feature of her tidy Greenwich flat. She watched from the balcony and raised a joint to her lips. A blanket of warmth clouded around her, loosening the painful knots in her shoulders. Her head felt light but her limbs were heavy, almost sensual in effect. She leaned forward and laid her head on the wrought-iron railings, welcoming relief.

Just as her mind quietened, the doorbell cut through the breeze. Cursing, she snuffed out the joint and stepped back inside. Her flat on the top floor of a converted warehouse was large and bright with creaky old ceiling beams and exposed brickwork. The giant cream corner-sofa sat next to her desk, a sturdy structure of reclaimed oak. Opposite, stood a large bookcase stuffed with legal textbooks next to floor-to-ceiling windows. At the far end of the enormous room was her rarely used kitchen, a modern mix of chrome and glass offset by her giant wooden dining table. In a sea of minimalism, the only signs of personality were her antique lawyer lamp – a graduation gift from her sisters – and five large posters on the western wall depicting headlines from what Zara considered the greatest legal achievements of all time. She padded past them now and opened the door to find Luka outside with two bags filled with takeout.

He smiled sheepishly. ‘You said you missed lunch so I brought you some food.’ His gaze fell to the joint cooling in her hand.

She drew it back. ‘I’ve had a bad day.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’ He gestured inside. ‘Can I come in?’

She held the door ajar.

Luka set the food on the breakfast bar and started to unpack. ‘So why did my beautiful girlfriend have a bad day?’

She baulked. Six months and she still wasn’t used to ‘girlfriend’. They were meant to be casual. He was meant to be a distraction, a mindless and uncomplicated diversion, and yet here he was buying her comfort food and calling her his girlfriend.

She waved a hand. ‘It’s just something at work.’

Luka stopped. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His concern only reminded her that she had told him too much, pulled him too close.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’

He met her gaze, his eyes a stormy green, frustrated by her caginess. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to somehow soften her sharp edges, but opted instead to do nothing. She moved to the dining table and he followed, sitting next to her instead of opposite. We’re closer this way, he had once said. His hand rested on her knee, a subtle non-sexual gesture. She moved her leg so that he fell away. Don’t forget, it warned. She poured a large glass of wine and offered it to him.

He waved it away. ‘I can’t. I’m training for the climb.’

She set the glass on the table, noting the irony of a white man refusing a drink from a Muslim woman. She pushed it towards him. ‘You’ve still got a few weeks before you leave.’

He reached forward and wiped a crumb off her lip. ‘Yes, I do.’ His fingers rested there a moment too long. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He paused. ‘You know what’s happening between us, don’t you, Zara?’

She looked at him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. It was her Ralph Lauren stare: part anxious, part vacant, detached but intense. Was she still playing or not? Even she couldn’t tell anymore.

His dark blond brows knotted in a frown. ‘I know what this is and what this isn’t but …’ He watched her stiffen. ‘I know you don’t feel the same but I need you to know.’

‘Luka—’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ He leaned forward and pulled her into his arms.

Against her instinct, she let him hold her. If she was going to use him as a salve, at least she could let him heal.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

She swallowed hard, as if rising emotion could be curbed at the throat. She held him tight, knowing full well that it was time to let go.

Chapter Two

Zara’s black blazer was stark against the windowless white walls. The fluorescent light reflected off the blue linoleum floor, casting a pallor beneath her eyes. She greeted Detective Constable Mia Scavo, gripping her hand a touch too firmly. In the back of her mind, she tried to remember the writer who said the sight of women greeting each other reminded him of nothing so much as prize fighters shaking hands.

Zara appraised the young detective: the sober manner and formless clothes, the light blonde hair scraped back in a bun. Did she know it only accentuated her cheekbones and brought out her blue eyes?

With greetings safely exchanged, Zara took her seat by the left-hand wall of the interview room: in Jodie’s eyeline but in the background nonetheless. She was here not to interact but to lend support.

Mia began with a short preamble. ‘Jodie, my name is Mia Scavo. I’m a detective constable with the Metropolitan Police. I’ve been a police officer for six years and I work specifically with victims of sexual assault. My job is to support you from today onwards, right to the conclusion of the case.

‘We’re going to start with some formalities and then we will go over your complaint. I don’t know what happened so try to give me as much detail as you can. Our conversation is being recorded on video so it can be used as evidence. It’s important to be as accurate as possible. If you can’t remember something, just tell me. If you want to clarify or correct something at a later date, you can contact me and tell me, okay?’

Jodie nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’ Mia glanced at the two-way mirror. ‘It is Wednesday the third of July 2019. This is DC Scavo interviewing Jodie Wolfe. Also present is Jodie’s independent sexual violence advisor.’ She paused for Zara to confirm her name and began with some basic questions: Jodie’s name, date of birth, address and school. She then eased into the interview, first asking about Jodie’s hobbies and favourite shows on TV, a basic technique to build rapport. After five minutes, she broached the assault and asked her to recount what happened.

Jodie shared the tale of her first real party, of drunken teens and raucous laughter. She spoke of the grinding social embarrassment and how she had fled for air. She described Amir’s footsteps – so evocative they could hear the crunch of gravel. There, frozen in frame by his side, she stopped.

‘What happened next?’ asked Mia.

Jodie hesitated. ‘Amir asked me what I was doing there alone. I said I needed a break.’ She paused. ‘He told me that Nina had left the party and that he could take me to her so I followed him.’

Zara looked up in surprise. This wasn’t the story she had told before. What had happened to Amir’s overtures? ‘Whenever I see you, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.’

Jodie gazed at a burl in the wooden tabletop, not daring to look up at Zara. ‘Amir said that they were having an after-party. He said I wouldn’t normally be allowed to go but since I came with Nina, he’d take me there.’

Zara searched her face for a trace of the lie but she noted nothing.

‘Can you take me through what happened next?’ asked Mia. ‘Take your time and be as detailed as you can.’

Jodie was still for a moment. Her eyes grew narrow and her features creased as if in the midst of a major decision. She took a breath, trembling and thin, and said, ‘He took me to an empty building.’

Jodie’s account segued smoothly to her original. She spoke with a tight discipline but her voice broke in the grooves of the taunts – I ain’t gonna touch ’em if they’re ugly like the rest of you – and she finished in a curtain of tears.

Zara felt a swelling pity. She could see that Jodie was in pain, but also that she was trying so extraordinarily hard to cling onto composure. Perhaps it was no easier for a sixteen-year-old to cry like a child with abandon than it was for someone older.

Mia reached forward and squeezed Jodie’s arm. ‘You’ve been very brave.’

Zara watched the simple act and felt an inexplicable frisson of annoyance.

Mia flipped through her notebook. ‘Jodie, you said the accused were boys from your school. Would you say that you were friends?’

Jodie clutched the cuff of her sleeve. ‘No.’

‘Have you ever been romantically involved with any of them?’

She grimaced. ‘No. Never.’

Mia flipped a page. ‘You said you had one glass of punch with alcohol that night. Had you taken any drugs?’

Jodie shrank into herself, as if she were being blamed. ‘No.’

Mia made a note. ‘Were there drugs at the party?’

‘I think so but I’m not sure.’

‘That’s fine. It’s always right to say you don’t know if you’re unsure.’ Mia continued to flesh out the night in question and then explained what the police would do next: contact witnesses, interview the suspects, visit the scene of the assault, review CCTV footage and examine any DNA. ‘If we can gather enough evidence, we will formally charge the suspects,’ she finished.

The whites of Jodie’s eyes were wide: fear laced perhaps with shock that this was really happening. ‘How long will it take?’ she asked, the words low and timorous.

‘The suspects will be arrested for questioning immediately. After that, we usually work to charge them within three weeks.’

Jodie flinched. ‘Three weeks? But what if I see them in the area?’

‘They won’t be allowed to talk to you,’ assured Mia. ‘They can’t approach you or communicate with you in any way.’ She smiled gently. ‘I know this process is scary but we will be with you every step of the way.’ She nodded at Zara. ‘You will hear from me or your caseworker when we have an update.’

‘Thank you.’ Jodie stood unsteadily and said goodbye after final formalities.

Outside, Zara led Jodie to her car. Then, in a tone that was perfectly neutral, said, ‘Jodie, I noticed a small anomaly in the interview. Can we talk about it?’

The girl frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When you spoke to me initially, you said you went with Amir because he wanted to kiss you. In the interview just now, you said it was because he was going to take you to Nina. Were you confused?’ Zara watched her weigh her options, a lightning-quick process of elimination.

Jodie slumped in her seat. ‘I couldn’t tell them what he said. How would they believe that Amir said that? Or that I believed him?’

