The Imam told Jones to follow him across the street to the Harlem Market, which Jones did. Jones was conscious of the vendors watching them as they walked down the aisle.

“Isia, this is Theo Jones, a friend of mine who has agreed to help find your husband.”

Jones looked at the frail woman seated behind the loom. “The Imam told me what happened. I’d like to help.”

Isia smiled, a glimmer of hope shone in her eyes.

“Mon époux left to meet someone. I expect him in four hours. Then call on my cell phone. Mon Dieu! The line dead. I call mon amie, Chinua. Perhaps she knows where my husband is. Non. I call other friends. Stay awake all night.”

Jones pointed to the bin next to her, filled with bolts of brilliantly coloured fabric. “I remember Jean-Paul sold fabric like this.” He picked up a swatch and rubbed the cloth between his thumb and index finger. “This cloth. Does it have a name?”

“Oui. Kente cloth.”

“Kente cloth. Is it from Senegal?”

“Non. Kente cloth is from Ghana. The Cloth of Kings. I learned to weave Kente Cloth when I was little.” She demonstrated and deftly threaded a strip of fabric through the double heddle loom, while her left foot gently pressed against a pedal. When Jones was done talking to her, he followed the Imam through the market and departed.