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was looking for: Chandler Street , backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.
    Number thirteen. That had amused her when she'd looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain, and then a red Mini car drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.
    Hannah pressed the bell push and they waited. Finally, they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs. Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.
    "What do you want?"
    "It's me, Mrs. Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the Welfare Department. I thought I'd call again."
    "Oh, yes."
    "This is Mr. Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?"
    "Just a moment." The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.
    All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.
    In the small sitting room, the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.
    Hannah said, "I just thought I'd check on you, Mrs. Morgan, as we happened to be passing."
    Dillon, more direct, said, "Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. Have you heard from him?"
    Her voice was muted, and she coughed. "Oh, he'll be too busy. I'm sure he'll phone when he's got time."
    Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded, and she carried on reluctantly. "Have you seen Dr. Selim lately?"
    "Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son's away, Dr. Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street . It's not far. He's been very good, Dr. Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry, to discover our faith."
    Hannah felt wretched. "I'm sure that's been very nice for you."
    "Yes, he's called round two or three times since Henry's been away with his friend."
    There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, "And who was that?"
    "Oh, I can't remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth."
    Dillon said sternly in Arabic, "Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?"
    She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, "There is no more. I don't know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That's all I know."
    Hannah said, "I don't know what you're saying, Dillon, but leave it. She's frightened."
    Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs. Morgan on the forehead. "There you are, my love." He turned to Hannah and led the way out.
    Outside, she said, "What a bastard you are. What were you saying?"
    "Just checking if she was telling the truth."
    "Right, let's go."
    "I'm not ready yet, Hannah." He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. "Let's have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he's been in."
    They walked down the pavement toward the shop, and behind them, Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.
    The sign on the shop window said M. PATEL. Dillon nodded. "Indian, that's good."
    "Why, particularly?" Hannah asked.
    "Because they're smart and they don't screw around. They've got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let's see what Mr. Patel has to say and let's use your warrant card."
    The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.
    "Can I help?"
    Hannah produced her warrant card. "Detective Superintendent