Zara blinked in surprise. ‘Jodie, you must tell the truth, no matter how unsavoury. Your statement will be examined by the prosecution. If they find a single hole, they will grab it and tear it as large as they can. We need to tell Mia the truth before it gets any further.’

Jodie shook her head. ‘Please, Zara. I can’t stand up and tell the world that I wanted him to kiss me. I can’t. How would that ever be the reason I went with him?’ She pressed the dashboard to emphasise her plea and left small and sweaty fingerprints on the textured grey surface. ‘Please don’t make me do this.’

Zara held up a hand. ‘Look, I can’t make you go in and tell her but I strongly advise that you do.’

Jodie’s voice was unsteady. ‘I’m sorry I lied but it’s such a small thing. It doesn’t change anything else.’

Zara grimaced. ‘That’s the thing, Jodie. It could change something. You’ve got to get your story straight in your head. Those who tell the truth don’t need to rely on memory.’

‘That’s the only thing, I swear,’ she promised.

‘I hope so, Jodie. I really do.’ Zara started the car, the soft thrum sounding her surrender.

They wove through roads lined with building works, past shiny promotional boards touting luxury two-and three-bedroom apartments the locals couldn’t afford. You could tell which streets were really gentrified: they had a flank of Boris bikes standing sentry on the pavement. Of course, there was no such offering on the Wentworth Estate where row after row of four-storey buildings stood a nose width away from each other. Communal balconies ran the length of the dark-brick buildings, peppered with soggy clothes and the rusting sequins of satellite dishes.

Zara felt a pang of guilt as she parked her Audi on the concourse. ‘I’d like to talk to your mother,’ she told Jodie.

‘I—’ Jodie hesitated. ‘My mother isn’t really in a condition to talk about this right now.’ Her tone was neutral but Zara caught the tremor beneath.

‘That’s why it’s important for me to talk to her. You’re sixteen and your mum needs to understand what’s happening so that she can provide the support you need.’

Jodie shook her head. ‘I’m just so tired. Please, another day.’

Zara studied her for a moment. ‘Okay, fine,’ she said slowly, confused by Jodie’s reticence. ‘But call me if you need anything.’ She unlocked the doors and watched Jodie shuffle across the concourse. She appeared on the first-floor balcony and after a brief pause, opened a door and went inside.

Zara switched on the air conditioning and dabbed at her brow, careful not to smudge her makeup. She felt a wiry sense of unease and instinctively reached for her bag, a tan Céline tote preserved from her days in chambers. She glanced up at Jodie’s flat, then took out a brown glass bottle. She shook it once to gauge the number of pills inside. Satisfied with the dull clink of a healthy supply, she lay it on her lap for later. Calmed by the soft weight resting against her legs, she put the car in gear and moved smoothly off.

Jodie closed the door, lifting the handle as she pushed it back. She hated the long whine of the hinge for the way it announced that she was home; the way it would draw her mother to the corridor, can in hand and scowl fixed on.

Sure enough, Christine Wolfe shuffled from the living room, white-blonde hair in a mane of tangles. She regarded Jodie for a moment. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, her tone already angry.

Jodie felt her nerve desert her. She had hoped to do this on her own terms: in the living room by the TV with a fresh can of Scrumpy and a cushion on the table for her mother’s feet – the happiest Christine Wolfe would ever be. Instead, Jodie stood between the chipped grey walls, caught like a deer in the headlights.

‘Well?’ Her mother stepped forward, the low light casting shadows on her face.

Jodie swallowed. ‘Police station.’ She said it blankly, without emotion as if it were a fact that could not have been changed.

Her mother jolted in shock. ‘You went to the police with your story?’ The bluish whites of her eyes grew wide.

Jodie felt the sting of her mother’s doubt. ‘Mum, it’s not a story.’

Christine smacked her palm against the wall. ‘Like you ain’t punished me enough?’ Her raspy voice struggled to climb. ‘What’d I do to deserve you?’

Jodie flinched. The snarl still hurt after years of wear. She knew what was coming next.

‘I was happy,’ said Christine. ‘And then you came along. Your father took one look at you and fucked off out the door – and I let him go ’cause of you.’

Jodie remained calm, knowing that her features in anguish would anger her mother further. ‘Mum, please. It’s the truth.’

‘I can’t fucking believe this. You’re telling me the police will be here asking questions?’

Jodie recognised the stirrings of a storm. The best thing to do was retreat but her mother stood between her and her room, simmering now in fury. Tears would provoke her further so Jodie stood still and listened.

‘You’re telling me I have to talk to the pigs? I ain’t tellin’ them nothin’.’ She threw up a hand in disgust. ‘Why does every fuckin’ thing always come down to me? This is your story, Jodie. This is your mess. Jesus Christ. I clothe you and feed you and take you to all your fuckin’ appointments. Do you know how much them bus fares cost?’ Christine smacked the wall again. ‘I do everything round here and you’re gonna stand there and tell me I have to do this too? I ain’t talkin’ to no pigs. They can fuck off. You hear me? They can fuck right off.’ She scowled. ‘Why couldn’t you just talk to your teachers like any other normal girl? Why’d you have to go to the pigs like some kind of idiot?’

Christine Wolfe was angry at Jodie, but angrier still at life, using the first to rail against the second. The indignity of it was too much. Unemployment. Alcoholism. Poverty. The stench of failure and being unable to climb out from under it. It was all too much. The only thing you could do was surrender and Jodie’s resoluteness made her livid. You couldn’t stand up to life. It would always beat you down. She shouted this at Jodie, hopelessly angry at her ugly, stolid face, needing something or someone to blame.

When the wind finally blew from her rage, she jabbed a finger at Jodie. ‘I ain’t havin’ no part in this,’ she warned. ‘You’re on your own, you hear me?’ Can in hand, she shuffled to the living room. ‘You’re on your fuckin’ own,’ she called back as she sank to her spot by the TV and propped her feet up on the table.

Jodie felt the adrenaline drain, leaving her hot and empty. She was motionless for a moment to make sure the rage had calmed. Then, she leaned against a wall and placed two hands over her head, not quite touching the scalp, the way she used to as a child pretending to wear a knight’s mail armour. The tiny rings of metal were extraordinary in deflecting pain. These were, after all, just words. She stood like that for a long while, working through the words, letting them bounce off her. Only a few remained by the time she reached her room: you’re on your own, they said. You are on your own.

Zara leaned on the kitchen counter, still drowsy from the Diazepam. Some days, the pills brought her peace, on others, only senseless fog. Often, she craved something stronger but was too wedded to her past and the sensible, overachieving version of herself to screw up her life that badly. The first time she tried cocaine, in an illicit huddle at a Bar Council conference, it was like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz. All the myth and notoriety, the unfettered hyperbole, crumbled in the face of reality. Instead of the giddy, addictive rush of lore, she just felt alert and happy. It was almost anodyne in effect. And so she tried it again, this time with a peer at a party, and came to appreciate the sense of wellbeing. And so she tried it again – and that’s when she understood how addiction took hold. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that fused you to your poison but a mellow descent into its seductive grip. That was the last time she touched it. East London didn’t need yet another junkie.

She poured herself a glass of water and drank it without pausing. The doorbell rang and she remembered that Luka said he would visit. She placed the glass down next to the Diazepam and let him in with a smile.

He kissed her lips, noting the lazy curve of her mouth. He raised the bottle in his hands. ‘Colorado’s finest Syrah,’ he said with a grin, knowing that Zara liked it despite what she said about American wine. He walked to the kitchen and placed it on a counter, his gaze catching on the bottle of pills. He exhaled slowly. ‘I thought you were going to stop.’

She blinked. ‘I am. When I’m ready.’

He turned to her with a sigh. His right index finger tapped against his leg the way it did when he was lost in thought: two quavers with a rest in between. ‘Zara, it’s not even seven. You’re taking pills in the afternoon now?’

‘So? I have a stressful job.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘You don’t need to worry about it.’

‘But I do worry about it.’ He threw up two hands. ‘Seriously, this makes me so uncomfortable.’

She scoffed. ‘It’s not my job to make you comfortable, Luka.’

‘You could give it a try once in a while.’ He picked up the bottle and tossed it in the bin. ‘Zara, seriously, you’ve got to stop.’

She bristled. ‘Listen to me, Luka. There’s only one man who could tell me what to do and he’s dead.’

Temper sparked in his eyes. ‘Yes, and even he couldn’t stand you by the end.’

The words struck her like a fist in the gut. In a moment shorn of reason, she reached out and slapped him.

He jolted back in surprise. A muscle in his cheek flexed beneath the rising colour and his hands clenched in fists by his side. He took a few short breaths to calm himself. His shoulders rose and dipped with the effort, then slowly came to rest. He spoke to her in a low voice: ‘Zara, look at you. Look at that rage burning inside. Would you really be so angry if you didn’t think it were true?’ He waited. ‘You think you can bury your feelings in a bottle? You think striking me will wipe your past clean?’

