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son.
    ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Chowdhury,’ I said, before turning towards the women in the room. ‘For all your family’s loss.’
    The women barely acknowledged me, continuing with their food preparation. I could smell lamb, frying onions and something sharp that was making the insides of my nostrils twitch. The kitchen was a little old-fashioned. Several dozen gleaming copper pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling gave it an exotic appearance, as did the tied bunches of dried herbs interspersed among them.
    There were four women. The short, plump lady in her fifties I recognized as Aamir’s mother. Another, who looked much older, was presumably Mrs Chowdhury senior. A woman in her mid twenties was chopping dried apricots, and the youngest, still a schoolgirl, sat at the table, books spread out in front of her.
    All four wore traditional Pakistani dress: flowing trousers and embroidered tunics, headscarves that had been allowed to fall loose around their shoulders. I paid particular attention to the two younger women. The one standing might be tall enough to be my woman in black, but I wasn’t sure. She had a thin, proud face and a long, slender nose. Her eyes, when they looked into mine, were black and impossible to read. The younger girl never once looked up.
    Mr Chowdhury motioned that I should sit down and I took the armchair on the other side of the fire. All the time he and I were talking, the women carried on with their work. Their movements were slow and quiet. They said nothing to each other. I knew they were aware of every move I made and every word I said.
    ‘You have something new to tell us?’ Mr Chowdhury asked.
    ‘It’s only a small thing, but we thought you would appreciate knowing,’ I said. ‘The masks that were found on Union Street, which we believe were worn by your son’s attackers, have been examined by our forensic experts and we’ve just had the report back. On one of the masks, they found very small traces of DNA.’
    The reaction was muted but clear. I sensed the two sons moving behind me. Their father seemed to lean a little closer.
    ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t take us much further forward at this stage,’ I went on quickly, because Tulloch had drummed it into me that I must not give them false hope. ‘I don’t know how much you know about DNA, but it doesn’t always give the certain answers that people seem to expect.’
    One of the sons said something in Urdu to the other.
    ‘Meaning?’ asked the father.
    ‘Because the five men we arrested that night are all known to the police,’ I went on, ‘we have their DNA on record. It’s been standard procedure for some time when people are taken into custody. I’m afraid, though, that we haven’t been able to establish a match between any of them and the DNA we found on the mask. We’re sending it back to be examined again. We may find more a second time. On the other hand, it could have come from someone completely unconnected with the attack. The person who sold the masks, for example.’
    Mr Chowdhury nodded his head slowly.
    ‘The reason we wanted you to know,’ I said, ‘is that if news gets out that we’ve found DNA and not brought any charges, people could get very angry. The general public seem to equate DNA with cast-iron proof. Unfortunately, it’s not always that simple.’
    ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘There is another reason why I wanted to come here this evening,’ I said. ‘I was in the park the night your son was killed. I live very close by and I was on my way home when I heard the call from our Control room.’
    The man visibly stiffened. ‘You were the off-duty police officer we heard about?’
    I agreed that I was. ‘I saw your son’s attackers,’ I went on. ‘As far as we know, I’m the only witness of the attack itself and it’s largely my fault that the police don’t have a better description of them. It was dark and it happened very quickly, but I