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Fortune favours the brave. It was a maxim Helen had always believed in, refusing to be downcast or diverted when she knew she had a job to do.

So, despite her rejection at the hands of a former colleague, despite the nausea that still gripped her, she strode purposefully through the busy shopping precinct, zeroing in on her target.

The takeaway sign was illuminated, the shop door open, a group of sixth-formers idling nearby with freshly fried chips.

And though the smell of a slow-cooking doner kebab was the last thing Helen felt she could stomach right now, she made swiftly for the takeaway.

The clock was ticking and every second counted.

‘Morning, my darling, what can I get for …’

The owner’s jaunty welcome petered out as soon as he realized who’d entered.

‘Look, I don’t want any trouble, OK?’ he said, holding up his hands, as if afraid of her.

‘Well, you won’t get any from me,’ Helen countered. ‘But I do need your help.’

The owner said nothing, eyeing her with unease.

He was a muscular, powerful-looking man in his late thirties, with a handsome face and kind eyes.

Normally, Helen imagined he would have been a cheery, friendly presence.

But as at her old HQ earlier, her welcome here was cautious, bordering on frosty.

‘I urgently need to find the young woman who was attacked last night. Did you happen to spot the van’s registration or what direction it drove off in?’

‘Van?’

‘Yes, the van that she was taken away in. You witnessed the attack, you must have seen her dragged off to the van. We need to find it ASAP.’

‘I didn’t see any van.’

Helen eyed him, surprised. It was possible he’d retreated inside the shop by that point and thus hadn’t seen anything. But Helen wasn’t convinced. If you’d just witnessed a vicious attack, surely you’d peek out the window to see what happened next?

‘We can come back to that. What about the two guys who attacked her? Did you get a good look at them? Could you describe them to me, to the police?’

But already the owner was shaking his head.

‘I’m not sure what you mean …’ he replied, falteringly.

‘Come on, man, I saw what happened. You were standing in the doorway when the attack started. They were no more than ten, maybe fifteen feet from you.’

Her words hung in the air, urgent and terse.

For a moment, Helen thought he was going to respond, the uncomfortable takeaway owner staring at his feet, as if trying to find the words to describe those vicious thugs.

But when he looked up again, his expression betrayed only mystification and concern.

‘What men? What young woman?’

‘No, no, no, don’t try and pull that one. I saw you last night, you were wearing the same bloody shirt for God’s sake …’

She gestured at his pink Inter Miami top, her frustration boiling over.

‘You saw it all. Their vicious attack, that poor girl lying on the ground, whilst you did nothing. I intervened, I tried to save her and got a nasty wound for my troubles …’

She turned slightly, lifting her long hair to reveal the bandage stuck to the base of her skull.

‘So don’t tell me you saw nothing, because I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.’

Still he stared at her, stupefied, before shrugging dolefully.

‘I don’t know what to tell you, lady. I didn’t see any attack, any men. Maybe it happened somewhere else, maybe you’re confused. I saw nothing .’

He clearly wanted to shut the conversation down, but Helen wasn’t done yet.

‘What about CCTV then?’

Immediately, she clocked his reaction, the owner suddenly looking alarmed, as his glance slid to the camera on the back wall.

‘The camera’s pointing at the doorway, it must have picked up something. Let me check that. If what you’re saying is true …’

‘It’s not working. Sorry.’

Helen stared at him in disbelief.

‘I can see the bloody red light, man. Of course, it’s working. It’s recording now, just as I’m sure it was last night …’

‘It’s not working, OK? So please leave, I have work to do …’

He started to turn away, but Helen was too quick, grasping his arm over the counter.

‘Please,’ she implored. ‘There’s a vulnerable young woman out there who desperately needs your help. Don’t turn your back on her.’

And now she saw him hesitate, concern clouding his certainty. For a moment, Helen dared to hope that he might relent, but then he deftly removed her hand, concluding:

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you, or this girl, so please leave my restaurant or I’ll have to call the police.’

The irony was not lost on Helen. Six months ago, she’d have been able to demand his cooperation, force him to hand over the CCTV footage, but now she was powerless. As if to ram home the point, the disgruntled owner yanked open the door for her, ushering her out with the final insult:

‘You need to see a doctor, lady. There was no crime here.’