Zara held his gaze. ‘Leave,’ she said. Luka’s words smarted like wounds. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end.

‘No,’ said Luka. ‘You can’t drug yourself free of your father’s shadow. It’s everywhere you go. You say you quit your job to do some good, as if walking out didn’t sabotage everything you worked so hard for. You remind me all the time that we’re just having “fun” – but this isn’t fun anymore, Zara. Drugging yourself to oblivion isn’t “fun”; it’s cowardice.’

Zara squared her shoulders. ‘Just go,’ she said coldly. The sting of his words mixed now with a feverish self-loathing. He was the first person she’d ever struck.

Luka’s lips tensed over gritted teeth. ‘Zara, don’t do this. Don’t just shut down.’

She said nothing, as much as to hide her shame as to control her anger.

‘Stop acting like a child.’ Luka’s patience waned in the silence. ‘You’re impossible, you know that? Fucking impossible.’ He waited for a beat. ‘Call me when you grow the fuck up.’ He stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

His ugly words rang in her ears. They felt hot and prickly like blisters on skin. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end. The sheer ease with which he’d said them, the unthinking indifference, hurt more than a physical blow. Luka knew what her father had meant to her. That he would use him now to carve a malicious taunt stung like betrayal.

Even he couldn’t stand you by the end.

Denial flooded her veins. I was the one who stayed away. I was the one who refused to be to be seen. Deep down, however, she knew the quiet truth. She knew that even though he had tried, towards the end her father couldn’t bear to hear her name let alone see her face.

It was the summer of 2016 that she said yes to an arranged marriage. The grass outside was a burnt brown and the windows were open as far as they would go. Her father was on his second hospital stay of the year so while she can’t say she was forced or coerced, the situation was prime for emotional blackmail. ‘You’re his only burden,’ her mother would say with only the lightest touch of accusation. ‘He worries about you’ – as if marriage had solved all her siblings’ problems.

She sat there in the sweltering heat draped in her impossibly heavy silk sari, all blazing orange and gold-embroidered trim. She was told the colour would look amazing against her long dark hair – an irrelevant point of persuasion since it was now gathered in a bun, modestly tucked beneath the head of her sari. Her face was a mask of makeup, her foundation a touch too light, the sort that cast an ashy pallor if shown beneath the wrong light. Her eyes were lined with kohl and mascara in the heavy, dramatic strokes that made brunettes look sexy but blondes look trashy. Her lips were painted nude to downplay their obvious appeal, far too seductive for a demure little housewife. And jewellery everywhere. Her ears, freshly pierced after she let the last holes close, shone with Indian gold. Her neck was wrapped in elaborate jewels that would look at home on an Egyptian queen. There she sat, elegant, poised, perfected and neutered. She saw herself through a prism; not as a university graduate, not an ambitious lawyer, not a smart and successful woman but something else altogether, something shapeless and tasteless, a malleable being that had lost its way. There she sat and waited.

Kasim Ali was the fifteenth suitor presented to her that year. She had worn out her rightful refusals about five suitors back and patience was wearing thin. He was big and broad with thinning hair atop milky white skin. His shiny suit was just a tad too tight and his navy tie made his neck fat crease. He was neither attractive nor ugly, just unremarkable.

To his merit, he was well-spoken and seemed to have a sense of humour – more than she could say of his predecessors. The conversation was brief and shallow: job, hobbies, favourite books; the sort of thing you might ask a fellow dinner guest, not the person you would shortly marry. It was that day, sitting mute in six yards of silk, that she made the biggest mistake of her life. It was that day she caved into pressure and said yes to a marriage she did not want. After all, she was her sick father’s only fucking burden.

The engagement came and went and the ball of anxiety grew and grew, contracting in her stomach like some sort of pestilence. Friends greeted the news with disbelief. She, Zara the Brave, was succumbing to tradition. She, with her iron will and unyielding ambition, was bowing to pressure? How could this be?

It was clear that Zara was struggling but her mother did not ask about the circles beneath her eyes or the weight that drained from her frame, for she knew they had reached a delicate détente. Granted the smallest concession, Zara would surely bolt, and so she was held to her decision with a cold, unremitting expediency. It was five months after the engagement that she took the decision to get out. Of course, by then the wedding had passed and her marital bed had long been soiled.

When Kasim secretly searched through her phone and found her message to Safran expressing her mortal doubts, his family rounded on her like wolves on cattle. Neither time nor history had thread trust into their relationship and so her husband showed her no empathy or discretion. Perhaps she could have stemmed the crisis before it reached their ears. She could have sweetened him with loving words, secured his silence with a warm tongue, but subconsciously she welcomed the fallout. She couldn’t be his wife. She couldn’t be a woman who wore elaborate saris and expensive rings; who made fifteen cups of tea every day; who was indefatigably sweet and loving and innocent. She couldn’t be that woman. And so she let them round on her and take away her phone and grab at her throat and call her a whore. For four hours she sat, waiting for her family to come. When it was clear that they would not, she gathered her belongings and marched out the door. She fled from the house and went back to a home that welcomed her no more.

Despite the trauma, that night was not the worst one. That privilege was reserved for the one that followed. The memory of it was oddly monochrome in her mind, darkly black and blinding white, film-noirish in its detail. She had recounted it all to Luka. One night, surprisingly sober, she lay in his arms and unlocked the floodgates for no reason at all. It all bled out: the bitter-centred anger and gut-wrenching pain.

Luka held her as the tears from her eyes stained kohl on his skin. He didn’t say the words but it was the night he fell in love with her. She knew from the pain he tried to hide from his eyes. Until that moment, all he had known was Zara the Brave. That night, he saw her weak and vulnerable. He touched the sorest part of her and he couldn’t let go.

She wondered how he could use it now to hurt her. But then, isn’t that what people did when you laid yourself bare? Luka would be lucky to ever have her in that position again.

Najim Rashid scanned the hall and spotted the four boys in a corner, huddled over a foosball table. Hassan Tanweer, the smallest of the four, danced restlessly around one edge, spewing a stream of obscenities. The others seemed amused, laughing as his wiry limbs flew from one handle to another. Amir broke the string of expletives with one or two of his own.

Fuck yes, son! No, no, no, you wank stain!

Across from them, another group of boys had set up a game of cards. In the middle of the table was a large pile of chips. Nah, sir, they had cried last week. We don’t play for money. That’s haram, the last word loaded with scorn. Najim had moved on without mentioning the pictures of naked women he had seen them sharing earlier. I suppose that’s halal, is it? he’d wanted to ask, but the Dali Centre was a place of acceptance. Supported by government funding, the community centre was set up soon after the 7/7 London bombings to engage disadvantaged youths in the borough. It attracted a ragtag group of kids, mainly boys, mainly brown, who came to be free of judgment. Here, there were no prayer rooms to prompt them to be pious, no parents with lofty immigrant dreams. There were no pushy preachers or angry teachers, no masters they had to please. Here, the boys could be themselves and as long as they weren’t breaking the law, Najim let them be. Of course, it was hard not to dispense advice or push college brochures into the hands of his charges. Every year, he lay out a stack of ‘Informed Choices’ from the Russell Group universities. Every year, they remained untouched but it was not his role to push the boys in the right direction, only to pull them from the wrong one. Of course, sometimes, trouble came knocking regardless.

Najim leaned over the table to interrupt the game. Hassan stepped back from the haze of competition, his face flushed red and pools of sweat dampening his T-shirt.

‘Sorry to disturb you boys, but you’re needed in my office.’

Amir playfully jabbed Najim in the rib. ‘“Office?” Since when do you have an office? Do we have to call you sahib now?’

Najim smiled good-naturedly while the boys laughed at the jibe. ‘Come on. You have some visitors.’ He gestured to the door, praying it was nothing serious. ‘Bring your things.’

He led them through the main hall, across a small pitch with forlorn goalposts at either end, and into the northern edge of the complex. Outside his cramped office stood a slim woman with shiny blonde hair scraped into a bun. Next to her was a much older man, dressed all in grey. He had hair that verged on ginger and a face like crumpled paper, his features focused in the middle as if someone had scrunched up his face then smoothed it out again. Behind the pair stood two uniformed police officers.

The blonde woman spoke first. ‘I am DC Mia Scavo and this is DC John Dexter. Can you state your names please?’

Amir offered a bright smile. ‘What’s the problem, officer?’ Then, to Hassan, ‘Has your mum been caught working the streets again?’

A snigger rose in the group and Hassan, never one to take insult lightly, bounced a hand off Mo’s chest, silencing the taller boy, knowing that he – nervy, docile, amusingly principled – was the easiest target in the group.

