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folds her into a hug. Jo sobs into her shoulder. ‘He has nobody,’ Jo says again, her voice high.
    ‘Jo, this can’t happen, you know it can’t.’
    ‘Don’t say that! Anyway, what was I supposed to do?’ Jo says. ‘I couldn’t just leave him there. It took me nearly half an hour to persuade him to come with me. In the end it was only because some men came.’
    ‘Men?’
    ‘There are lots of them, living in the woods. Hassan’s the only child. How vulnerable does that make him, Sam? He’s living under a bit of plastic in a bloody bush. On his own. He’s only eleven.’
    ‘There are ways of doing this, for our safety as well as for the child’s. We can’t just keep him. He’s not a stray dog.’
    Jo pushes her away. ‘I knew you’d do this,’ she says. ‘I knew it.’
    ‘We can make sure he’s safe,’ Sam says. ‘We can find him somewhere he’ll be safe, I promise.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Jo, seriously, I’m going to make a few phone calls … ’
    ‘If he goes, I go too.’
    The statement hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud.
    ‘What?’ Sam says.
    ‘I mean it. If you ring social services, I’ll leave and take him with me.’
    She knows that Jo is not well. She knows she is struggling with coming to terms with Mohammed’s death, that even the pills aren’t helping. But surely she can see that what she’s proposing is madness. There are tears on Jo’s cheeks but she’s defiant, arms folded. She may be close to the edge but right now she is strong, fearless.
    ‘He’s not your child, Jo. He isn’t your responsibility.’
    ‘I know he’s not mine!’ Jo explodes. ‘I’m not stupid! And I also know that whoever you call, whoever turns up at the door will only be able to do so much, because procedures need to be followed and although everyone means well and tries their hardest, children are falling through these gaping holes in the system. He’s been in social care. Why do you think they run away as soon as they can?’
    ‘Lots of reasons. You know that. They don’t understand what’s happening, they’re scared, so they run. But he’s not old enough to know what’s for the best, Jo. Mohammed was a teenager, this lad – whoever he is – he’s just a child. Surely you can see we can’t let him stay?’
    ‘He’s a guest, I’m not holding him against his will. He can walk out if he wants to.’
    ‘You’re an adult. He’s a child. He’s not able to make decisions like that on his own, that’s why he needs trained people to support him … ’
    She is weakening, Sam can tell. She looks exhausted, beyond tired, and Sam wonders how much energy this has taken out of her. She sags into one of the kitchen chairs, resting her head on her hands.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I feel like if we hand him over to someone else I’m just leaving him to die, like Mohammed.’
    As gently as she can, Sam says, ‘Jo. It wasn’t your fault.’
    ‘He died because nobody was willing to help him.’
    ‘He had lots of help. He kept running away from it.’
    ‘I could have saved him,’ she wails. ‘If I’d only been there. I promised him I’d help, I promised, and I let him down … ’
    ‘Jo.’ Sam’s arm around her shoulders, holding her close. She pulls Jo around, folds her into an embrace. ‘It’s okay. It’ll get easier, I promise.’
    Holding her, feeling the bones in her shoulders through her thin top, at first Sam’s aware of nothing but the girl she loves and how she can possibly make things better. And then, gradually, she realises that the trembling is actually shivering, and it’s freezing in here, a cold draught coming from under the closed kitchen door. She releases Jo slowly, goes to the door and opens it. The front door is open. She goes to the living room to check, but she’s too late: the boy has gone.
    Transcript of Interview in relation to Op Jasmine, the death in police custody of Mohammed Reza on 27 August 2010
    Investigators interviewing:
    William