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‘Get out of my shop.’

The angry owner barked the words at Helen, his anger rising.

‘I have customers waiting, you’re wasting my time …’

Helen stood her ground, her expression steely and determined. This was the fourth money transfer outlet she’d visited this morning and the reaction to her arrival had been the same each time. Suspicion, followed by either indifference or outright hostility.

‘Look, it’ll only take a couple of minutes and it’s vitally important,’ Helen stressed, trying to placate her middle-aged combatant.

‘A girl is in trouble, so what? Girls are always in trouble. Trust me, I know …’

Helen’s eyes drifted to his wedding ring, then to the framed photo that nestled at an angle next to his monitor.

‘You’re a father?’

‘Many times over, which is why the bills are high and money is short. So please, move along …’

‘How would you feel if one of your daughters had been attacked then? Beaten with a chain? Bundled into a van?’

He paused, momentarily caught off-guard by these terrible images, before responding brusquely:

‘It would never happen. I would never let it happen!’

‘Still, you can’t keep your eyes on them all the time. And there are a lot of bad guys out there …’

Helen was hamming it up, but it seemed to be working, the doting father’s fear of rising crime keeping the conversation going.

‘This young woman is probably a similar age to one of your daughters and she desperately needs your help.’

‘Even if I wanted to help, I haven’t got time,’ he responded, waving his hand in the air.

‘She’s late twenties, long dark hair. She has a cross tattoo on her chin and a gazelle on her forehead. Her name is Selima …’

And now Helen saw it – a flash of recognition.

‘Have you seen her?’ she demanded, leaning closer to the glass.

For a moment, the owner seemed lost for words, then he mumbled:

‘We get a lot of people in here, a lot of different faces …’

‘But she’s fairly distinct I’d imagine, given the tattoos, and you seemed to recognize the description. So, please, if you know anything …’

To Helen’s intense disappointment, the man’s face now hardened, his eyes drifting to the queueing customers loitering impatiently behind her, as he replied:

‘If you need to send some money, fine. If not, get out of my shop. I don’t know this girl, I’ve never seen this girl. So, please, just go.’

There was something uneasy, even fearful, in his tone, which intrigued Helen.

‘Do you know these people?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Can they get to you somehow?’

‘Get. Out.’

He hissed the words at her – and this time his response brooked no argument. Helen knew she had to retreat, but she felt certain this was not the end of their conversation. The rattled owner clearly knew something.

The question was what?