Mia stepped forward. ‘State your names please,’ she repeated.

Farid complied, then Mo and Hassan too. Amir sighed exaggeratedly, his eyes rolling skyward. Fine, it said. Be a joyless cow. In a tone dripping with deference, he said, ‘I’m Amir Rabbani, ma’am. How may I help you please?’

Mia’s lips drew a tight line. ‘Mr Rabbani, I am arresting you on suspicion of rape.’ Her tone was even. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ While she spoke, her colleagues arrested the other three boys.

Amir looked to Najim for help. ‘Rape?’ he asked dumbly. ‘What are they on about?’

Mo grew pale and Farid flushed red as if the blood had drained from one boy to the other.

Najim reached out a hand, not touching Mia but close to it. ‘Excuse me, you can’t just arrest them. Don’t you need a warrant?’

Mia regarded him coolly. ‘We have reason to believe that these young men have committed a serious crime. We don’t need a warrant to arrest them for questioning.’ She turned to Amir. ‘Please come quietly. We can discuss this at the station. Your parents will be informed and will join you there.’

Amir flinched. ‘My parents are coming?’ His voice was tense with worry. ‘They’re going to kill me.’

Hassan next to him was a coil of anger. ‘This is bullshit,’ he swore. His last syllable climbed a register, creating the wobble he hated in his voice.

Mia watched them with interest, noting the change in mood at the mention of their parents. ‘Come on.’ She tugged Amir away and turned him towards the exit. He wrenched around and looked at his friends. Before he had a chance to speak, Mia pulled him back and gave him a gentle shove. As he began to walk, he heard Najim behind him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted. And then, in Urdu: don’t tell the pigs anything.

Chapter Three

Hashim Khan hurried up the stairs but failed to catch the door held briefly open. At sixty-one, his legs were far wearier than even two years before. He had increasingly begun to ask himself if it was time to wind down his fruit stall but his state pension was a few years away and could he really support his wife and three children without the extra income? He pushed open the wooden doors to Bow Road Police Station and followed Yasser Rabbani to reception.

Yasser, dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit with a woollen mustard coat slung around his shoulders, looked like he’d stepped out of a Scorsese movie. Despite approaching his sixties, he was powerfully built and strikingly handsome – clearly the source of Amir’s good looks. He placed a firm hand on the counter. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for my son.’

The receptionist, a heavyset woman in her late forties, glanced up from her keyboard. ‘What’s his name, sir?’

Hashim leaned forward, his solemn eyes laced with worry. ‘Woh kiya kehraha hai?’ he asked Yasser to translate.

Yasser held up an impatient hand. ‘Ap kuch nehi boloh. Me uske saath baat karongi.’ He urged the older man to let him handle the conversation. He spoke with the woman for a few long minutes and then, in a muted tone, explained that their sons were under arrest.

Hashim wiped at his brow. ‘Saab, aap kyun nahi uske taraf se boltay? Mujhe kuch samajh nahi aaygi.’

Yasser shook his head. In Urdu, he said, ‘They don’t have interpreters here right now. And I can’t go with your son. Who’s going to look after mine?’

The older man grimaced. What could he – an uneducated man – do for his son? Thirty-five years he had been in Britain. Thirty-five years he had functioned with only a pinch of English. Now he was thrust into this fearsome place and he had no words to unpick the threat. He wished that Rana were here. His wife, who assiduously ran her women’s group on Wednesday afternoons, could speak it better than he. For a long time, she urged him to learn it too. Language is the path to progress, she would say, only half ironically. The guilt rose like smoke around him. Why had he spent so many exhausted hours by the TV? There was time for learning after a day on the stall. Cowed by embarrassment, he let himself be led away, along a corridor, into an austere room.

Farid sat alone under the fluorescent light, fingers knitted together as if in prayer. He looked up, a flame of sorrow sparking in his eyes. He offered a thin smile. ‘It’s okay, Aba,’ he said in Urdu. ‘Nothing happened. They just want to question us.’

Hashim sat down with his hands splayed on his knees and his joints already stiffening from the air conditioning. He stared at the wiry grey carpet to still the nerves that jangled in his limbs.

Hashim Khan had learnt to fear the white man. After moving to England in the seventies, he had learnt that wariness and deference were necessary in all dealings with the majority race. Now, called upon to protect his son, he knew no amount of deference would help. The door shut behind him with a metallic thud. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

‘Mr Rabbani, please take a seat. Would you like a drink? We have coffee, tea, water.’

‘No,’ said Yasser. ‘Tell me what this is about or I’m calling a lawyer.’

Mia was unruffled. ‘If your son is guilty, he probably needs one. If not, he’ll likely be out of here in an hour.’

Yasser scowled. ‘Then tell me what this is about.’

Mia pointed at a chair and waited for him to sit. She explained that the interview was being recorded and ran through some formalities.

Amir shifted in his seat, feeling unnaturally small next to his father’s frame.

Mia began, ‘Amir, can you tell me where you were on the evening of Thursday the twenty-seventh of June?’

‘Yes. I was at home until about 7 p.m., then I went to a party with some of my friends.’

‘What time did you get there?’

Amir shrugged. ‘I don’t really remember.’

‘Okay, what did you do after the party?’

‘I went home.’

‘What time did you get home?’

‘I’m not sure. About 1 a.m.’

Mia made a note. ‘And you went straight home after the party?’

‘Yes, I just said that.’

Mia smiled coldly. ‘Well, what if I said we have reports of you attending an after-party of sorts at seventy-two Bow Docks, a derelict warehouse approximately seventy metres from the location of the party?’

Amir frowned. ‘That wasn’t an after-party. We were just fooling around on our way home.’

Mia glanced at the father. He was like a nervous cat, poised to pounce at any moment. Perhaps a soft approach was best here. ‘Okay, it wasn’t an after-party – my mistake. What did you boys get up to there?’

‘We just hung out.’

Mia tapped the table with her index finger. ‘And by that you mean?’

‘We just talked, played music and …’ He swallowed hard. ‘We had a smoke.’

Amir’s father snapped to attention. ‘A smoke? Of what?’

‘Dad, I’m sorry, it’s not something we do all the time. Just sometimes.’

‘A smoke of what?’

The boy stammered. ‘Ganja.’

Yasser shot back in his chair. ‘Tu ganja peera hai? Kahan se aaya hai? Kis haraami ne tujhe yeh diya hai?’

‘Aba, please. It was just once or twice.’ Amir tried to push back his chair but it was bolted to the floor.

‘I work all hours of the day to give you the life you have and you’re going to throw it away on drugs?’

Amir shrank beneath the ire as if physically ducking blows. ‘Dad, I swear to God, it was only once or twice. Kasam.’

His father’s voice grew stony. ‘Just wait until your mother hears about this.’ Yasser shook his head in disbelief. ‘We’ll deal with this later.’ He exhaled slowly and turned to Mia. ‘I’m sorry, officer. Please continue.’

Mia felt a flicker of grudging respect. It was obvious he cared about his son’s mistakes. Too often she saw young men trudge through here like ghosts, floating from one place to another with nothing at all to tether them. Yasser Rabbani clearly cared about his son.

‘So you were smoking cannabis,’ said Mia. ‘Was there alcohol?’

Amir vigorously shook his head. ‘No.’

Mia made a note to ask again later. ‘Who else was there?’

Amir nodded at the door. ‘Mo, Hassan and Farid.’

‘Did anyone join you throughout the course of the night?’

‘No.’

Mia caught the fissure in his voice. ‘Amir, you should know that our officers are collecting your computers as we speak and we’ll be examining your phones. If you or your friends are hiding something, we’ll find out.’ She smiled lightly. ‘Don’t you watch CSI?’

Amir blinked. ‘Okay, there was one other person there but I really don’t want this to get out. I’ve been trying to protect her forever.’

‘Who’s that?’

He hesitated. ‘Her name is Jodie Wolfe. She’s a girl from school. She has something called neurofibromatosis which messes up your face. We had a class about it at school but the kids called her the Elephant Woman anyway.’

‘What was she doing at the warehouse?’

Amir shifted in his chair. ‘She’s a sweet girl but she can be a little bit … sad. She’s had a crush on me since year seven and even now, five years later, she follows me around – pretends she just bumped into me.’

‘Is that what she did that night? Pretend to bump into you?’

Amir shook his head. ‘No, even she wouldn’t be that sad. She said she was looking for her friend Nina. She’s always going off with different boys so Jodie must’ve lost her. She said she saw a bunch of us heading here and figured there was some kind of after-party.’

‘Did you invite her to join you?’

Amir scoffed lightly. ‘No, she just turned up. We were hanging out – just the boys.’

