"Yes."

"Come on, then."

Milton led the way. As he opened the door to the street, he became aware of someone watching and, as he turned, he saw the old woman from earlier staring down at them from the half-landing with a disapproving expression on her face. Milton wasn't concerned. He doubted that the police would ever become involved-owners of brothels didn't tend to enjoy the attention of the authorities, after all-but, even if they did, all she would be able to do was describe what he looked like. Milton could live with that.

Sarah followed him.

"I have a car on the other side of the road," he said. "Come on."

Chapter Eleven.

MILTON DROVE to Bethnal Green Road. The cafe he had in mind was near the junction with Cambridge Heath Road. It was called E Pellicci, and it was something of a local inst.i.tution. It was, at its heart, a simple enough greasy spoon, but it was so much more than that. The building itself had been listed by English Heritage, and the lovingly maintained decor was one of the reasons that the place had established such an enduring appeal. Chrome-lined custard-coloured Vitrolite panels covered the facade outside, there were colourful sarsaparilla bottles lined up in the window, and the bearded hipster and his tattooed girlfriend who went inside before them were an indication of how the clientele had evolved in recent years as the area became more and more trendy and authenticity became a prerequisite for commercial success.

Milton opened the door and held it open for the girl to pa.s.s inside. The interior was lined with wood panelling, and the same Formica tables had been there for decades. The cafe had been open since 1900 and had been in the hands of the same family ever since. It had come to prominence in the sixties when the Krays, who lived in nearby Voss Street, held court here. The notoriety of the twins had propelled it into prominence, but it had maintained its popularity thanks to the friendly smiles and banter from Mama Maria and her children, Anna and Nevio Junior.

Anna was behind the counter and she smiled when she saw Milton come inside.

"All right, John?" she said.

"Good, thanks. Can I take the usual table?"

"Course you can, love. What do you want?"

"Two cups of coffee," he said, and, looking down at the desserts inside the gla.s.s-fronted cabinet, he pointed at the Portuguese pasteis de nata and held up two fingers.

"Sit down," she said. "I'll bring it right over."

Milton led the girl to a table in the corner of the room. The table was beneath a monochrome picture of the original proprietor and his family. He sat down and indicated that she should do the same. She paused for a moment, looking back to the door. Milton could see that she was scared, but that wasn't surprising, under the circ.u.mstances. It was possible that she might decide that she was safer on her own. He didn't want her to think that. She would have been wrong.

She put her bag on the floor beneath the table and sat down opposite him.

"It's all right now," he said. "You're safe. And you don't have to worry about me."

"That... m-m-man..." The words came in an awkward stammer. "What did you do to him?"

"He pulled a knife," Milton said.

"What did you do to him?"

"I knocked him out."

"No, you didn't."

"I-"

"If you lie to me, I'm just going to go."

Milton held his tongue.

"You killed him, didn't you?"

"He would have stabbed me."

And, Milton thought, you don't think he deserved it? He let that ride.

She looked down at the table and cursed in Arabic.

"I didn't have a choice," Milton said. "He would have killed me."

"Do you know who he is?"

"No," Milton said. "Who?"

"He is one of them. The Albanians who run the brothels. I think he is very senior. They will kill you for what you've done."

"No, they won't," Milton said. "They have no idea who I am."

"They had a camera."

"I took the hard drive. It wouldn't matter. They won't be able to find out who I am. And they won't know where you are, Sarah. Please, try to relax. It's over. You're safe now."

She paused, her fingers tapping against the Formica. "Okay," she said at last. "What do we have to do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can't go to the police."

"You don't need to do anything. I told you: you're safe here. No one knows where you are."

"I can't stay here forever. What do I do next?"

"I'll help you."

Anna brought over the drinks and the cake just as the cafe door opened. The bell tinkled cheerfully and the girl looked up in panic. Milton turned. An elderly man shuffled to the counter with the aid of a stick, took off his flat cap, and ordered a pot of tea.

"Enjoy," Anna said as she went back to the counter to serve the newcomer.

