SATURDAY MIDNIGHT – ALI RAFIQFinally, everything is sorted. The money has been transferred, twenty thousand British pounds. Now all I need to do is make the call. Jameel sits watching me, a glass of orange juice grasped firmly in his hands. I know this is harder on him than the rest of us, but it has to be done.
“Who do you have to phone?” my brother asks eagerly, sitting forward in his chair.
“It's just a number,” I tell him, “somewhere in London. No name, no other details.”
He nods, and I carefully punch the number into my cheap throwaway mobile.
“Wait,” Jameel says, “are you sure this can't be connected to me, or this house?”
“Look we've been over this a dozen times, bro. These are professional people. They're discreet. Besides, as soon as I've made the call, I'll get rid of this p