‘So she turned up at the warehouse or joined you before?’

‘Yes, she turned up at the warehouse.’

‘Then what happened?’

Amir frowned. ‘She asked if she could have a smoke. The boys didn’t want to share one with her. I didn’t say anything. I mean, she’s not diseased or anything but she’s scary to look at because of her condition so I could understand why they said that. She seemed upset so I tried to comfort her.’

‘How?’

He shrugged. ‘I put my arm around her and told her to ignore them.’

Mia couldn’t place his emotion. Guilt? Shame? Embarrassment?

‘Then she …’ his voice trailed off.

‘Then she?’

The boy’s face flushed red. ‘She whispered in my ear and said she would do something for me if we got rid of the boys.’

Amir’s father stood abruptly. He turned to the door and then back to his son. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. Finally, he sat back down in silence and trained his gaze away from his son, as if the space between them might swallow the mortification of what was to come.

Mia leaned forward. ‘You said that Jodie whispered in your ear. What did she say?’

Amir glanced sideways at his father. ‘She—she said she would give me a blowjob and then started describing it. I was stunned. I always had this idea that she was a sweet girl.’

‘How did you respond?’

‘I took my arm off her and told her to go home. The boys started laughing and making kissing noises. I was really embarrassed so I started on her too.’ He paused, shifted in his chair and made a visible effort to focus on Mia. ‘I’m not proud of it but I said there’s no way we’d share the spliff with her; that we didn’t want to swap saliva with a dog. I knew she was hurt because I’ve always been alright to her but—’ Amir pinched the skin between his brows, as if to ease a headache. Then, he spoke with surprising maturity, ‘Look, I have an ego – I know that – and egos are fragile. The kids at school look at me and see the cricket captain, the guy that gets all the girls, the guy that has it all – and if it got out that I was cosying up to the school freak, then my reputation would take a hit. I like Jodie but she’s not the kind of girl I want to be linked with that way, so I had to put a stop to it. She got upset and started crying. I felt bad but I told her to leave.’

‘And then?’

‘She left. She was crying and I think she may have had a drink because she was stumbling about a bit, but she left. Despite what the boys say, I think we all felt a bit bad so we wrapped it up, finished the spliff and went home.’

‘And have you seen Jodie since then?’

‘No. Why? Is she okay?’

‘Jodie says she was raped that night.’

The boy’s face turned ashen. ‘She’s the one who said I raped her?’

Mia’s voice was cold. ‘Yes, Mr Rabbani. She’s the one.’

DC Dexter put his elbows on the table. Calmly, he repeated himself, ‘Jodie Wolfe said you, Amir and Mohammed raped her that night while Farid stood by and watched. What do you have to say to that?’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Hassan, his eyes ringed with pale, uncomprehending horror. He looked to his father. ‘Aba, Allah Qur’an, that’s a lie.’

Irfan Tanweer was an older version of his son: short and wiry with tight ringlets of black hair atop a thin and hawkish face. His beady eyes danced with suspicion as he leaned forward and, in a thick Bangladeshi accent, said, ‘You must be mistaken. My son – he is a religious boy. He would not do this.’ He held out a hand to quieten his son. ‘We are good people, sir, Mr Dexter. I have worked hard to make a home for my wife and my boy. I have a decent boy. Of that I am very sure.’

Dexter nodded placidly. ‘That may be true, sir, but we need to know what happened. We need to hear your son’s side of the story.’

‘There is no “side” of the story. My son will tell the truth.’ He turned to Hassan. ‘Hasa kotha khor,’ he urged him to start.

Mo ducked in embarrassment when his father gripped the edge of the table. Each fingernail had a dried crust of blood along the cuticle. His father wore butchers’ gloves at work and washed his hands thoroughly but that thin crust of blood seemed to always cling on. The two didn’t look like father and son. Zubair Ahmed with his burly shoulders and broad chest was a pillar of a man. Mo was tall too, but thin and awkward. Where Zubair’s hands were strong and meaty, Mo’s were thin and delicate, almost effeminate in their movement as they fiddled now with his glasses.

He sat forward in his chair, shoulders hunched as if he were cold. ‘I’m not confused, sir,’ he said. ‘We didn’t hurt Jodie – not the way you say we did.’

The detective watched him with reproach. ‘I think you are confused, son, or you would see that the wisest thing for you to do now is to tell the truth.’

Mo remembered the sharp pain in Jodie’s eyes and the sting of betrayal when he sided with the lads. His obedience to them had cost him too: his pride, his integrity, his belief in his own valour. His complicity felt viscous in his throat and he swallowed hard so that he could speak. ‘I shouldn’t have let them treat her that way. They shouldn’t have called her a dog.’ He hesitated. ‘But they were just words. We were in a loose and silly mood and,’ his voice grew thick, ‘we took it out on her because she was there and she was weak.’ He blinked rapidly, sensing tears. He hated that they’d targeted Jodie. He, all too familiar with the sting of mockery, hated that he’d let it happen. With a deep breath to steady his voice, he said, ‘We hurt Jodie but not in the way she says.’ He swallowed. ‘We were awful to her, but what she said did not happen and I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not confused about that.’

Amir sat in silence, his mouth open in a cartoonish O. His father spoke to him in a burst of Urdu, the long vowels urgent and angry. A lock of his salt and pepper hair fell free of its pomade and he swiped at it in a swift and severe motion that betrayed a slipping composure.

Mia firmly quietened him and urged Amir to speak.

‘But it’s Jodie …’ he said. ‘You’ve seen her. I – we – wouldn’t do something like that.’ He ran a hand across the back of his head. ‘This is so bizarre.’

Mia studied him closely. He seemed neither worried nor guilty – just confused. She spoke to him in a low voice. ‘Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was Hassan and Mohammed that did it and you and Farid just watched. Could that have happened and Jodie just got confused?’

He frowned. ‘Look, we were all together the whole time. There is no way any of the boys could have done anything to Jodie and they’ll all tell you the same. Nothing happened.’

Mia’s face grew stony. ‘Then you won’t mind giving us DNA samples.’

Amir shrank back in his chair, his athletic frame suddenly small. His father held up a hand. ‘Don’t you need a warrant for that?’

Mia leaned in close. ‘Mr Rabbani, your son is under arrest for rape. Do you understand how serious that is? We can take DNA samples if we want to.’ She paused. ‘And we want to.’

Amir grimaced. ‘I didn’t do it.’

Mia smiled without humour. ‘Then we don’t have a problem, do we?’

It was an hour later that she watched the group of men file out of the station. She turned to Dexter. ‘I can’t work it out. Do you think they colluded beforehand?’

Dexter’s face creased in thought. ‘I didn’t get a sense of rehearsed answers.’

‘Were either of yours even a little bit tempted to shop their friends?’

‘No. They’re too clever for that. They know all about divide and conquer.’

Mia frowned. ‘I just can’t work it out,’ she repeated. She stared at the door, still swinging on its hinges in the wind.

Sameena Tanweer sat motionless, her tiny frame comically small on the sofa. A network of fine grey cracks spread across the leather and a fist-sized patch stained one of the seats. She had caught Hassan as a child pouring the contents of her Amla hair oil in a concentrated pool on the spot. She had tried to hide it with homemade sofa covers, flowery and powder blue, but her husband had shouted. He was still bitter about spending two months’ wages on the three-piece suite all those years ago and damn him if he was going to cover up real leather with cheap fabric like a fakir.

She sat there now, compulsively tracing the stain as the phone beside her hummed with the news. Her husband’s tone had been rushed and harsh, untempered by words of comfort as he told her of their son’s arrest.

In her mind, she searched frantically through a list. She couldn’t call Jahanara’s mum. That woman would spread the news to five others before she even came round. What about Kulsum? Wasn’t she always talking about her lawyer son? Or was he an accountant? Sameena couldn’t remember. Did she, after thirty years in Britain, really have no friends that she could call? Her social circle was limited to her neighbours, each of whom visited her several times a week to gossip about the unruly daughters and unkempt houses of their mutual acquaintances. Sameena always listened with patience but never partook in the gossip. She knew that every family had its flaws and she refused to pick apart another woman’s life.

After a long minute of inertia, she stood and hurried to Hassan’s bedroom, hitching up the hem of her sari on the stairs. Inside, she was hit by the musty aroma of a teenage boy. Last Tuesday she had hovered by the door pleading to clean his room but Hassan had swatted her away like a fly.

‘Leave the boy alone,’ her husband had said, the tetchiness clear in his tone. ‘He’s a teenager. He needs his space.’ Interestingly, he often took the opposite view.

Sameena stepped into the smell and opened a window. Then, thinking no further, she gathered armfuls of clothes and in three trips took them to the bathroom. She stripped his sheets and checked under the bed and mattress for secret hiding places. She pulled out his socks and underpants and added them to the pile.

