Azhar chuckled. “There appears to be no end to the domestic knowledge of that good woman. Had I had it in mind that Hadiyyah should spend her life in housekeeping, I could not have found her a better instructor. She’s quite mastered scones, by the way. Have I mentioned that?” He gestured with the hand that held the carrier bags. “Will you join us for dinner, Barbara? It’s chicken jalfrezi with pilau rice. And as I recall”-with a smile that showed the sort of white teeth that made Barbara swear she would see the dentist in the near future-“those are among your favourites.”

Barbara told her neighbour she was sorely tempted, but duty called. “Just on my way out,” she said. Both of them turned as the front door of the old house opened and Hadiyyah clattered down the steps. She was followed closely by Mrs. Silver, tall and angular, ensconced in an apron. Sheila Silver, Barbara had learned from Hadiyyah, possessed an entire wardrobe of aprons. They were not only seasonal, they were celebratory as well. She had Christmas aprons, Easter aprons, Halloween aprons, New Year’s aprons, birthday aprons, and aprons commemorating everything from Guy Fawkes Night to the ill-fated marriage of Charles and Diana. Each of these was complemented by a matching turban. Barbara reckoned the turbans had been fashioned from tea towels by their wearer, and she had little doubt that when the list of housewifely duties had been mastered by Hadiyyah, turban making would be among them.

As Hadiyyah flung herself in the direction of her father, Barbara waved a farewell. Her last sight of them was of Hadiyyah-arms round Azhar’s slender waist-and Mrs. Silver in gangly pursuit of her, as if the girl’s escape had been preemptive and more information about baking soda needed to be imparted.

In her car, Barbara gave a thought to the time of day and concluded that only a bout of creative rat running would get her to Bethnal Green before nightfall. She skirted as much of the City as she could, ultimately coming on Bethnal Green from Old Street. This was an area that had altered much over the years, as young professionals unable to afford the prices of central London’s housing moved in an ever-widening circle to embrace parts of town long considered undesirable. Bethnal Green was hence a combination of the old and the new, where sari shops mingled with computer sales centres, and ethnic enterprises like Henna Weddings stood next door to estate agents flogging properties to growing families.

Sidney lived in Quilter Street, a terrace of plain-fronted houses constructed of London brick. A mere two storeys tall, they comprised the south side of a triangle at the centre of which was a common area called Jesus Green. Unlike so many small parks in town, this one was neither locked nor barred. It was fenced in wrought iron, which was typical of London’s squares, but the fence was only waist high and its gate stood open to admit anyone who wanted access to its wide lawn and to the pools of shade offered by the leafy trees that towered over it. Children were playing noisily on the green near to where Barbara parked her old Mini. In one corner a family was having a picnic, and in another a guitarist was entertaining a young adoring female. It was a very good place to escape the heat.

Sidney answered the door to Barbara’s knock, and Barbara tried not to feel what she indeed was in the presence of St. James’s younger sister: a frightening contrast. Sidney was quite tall, she was slender, and she was naturally in possession of the sort of cheekbones that women happily went under the knife to acquire. She had the same coal-coloured hair as her brother and the same blue-today-and-grey-tomorrow eyes. She was wearing capris, which emphasised legs that went from here to China, and a cropped tank top that showed off her arms, disgustingly tan like the rest of her. Large hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and she was removing them as she said, “Barbara. I expect the traffic was a nightmare, wasn’t it?” and admitted her into the house.

This was small. All the windows were open, but that was doing little to mitigate the heat inside. Sidney appeared to be one of those loathsome women who did not perspire, but Barbara was not among their number, and she could feel the sweat popping out on her face the moment the front door closed behind her. Sidney said sympathetically, “Terrible, isn’t it? We complain and complain about the rain, and then we get this. There should be some middle ground, but there never is. I’m just this way, if you don’t mind.”

Just this way turned out to be a staircase. This rose towards the back of the little house, where a door stood open to a small garden from which the sound of vicious pounding was emanating. Sidney went to the door, saying over her shoulder to Barbara, “That’s just Matt.” And into the garden, “Matt, darling, come and meet Barbara Havers.”

Barbara looked past her to see a man-burly, shirtless, and sweating-who was standing with sledgehammer in hand, apparently in the process of beating a sheet of plywood into submission. There seemed to be no reason for this unless, Barbara thought, he was going for a rather inefficient means of creating mulch for the single, sun-parched herbaceous border. At Sidney’s call, he didn’t stop what he was doing. Rather, he glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly. He was wearing dark glasses, and his ears were pierced. His head was shaved to the skull, and like the rest of him it shone with sweat.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Sidney murmured.

It wouldn’t have been Barbara’s word of choice. “What’s he doing, exactly?” she said.

“Letting it out.”

“What?”

“Hmmm?” Sidney gazed at the man appreciatively. He didn’t appear particularly handsome, but he had a body completely defined by muscle: an eye-catching chest, narrow waist, serious lats, and a bum that would have got him pinched just about anywhere on the planet. “Oh. Aggression. He’s letting it out. He hates it when he’s not working.”

“Unemployed, is he?”

“Good heavens, no. He does…oh, something or other for the government. Come up above, Barbara. D’you mind if we talk in the bathroom? I was giving myself a facial. Is it all right if I get on with it?”

Barbara said it was fine by her. She’d never seen a facial being given and now that she was on her relentless course of self-improvement, who knew what tips she might pick up from a woman who’d been a professional model since she was seventeen? As she followed Sidney up the stairs, she said, “Like what?”

“Matt?” Sidney clarified. “It’s all top secret, according to him. I expect he’s a spy or something. He won’t say. But he goes off for days or weeks and when he comes home, he fetches the plywood and beats the dickens out of it. He’s between jobs at the moment.” She glanced back in the direction of the pounding, concluding with a casual, “Matthew Jones, man of mystery.”

“Jones,” Barbara noted. “Interesting name.”

“It’s probably his whatever…his cover, eh? Makes it all rather exciting, don’t you think?”

What Barbara thought was that sharing lodgings and a bed with someone who pounded upon wood with a sledgehammer, possessed shady employment, and had a name that might or might not be his own was akin to playing Russian roulette with a rusty Colt.45, but she kept that to herself. Everyone’s boat floated on different water and if the bloke below rang Sidney’s chimes-not to mix too many metaphors, Barbara thought-then who was she to point out that men of mystery were frequently men of mystery for reasons having nothing at all to do with James Bond. Sidney had three brothers who were doubtless doing their share of pointing that out to her.

She followed Sidney into the bathroom where an impressive lineup of jars and bottles awaited them. Sidney began with the removal of her makeup, chattily explaining the process-“I like to tone, first, before I exfoliate. How often d’you exfoliate, Barbara?”-as she went along.