Against his orders Morrow sat in the armchair, and saw Lander’s eye twitch. He would have to sit next to Bannerman on the settee, sandwiched between them. He pulled his trousers up at the knees with an irritated flick of the wrist and sat down.

Morrow looked around. The electric bar fire was surrounded by framed photographs. She expected to see a wife, grand-children, perhaps a mother in a formal pose but instead found photographs of Lander in military uniform, standing among friends in uniform.

‘A military man?’ she said, apropos of nothing. Bannerman looked up, suddenly interested.

‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped. ‘Twenty years in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Ten served in the First Battalion and then a further ten years in E Company.’ As if he sensed her reservations he said, ‘E Company is the TA.’

The intense attraction of order had a pull over her too. She had considered the army herself. ‘Dedicated,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said and thought about it. ‘Yes.’ Patting his knees with his open hands he turned to Bannerman. ‘So, tell me about Mr Anwar. Do you know who took him?’

They weren’t supposed to give away any information, but a stonewall was often cold news to an interviewee so Bannerman tempered it. ‘Well, Mr Lander, I’m sure you’ve seen the papers. We really can’t say anything other than what’s in there-’

‘He was taken by gunmen demanding a ransom?’

‘Yes-’

‘And Aleesha was shot in the hand?’

‘-But what I can tell you is that Mr Anwar was kidnapped last night for a money ransom. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Other than what was on the radio,’ Lander breathed heavily through his nose, as if he was holding back a strong emotion, ‘all I know is I got a call this morning from his cousin,’ he said the word disapprovingly, ‘telling me that I was not required this morning because Mr Anwar had been indisposed last night. I had to dig for information. He’s over there.’ He nodded out the window. ‘Now. Working the shop for him.’

Bannerman carried on. ‘Is Mr Anwar a popular man? With locals?’

‘Popular?’ Lander’s eyes searched the carpet. ‘Well, people come into the shop a lot.’

‘The same people?’

He nodded. ‘Often the same people. There’s a bus stop outside so people on their way to town often come in for a paper but after rush hour in the morning and the afternoon our customers are mostly locals, yes.’

‘How long have you worked there?’

‘About fourteen years. Nearly fourteen years.’

‘And what shifts do you do?’

‘Ooh.’ He rolled his eyes up. ‘Well, I start at six thirty a.m. and finish at twelve thirty. But I often stay on or go back in for the afternoon shift, help with the lunchtime rush and stocking up and so on. Sometimes I go back in to listen to the cricket with Mr Anwar.’

Morrow chimed in, ‘So, he’s a friend?’

‘Very much so,’ said Lander seriously. ‘Very much a friend.’

‘Are you paid for those extra hours?’

He seemed offended at the suggestion. ‘In the afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

He gave a small cheerless laugh. ‘Paid for listening to cricket matches?’

Morrow blinked slowly. ‘When you work extra hours are you paid for them?’

Lander’s expression hardened towards her. ‘No. I’m paid for my shift in the morning. Anything else I can do for Mr Anwar is a gesture of friendship.’

‘You do it out of loyalty?’ She meant it as a compliment but he seemed to have taken against her.

The lip beneath his moustache tightened. ‘And friendship.’

‘I am just asking ye questions, Mr Lander.’ Her voice was soft. ‘It’s my job to find Mr Anwar and bring him back safe and sound. I take it very seriously.’

‘Good,’ he said and blinked. She realised suddenly that he was terrified for his friend.

‘How much are you paid an hour?’

Lander was a little embarrassed. ‘I’m paid two hundred pounds a week, flat, whatever hours I do.’

‘I see.’ She jotted it down. ‘Not that much for a thirty-hour week.’

‘Thirty-six. Sometimes forty-two if I work the full week but it suits me,’ he said simply.

‘In what way?’

‘The hours, the location and the company.’

‘You get on well, then?’

He spoke as if it was a pre-prepared speech, looking over her shoulder to another audience. ‘Mr Anwar and I have been friends for fourteen years. Over that time we have become as brothers.’ His hand chopped the air a little for emphasis. ‘He is as a brother to me.’

Having finished, he coughed, embarrassed. Morrow recognised his discomfort, his inability to Oprah-sob on demand. Like him, she didn’t believe sincerity was marked by incessant emotional revelation. She yearned for a time when it was enough to tell a man you loved him on your wedding day and expect him still to know ten years later.

Lander was controlled and would be hard to wrong-foot. She slouched in the chair and sucked her teeth sarcastically. ‘Yeah, I see, kind of, what you’re on about.’

‘Do you see?’ He was suddenly angry. ‘Do you?’

‘Oh, aye, yeah, see whit ye mean.’

‘What do you see?’ He seemed furious, at both her belittling tone and scattered grammar.

She slapped the air carelessly. ‘You work together, you enjoy cricket together?’

‘Correct.’ He pointed a finger at her nose and his rage subsided. ‘Correct.’

Morrow stared at him, letting him stew for a moment. ‘In the days and weeks running up to the kidnap, did you see anyone hanging around the shop?’

‘Many people hang around the shop.’

‘Anyone unusual? Anyone take a special interest?’

‘In what?’

‘In Mr Anwar? In the shop’s income, anyone ask about the takings, for example?’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, not that I can think of. We get a lot of odd types. Alcoholics, junkies, odd types, but they’re all locals, if you don’t know who they are you’ll know who they belong to.’

‘Belong to?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Who their family are, their mother’s name or granny’s name.’

‘No unusual phone calls?’ asked Morrow.

‘No.’

‘Can you think of anyone Mr Anwar owes money to?’

‘No.’

The answer came a little too fast; he hadn’t considered the question. Even if there had been someone Morrow felt sure that Johnny Lander would not tell her. He wouldn’t say anything harmful to Aamir. His loyalty ran too deep.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Wrong address.’ He sounded certain.

‘Why?’

‘They’re a modest family. Religious. They give a lot of money to charity, on the quiet, the way it should be.’

‘What charities?’

‘Earthquake appeal, important things.’

‘Humanitarian appeals?’

‘Yes.’

‘ Afghanistan?’

‘Never mentioned it specifically. Pakistan I think…’

‘Any connection with Afghanistan? Do they have family there?’

‘Not that I know of, they’re both from Uganda.’

‘How about yourself, did you serve there, ever?’

‘No. After my time.’

She tried a blank card. ‘Would you say that you are a loyal person?’

‘Yes.’ No flinch or hesitation, not a moment’s doubt or a glimmer of shame.

‘But you don’t have a family of your own?’

‘No.’

‘Are you friends with Mr Anwar’s family?’

‘No. Just Mr Anwar.’

‘But you must know the family?’

‘A little. Billal and Omar both worked Saturdays in the shop when they were at school, but I don’t really know them.’

‘You worked every Saturday with them for years but you don’t know them?’

‘No. I didn’t work with them. Their daddy worked with them. I didn’t go in then, when they were on. There isn’t really room behind the counter for three and I used to fish, so…’ Small shrug. ‘I was glad.’

‘You must hear a lot though, know about them?’

‘No. Mr Anwar doesn’t really talk about his family.’

‘Does that seem odd to you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Most parents like to talk about their children. But Mr Anwar doesn’t?’