‘It’s fine,’ her husband had said. ‘Don’t get hysterical.’ But she had heard the horror stories. She had heard how Muslim boys were shot in raids and evidence planted in computers. She had to protect her son.

When the bath was full of clothes, she took an armload and stuffed it in the washing machine. The rest she hosed down with two cups of detergent. She hurried back and gathered all the electronics strewn across his room: his laptop, his dusty old Xbox, a mobile phone with a shattered screen and several USB sticks. She took them to her room and scanned her furniture for a lockable hiding place or secret cavity. She thought desperately of a place to deposit the loot.

Finally, she rushed to the kitchen and located the large piece of Tupperware her husband used for leftovers from the restaurant. Inside, she lay the items in layers: first the laptop, then the console, then the phone and USB sticks slotted around the sides. With everything neatly inside, she shut the lid, wrapped the box in several bags of plastic and took it out to the garden. Gathering a fistful of her sari, she bent with a trowel and began to dig. When she had a hole almost two feet deep, she pressed the container inside and covered it with soil. She patted it down and scattered stones and leaves across the top to disguise the fact that it had been disturbed.

She stood over the spot in silence until the evening breeze made her shiver with cold. A vision of a nine-year-old Hassan crept into her mind, up in his room one sunny afternoon, standing over his cousin as quiet as a mouse. Her hands began to shake. She was doing this to protect her son.

Back inside the house, she laid a fresh set of sheets on his bed and then gathered an armful of her husband’s clothes. Carefully, she arranged the garments around Hassan’s room: a jumper askew on the back of a chair, balled socks at the foot of the bed, a pair of trousers at the bottom of the closet. It was only when the first wash cycle spun to a close that her heartbeat began to slow. What would those kafir do to her boy?

She unloaded the machine and was crouched down beside the basket when she heard the first knock. She froze for a moment, flinching when it came again, hard and insistent. She crept down the stairs and peeked through a window, coming face to face with a uniformed policeman. He pointed to the door.

‘Open up please, madam.’

Sameena stepped back from the window, her head thumping with dread. A heavy fist hammered on the door, the calls loud and impatient. She couldn’t just leave them on the doorstep, rousing Jahanara’s mum and Mrs Patel across the road. She gathered up her nerve, stepped forward and turned the latch.

A heavyset man, too fat to be a policeman, held up a black wallet with a badge and ID. He spoke to her with surprising calm and then, without invitation, he stepped inside. Two other men followed. They asked her questions she did not understand, the only familiar word her son’s name said over and over. Hassan, Hassan, Hassan. What fate had he drawn to this house?

The men marched upstairs, making her stomach lurch with each staccato step. She had checked everything carefully but what if they found something she missed? What if her efforts had all been in vain? In advancing hysteria, she hurried upstairs after them, standing sentry as they rummaged through her home and gathered up its pieces in evidence bags.

Every so often, one or the other would pause, asking her questions she couldn’t understand. One mimed the act of tapping on a keyboard but Sameena simply shrugged, pretending not to understand their search for a laptop. She caught the exasperation edging into his tone, the subtle roll of his eyes, the silent implication: Stupid woman. You stupid old woman.

They spent an hour meticulously combing her home. The fat policeman handed her a pile of papers, emphasising some lines of small black text. With a final sigh of annoyance, he gathered the last bag and walked out the door, leaving it open behind him.

Sameena shut it with trembling hands. She made herself some tea and sat on the sweaty leather sofa, mindlessly swirling the cup in her hands. In a low voice, she recited prayers of gratitude, thankful that she’d had time to clear his room and hide his sins.

It was when the clock struck nine that she heard the front door whine open. Her husband, Irfan, walked in, his thin frame hunched against the falling darkness. Hassan trailed in behind him. Sameena hurried to the corridor, biting down her anguish. She embraced her son and wrapped a protective arm around his head.

‘What is happening?’ she asked.

‘Kuthain-okol.’ Irfan swore, a low growl that rippled with anger. ‘A girl from his school is accusing them of such besharam things. And these police – they just believe anything she says.’

Sameena’s nails dug into her palms. ‘What things? What’s happening?’

‘Mum, calm down,’ said Hassan. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ His voice sounded strangely hollow as if reading from a script. ‘Some girl at school said she got pushed around by me and the boys. It’s not true, so it’s fine. There are four of us and one of her. It’s our word against hers. And everyone already knows that she’s crazy.’

‘But why is she saying these things?’

Hassan shrugged. ‘I don’t know why but you don’t need to worry about it.’

Sameena threw up her hands. She cooked, cleaned and ran the home but every time there were important decisions to be made, she was told ‘you don’t need to worry’. Well, she did worry. And when her son was dragged to the police station in broad daylight with no stronger defence than his kitchen porter father, she most definitely worried.

‘Why would she say such a thing? The police don’t just barge into someone’s home without reason!’

Hassan’s voice rose a register. ‘They were here?’

Sameena gripped his shoulder. ‘Yes, but don’t worry. They didn’t find anything.’

He jerked out from under her hand. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Jahanara’s mum told me what these police do, so I took all your things and washed all your clothes. If they say they found something, I will know they planted it.’

Hassan sucked in a short breath. ‘What did they take?’

‘Your TV and some of your father’s clothes. Everything else I took from your room.’

Hassan almost laughed – a sound that was strange and strangled. ‘Mum, you’re crazy. What did you hide?’

She pictured the items in the Tupperware box. ‘Your laptop, that old games machine, a broken mobile phone and the small silver sticks from your drawer.’

‘Where did you put it?’

Sameena watched him closely, noting his sharp relief. She held his gaze and said, ‘I’ve thrown it all away.’

He flinched. ‘You did what?’

‘I’ve thrown it away.’ Her voice was calm and firm. ‘In the canal. I didn’t want the police to find it.’

Hassan reared away from her. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Your phone was broken anyway. You don’t play games on that machine anymore and you’re always complaining about your laptop. We can buy you a new one now.’

Hassan’s eyes grew narrow. ‘Mum, there’s no way you’ve thrown my stuff away. Where is it?’

She gestured at her sari, the hem muddied brown by soil. ‘I walked to the canal and threw it all in.’

Hassan’s jaw fell slack. ‘But I need my stuff. It’s got my pictures, my files, everything.’ He turned to appeal to his father. ‘Aba, she’s got to be joking. Tell her I need my things.’ His voice was whiny to even his own ears.

‘Hassan, go up to your room. Let me talk to your mother.’

‘But—’

‘Go,’ he repeated.

Hassan’s face burned red but he knew better than to defy his father. Saying no more, he turned and walked upstairs.

‘Sameena, what did you do?’ Irfan’s voice was low.

She held up a hand to calm him. ‘Don’t worry. His things are safe but he’s not getting them until this is over.’

Irfan sighed. ‘The boy needs his things.’

‘Why does he need these things?’ she asked. ‘His exams are finished.’

‘Boys need ways to keep busy. Do you want him out on the streets?’

‘Do you want him in jail?’ she shot back. She watched a rift of anger crack open across his face. ‘I’m just protecting him,’ she insisted. ‘You look at your son and you see a nice religious boy and Hassan is a good boy, but a mother knows the nature of her son and she protects him no matter what.’

Irfan scowled. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Sameena smiled serenely. ‘Please – just trust that I did the right thing.’ She patted on the sofa. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’

He began to protest but she had already turned towards the kitchen, using three quick steps to end the conversation.

At the top of the stairs, Hassan strained to hear but caught only murmurs. In silence, he crept to his parents’ room and dialled Amir’s home from the landline.

‘Jesus, what a fucked up day.’ Amir’s voice was weary.

Hassan took a shallow breath. ‘Have the feds been round?’

‘Yeah.’ Amir paused. ‘You?’

‘Mate, you won’t believe this. The feds at the station took the phone you lent me, but my mum threw away the one that got broken. She’s chucked all my stuff away. My laptop, my games. Even my stash has gone. The feds got none of it.’

Amir whistled. ‘Mate, your mum’s a gangster.’

‘She thinks she’s done me a favour.’

Amir laughed. ‘Well, she has, hasn’t she?’

‘How can you be so chilled about it?’ said Hassan. ‘We got arrested. She told them we raped her, for fuck’s sake.’

Amir was silent for a moment. ‘Mate, I have to be chill. Mum’s hit the roof as usual.’ He sighed. ‘She’s been going on about it for hours: all the tutoring she’s spent money on, all the school reports, all the parents’ evenings and meetings and on and on. I have to be chill or else I’ll go mad.’

Hassan tightened his grip on the phone. ‘But aren’t you worried?’