Milton looked back to the girl. He slid the cake across the table. "Have some," he said, with no idea if that was the right thing to do. "It'll make you feel better."

She took the fork, sliced off a portion and put it in her mouth. Milton waited. She finished the first mouthful and quickly took another. She was hungry.

"My name is John," he said. Milton saw that her fingernails had been bitten down to the quicks. He tried to think how he could get her to lower her guard. He was going to need her to trust him. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Syria."

"Where?"

"Tartus."

"How long have you been here?"

"A month."

"You were there the whole time?"

"Yes."

"The people who ran the house-they brought you into the country?"

"Yes."

Milton indicated that she should elaborate.

"I came over by boat. They said they would help me. They had factory jobs, they said. They took me to France and then brought me to England. When I got here, they said that I owed them money and that the factory jobs had all gone. I was stupid. I knew what would happen, but I ignored it. They said I would have to work to pay them back. They meant I would have to work in the houses."

She reached out for the mug and put it to her lips. Milton waited for her to put the mug back down again.

"In the flat?"

"The brothel. They have lots. All around London."

"Do you know where the others are?"

She shook her head.

"There was a girl in the house," Milton said. "A black girl. Her name is Nadia."

"She is from Eritrea."

"You know her?"

"A little."

"Where is she now?"

"They moved her yesterday night."

"Why?" Milton asked.

"They move all the girls. We work at one place for a while, then we go somewhere else. Variety. So the men do not get bored."

"But you haven't been moved before."

"No," she said. "I haven't been here long enough. But there is talk. The other girl tonight, the one who ran? Her name is Maryana. She's worked for them for longer. Months. She said that was her fourth house."

"Would Maryana know where the other houses are?"

"I expect so. You would have to ask her."

"Do you know where she might have gone?"

The girl shook her head.

Milton felt a flicker of frustration. He was getting nowhere fast. "Do you know who they are? The people who ran the house?"

"They are Albanian."

"You said. And their names?"

"The one who was there-" she paused and swallowed "-the one you killed, his name was Drago. He had been with us for a week. The man who normally ran the flat was small and thin, big teeth, like a rat. His name was Ilya. But there had been trouble. A rival gang had threatened to burn down the flat, and Ilya was frightened. Drago was there to make sure the flat was safe. Drago has a brother. A twin brother."

"And his name?"

"Florin. He came now and again to collect the money. Maryana said there were others, like Ilya, but I never met them. I just met Ilya, Drago and Florin."

Milton could see that he was unlikely to get anything much more useful out of her. She was too new to the brothel. She didn't know anything.

"What do I do now?" she said, when she sensed that his questions were at an end.

"I'll take you to the police."

"No," she said, her face losing colour. "I told you. I can't."

"Relax-"

"They said the police would just bring us straight back to them again. It's just like home, in Syria-you can't trust them. The police are corrupt." She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. "The police can be bought."

Milton understood why she was reluctant. The police in the places that were familiar to her were tools of the regime. They were corrupt, not to be trusted-criminals with a badge. And she had no experience of the police in this country and no reason to think that they would be any different from the authorities at home. It would take time to persuade her otherwise.

"It's not like Syria," he said with as much rea.s.surance as he could muster. "It's different here. They'll look after you."

"And then what? I'm not supposed to be here. The police will hand me over to the immigration people and they'll deport me. And I can't go back to Syria."

Milton paused to think. She had a point, but he wondered whether she was being overly pessimistic. He had read in the newspaper that the government was resettling several thousand Syrians who had fled the conflict. Given that she was already in the country and that she had suffered an ordeal, he suspected that would improve her chances. But he was no expert. She would need a lawyer to help her claim asylum, and he doubted that she had the money for that. He would have to help her.

"Okay," he said. "This is what we'll do. I'll get you fixed up with an immigration lawyer. They'll help you claim asylum, and then you'll be able to stay-get a proper job, away from the Albanians. But you can't stay on the streets. They'll find you."

"So where do I go? I have no money for a hotel."

"You can stay with me."

She looked at him with an expression that looked like disappointment. "And what would you expect in return for that?"