‘No,’ said Amir. ‘Jodie won’t go through with this. It’s a fucked up situation for sure, but once she calms down, she’ll take it back.’

Hassan slid onto his parents’ bed. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Just be cool. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’

Hassan swallowed his weaving nerves. ‘Okay, man.’ He hung up the phone and sat motionless, unable or unwilling to return to his room.

Farid Khan let the ball fall from his grip and watched it roll away. Shoulders slumped, he sat on the wooden block by the path and felt his sweat cool, sending chills down his spine. Shivering, he sat still, not quite ready to leave.

He spotted the slim woman with cropped hair walking purposefully towards him. Instinctively, he lowered his gaze. It was only when she stopped directly in front of him that he looked up and met her eyes.

‘Hi.’ Her voice was husky but soft. It made him think of warm sand slipping through his fingers.

‘Hi,’ he echoed.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

He looked at her leather jacket, her skin-tight jeans and knee-high boots. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’

‘Ha!’ She sounded amused.

‘What do you want?’ he asked less certainly.

‘Can I sit?’

Farid looked over her shoulder, then back up at her. He shrugged.

Erin sat and curled her graceful legs beneath her. ‘I’m a friend of Amir’s. I know that he’s in some trouble.’

Farid smiled faintly. ‘Amir never gets in trouble.’

‘Not yet, but we both know it’s coming.’

Farid looked at her quizzically, his thick, dark brows furrowed in confusion. ‘Who are you? How do you know Amir?’

‘I’m working the Jodie Wolfe case.’ She watched him stiffen. ‘I know that Amir and some of his friends did something stupid and they’re about to get into some serious trouble. I’m trying to help him.’ She paused. ‘You do know Jodie, right?’

Farid’s gaze fell to the floor.

‘Is she a friend?’

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

Erin studied his face. ‘Did you see Amir with Jodie at Kuli’s party?’

‘Amir doesn’t talk to any of the ugly girls.’ Farid caught Erin’s expression. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call her ugly – she just … well, she is, right?’

‘Farid, I’d like to talk to you about what happened that night.’

‘Nothing happened.’

‘Were you drinking?’

He scoffed. ‘I don’t drink.’

‘What time did you leave the party?’

He looked at her sideways. ‘Are you from the police?’

Erin smiled. ‘No, I’m a private investigator. When someone’s in trouble, I go out and find the truth about what happened. If it turns out that whatever they’re accused of is an exaggeration or misunderstanding, then I help them. I know you didn’t do anything wrong that night, but you’re going to go down for it unless you tell the truth.’

‘Nothing happened,’ Farid insisted.

‘Then why does Jodie say it did? She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would accuse you for kicks.’

‘She’s just trying to get his attention.’

‘Is that so?’

Farid sighed. ‘She’s not right in the head. She’s always sending him secret messages, even leaving notes in his locker. Amir is kind enough to ignore it. If she was anyone else, she’d be made a fool.’

Erin watched him carefully. There was no hint of a quiver in his voice, no nuance of doubt, nothing to suggest his guilt. She shifted to face him. ‘You’ve got to listen to me, Farid. What Jodie has said about Amir is serious. Really fucking serious, and you’re about to get sucked into it. If you tell me the truth about what happened, I can help you.’

Farid’s fingertips traced the grain of his beard. ‘Listen, I’ve known Amir since we were both five. He plays the big man around town because he can, but he’s a good bloke. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. This is just Jodie messing with him. I told you – she’s not right.’

Erin took in his quiet assurance, his polite manner, his steadfast gaze. She could spot a liar at ten paces and this boy wasn’t lying.

‘Okay. Can you think of any other reason why Jodie would want to get Amir in trouble?’

‘There’s nothing else I can think of. He’s always been polite to her. He has a thing about the underdog and he cares about things in ways other people don’t.’

‘Is that so?’ Erin’s tone was sardonic.

Farid picked up a stray twig and spun it slowly in his hands. ‘When we were eleven, we went down to Vicky Park late one evening. It was just gone spring and it was still a bit too chilly for all the Hackney hipsters. Me, Amir and these other boys were there. This boy Omar had a pellet gun. We were arsing about with it, trying to hit trees and bins and stuff. And then, one of the boys dared him to shoot a swan on the other side of the lake. Omar was laughing about it and we were goading him, calling him chicken and all that. Finally, after about ten minutes of this, Omar takes aim. We didn’t think he was going to do it. We really didn’t. But then he pulled the trigger and hit the thing square in the chest. I’ve never heard a sound like it. It was like a young kid squealing in pain. It was kicking its legs, trying desperately to stay afloat, fighting desperately for its life. We all turned a shade of pale I’ve never seen before. That sound still loops in my nightmares. Five minutes passed and it still fought, still desperate, still screaming. Finally, Amir grabbed the gun and aimed it at the swan’s head. The look on his face was …’ Farid paused.

‘That’s the only time I saw him cry. He did what needed to be done, what none of the rest of us could do because he cared about that animal. It’s not just a one-time thing neither. Two years ago, he brought home this mistreated dog. His parents gave him hell for it but he kept her; named her “Rocky” because she’s a fighter. That’s who he is. He cares about things weaker than him.’ Farid shook his head. ‘Whatever Jodie’s saying about him, it’s not true. It’s not.’

Erin studied him for a moment. Then, she stood and thanked him. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you.’

Farid shrugged, then watched her disappear into the distance. He picked up his muddy ball and turned wearily towards home.

Mo uncapped the seam ripper and slid it beneath the delicate blue thread. He flicked up the blade and broke the stitch. With practised fluency, he moved across the Banarasi brocade material, unpicking his mother’s mistake.

Mo had served as her assistant for years, both of them cramped into the draughty storeroom that she had turned into a tailor’s studio. In July, with wedding season in full swing, her work was seemingly endless. Still, at least Mo’s exams were now finished. In April, he used to stop studying at three and spend the next two hours sewing. Bushra would insist he return to his studies, but he could see the worry creasing her brows as the work stacked up outside. It was slow and intricate and could not be rushed, but she took on too much, for the money. On a shelf above her sewing machine, she kept meticulous records of all activity: clients, jobs, transactions and leads, every single pound colour-coded into bridal wear, casual wear and Western wear.

As a young child, Mo learnt to think in colours and textures: nylon was frustration, brown was honesty, blue was freedom and silk was carefree whimsy. He had been so proud of their bridal creations: the diaphanous golds and glittering reds and thousands of shiny stones. At age seven, he had unwittingly told his friends about one such garment and was ceaselessly teased for weeks. He came home crying one day and Bushra wrapped him in her soft arms.

‘I can’t tell you to ignore them,’ she said. ‘You will always care what people think of you – that’s just the way of the world – but you can decide how you act in return. You can choose to be cruel like them to make yourself feel tall, or you can treat others with kindness to balance out the shortfall.’ She sat him on her lap. ‘There will be moments in your life when you must decide in an instant. What you do is up to you, but I hope you never choose to be cruel.’

He watched her now and marvelled at her sleight of hand. Where other parents were pushy and dogmatic, she steered him with the lightest touch. She told him what she believed to be right and let him set his own course. With this skill and subtlety, she weaved him with a sense of justice.

Lanced with guilt last night, he had confessed to her his treatment of Jodie and said that his courage had failed. ‘But we didn’t do what she said,’ he’d added, desperate to keep her esteem. Bushra had hugged him tightly. ‘I know you didn’t. The son I raised wouldn’t act like that.’ She kissed his hair and released him. ‘I don’t know how far this will go and right now it’s important that we face it together. I know that you’re a good person. When this is over, however, I would like to discuss how you treated that girl.’

‘I know,’ Mo said quietly. His mother, who loved him fiercely like a child deserved, expected the conduct of an adult. He had failed her, but when this mess with Jodie was over, he would vow to be a better person. A single moment of weakness would not define his entire life. The mistake would be righted and they’d all move on – and surely that would be soon. After all, it was four against one.

Zara grappled for her phone and cursed when she saw the time. Sure enough, there were several missed calls: two from Stuart at Artemis House and another one from Erin. She texted Stuart an apology and then stumbled to the bathroom. Her throat was parched and her tongue held the whispery texture of cotton. She slipped two fingers under the cold tap and ran them over her eyes, wiping away the sleep. The cool water of the shower calmed her pounding head.

Her mind snaked to Luka and clasped his words like a bitter nut at its centre. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end. She heard the sound of her palm on his flesh and saw the rising colour in his cheek. She closed her eyes and willed him away, refusing to accept her guilt.

Drying off, she returned to the bedroom and rifled through her closet for a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a blazer. She pulled on her ballet flats, grabbed her bag and headed out the door to her car. Her phone began to ring just as she drove off. She answered it clumsily and switched to speakerphone.

‘I tried to call you.’ Erin was impatient. ‘Listen, I spoke to Farid, the spectator. I caught him after football practice. Here’s the thing: I’m not sure your girl is being a hundred per cent honest.’

Zara felt the car swerve beneath her. ‘You what?’

‘I don’t think she’s telling the whole truth. I believe the boy.’

‘Why? What did he say?’

Erin recounted the meeting. ‘Either he’s telling the truth or he’s a complete sociopath,’ she said matter of factly.

Zara tutted. ‘Come on, Erin. You’re better than this.’ She knew the barb would annoy her and this was partly intended. How could she decide that Jodie was lying without hearing her account first-hand?

Erin sidestepped the bait. ‘All I’m saying, Zara, is tread carefully. This girl may not be as innocent as she looks. People rarely are.’

Zara frowned. Could Jodie’s pitiful gait and disfigured face be hiding a secret cunning? She didn’t believe it for a second, but placated Erin nonetheless. ‘I’ll tread carefully.’ She said goodbye and focused her grinding mind on the road.

Half an hour later, she was at her desk. Stuart sat opposite, speaking in a measured tone that only occasionally exposed his dwindling patience.

‘What are you not telling me?’ he asked.

Zara shook her head. ‘I overslept. Really, that’s all.’

‘Yes, and the first time it happened, I believed you. We’ve been through this, Zara. You’re one of the best lawyers I’ve ever met and you’re sure as hell the best advisor we’ve had in this place, but this isn’t a shift at Tesco. You’re not stacking shelves. If you don’t turn up to work, the women we look after don’t get the level of care they’re owed.’

Zara bit down her shame. ‘I’m sorry. I am. It won’t happen again.’

He leaned forward, his voice softening a notch. ‘That’s what you said last time.’ He ran a restless hand through his hair. ‘Seriously, what’s going on?’

‘I overslept, that’s all.’

Stuart’s lips came together in a tight, thin line, holding back words he might later regret. ‘Okay, fine.’ He pressed a Post-it note onto her desk. ‘The detective on Jodie Wolfe’s case called. You might want to call her back.’ With that, he stood and left.

Zara tried to shrug off the guilt but it clung heavily to her shoulders. Were it anyone else, she would wave away the criticism but Stuart was one of the few truly selfless people in her life. He wasn’t concerned with feeding his ego or chasing profits; he simply wanted to help their clients. The knowledge of that made her cheeks burn hot. She threaded her fingers through her hair and grabbed angry fistfuls. What was she doing? Her mind posed then denied a series of accusations: No, I’m not bad at my job. No, I shouldn’t just quit. No, I don’t have to stop using – it’s just harmless release.

Listlessly, she picked up the note. Four words were written in Stuart’s expansive scrawl: ‘I have news. Mia.’ Zara’s heart rate quickened and she picked up the phone and dialled.

Mia answered promptly. ‘I take it you received my message?’

‘Yes. Sorry, I’ve had a crazy morning.’

A short laugh. ‘Yes, unfortunately I’m all too familiar with those.’ Mia waited a beat. ‘So, Jodie’s clothes are positive for semen. We’re trying to expedite the DNA tests.’

Zara felt a flush of relief. ‘That’s great news.’

‘I haven’t spoken to Jodie yet. I thought you might like to tell her.’

Zara was oddly touched by the gesture. ‘Thank you. Do you know when we’ll get the results?’

‘Right now, I’m told three weeks.’

‘Christ.’ Zara flicked through her diary and marked out a date. ‘Have you found anything you can use on the boys’ electronics?’

‘No, nothing yet,’ Mia sighed. ‘They use these so-called “ephemeral apps” and everything gets deleted after twenty-four hours.’

Zara tapped a pen against the page. ‘Listen, check if the boys are on Jabdam. It’s a Korean app that allows users to post anonymous rumours about each other, tagged by location. It came up in a past case of mine. The app’s not governed by GDPR and we can access all the data that’s ever been posted on their platform – even if it was set to expire.’

Mia brightened. ‘What would we be looking for?’

‘Anything that’s tagged Bow or East London and that mentions Amir or Jodie – or any of them. Maybe one of the boys couldn’t help bragging, or a friend of a friend knows something.’

‘Good call.’ Mia scrawled down the details. ‘I’ll let you know if we find anything.’

‘Okay,’ Zara paused. ‘Hey Mia, one more thing. When you canvas the neighbours, greet them with Assalamu Alaikum if they’re Muslim. They’ll likely be tight-lipped and this might help disarm them.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mia. ‘I’ll keep you updated.’

Zara hung up and glanced at the clock. Stuart had reassigned her appointments and her day was unusually empty. She flicked through Jodie’s case file, reading and re-reading random passages. Eventually, after an hour of inertia, she decided to take a break. She walked to Port & Port on the western end of Whitechapel Road. She liked the bar for its unique position between East London and the city, and for the blackboard outside that said in bright yellow chalk, ‘I’d eat here,’ a quote which was then attributed to, ‘The owner’. Inside, an ensemble of high beams, sturdy wooden furniture and dusty artefacts gave it a comfortable old-barn feel.

She ordered a drink and settled in a booth in the corner. She shrugged off her blazer and placed some files across the table: her excuse for drinking alone. She checked her phone and noted acidly that Luka hadn’t tried calling. She picked up a file and scanned it blindly. She was bored. She was always fucking bored. She glanced at her watch, not even sure what she was waiting for. She put down the file and picked up another. As she did so, she heard a purposeful cough at the next table. Her eyes – trained to ignore such puerile plays for attention – remained fixed on the sheet of paper. After a beat, she sensed movement towards her.

He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and slim black tie. As he sat down opposite, she noticed the muscles of his arm flex beneath the suit. He wasn’t her type – far too built for that – but he had her attention.

‘You probably haven’t drunk enough for this. I certainly haven’t drunk enough for this but,’ he paused, ‘you’re stunning. And I knew that if I left this bar without talking to you, I’d regret it. So tell me to get lost and I’ll get on my way. I just have to know that I tried.’ He barely waited for her to respond. ‘But, if you want – and it’s what I really want – I can buy us another drink and we can sit and talk about whatever you want: the perversions of the Marquis de Sade or the plight of the Congolese, who should have won Bake Off or the latest shade of lipstick – anything.’ His eyes searched hers and grew confident as he gleaned the reaction he intended.

A smile curled at the corner of her lips. She knew exactly what type of man he was: the type that recycled pet names from each of his flings and used women as landmarks (‘you know the place, the one with that sexy blonde waitress with an arse like an onion’), but it mattered less than it should.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes,’ he said with a smile. He strode to the bar, his frame tall and powerful – almost twice her size.

As she watched him, she felt her conscience tug. She was angry at Luka but could she really sit here with a stranger and pretend he didn’t exist? She sat stock-still for a moment and then, making a decision, gathered up her files and strode to the bar. She stopped the stranger mid-order.

‘Listen, I’m sorry but I have to go.’

His head tilted back in askance. ‘No, come on!’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

He clasped his hands in mock agony. ‘Okay, but please, please leave me your number.’

‘I don’t give out my number.’

‘Okay, then give me your phone and let me put in mine.’

She shook her head with a smile. She knew not to do that after a friend of a friend used her phone to call his own hence securing her number, and then doggedly pursuing her for a good six months.

The stranger reached over the counter and picked up a ballpoint pen. From his pocket, he retrieved a receipt and scribbled down his number. ‘Then please take this and please call me.’ He pressed the note into her hands. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

She accepted.

‘And at least tell me your name.’

‘It’s Zara.’ She glanced at the piece of paper. ‘And yours?’

He leaned forward and whispered it in her ear, his breath warm on her skin.

She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Goodbye, Michael.’ She left the bar without turning back, knowing he was watching her go.

Nina Sahari was on her back. Her cut-off T-shirt revealed a smooth, taut belly and her silken hair fell around her head like a fan. She reached up and threw the ball against the ceiling, catching it again with ease. Her green eyes – a much-desired result of her Pathan roots – blinked off tiny bits of plaster that rained down around her. She chewed her gum and blew it into a bubble, then popped it with her tongue and licked the sticky substance off her lips.

‘What is up with you anyway?’ She glanced at Jodie in the corner. ‘You’ve been totally deranged lately. I know your mum’s been ill but FFS.’ When Jodie said nothing, Nina sat up in exasperation. ‘Come on. It’s not like she’s got cancer; she’s ill coz she likes to drink. Why should you have to stay home and suffer for it?’

Jodie grimaced. ‘She’s going through a rough patch.’ In truth, she was no worse than usual but Jodie needed a reason to hide.

Nina sighed ostentatiously. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just that there’s nothing to do in this shitty place. I’m bored and I’ve missed you.’

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