‘So how was it?’ Gabriela asked, her attempt at sounding cheerful catching in her throat. Was this how it was to be from now on? Having to draw out words from her daughter like a fisherman, her hook repeatedly scratching at the flesh of her catch?

‘Good,’ Sadie said, looking out of the window from the back seat.

‘I missed you,’ Gabriela said, her voice barely audible, and Sadie continued to watch the streets of her childhood passing by, as if her mother wasn’t there.

Chapter 40

Isobel

After nearly half an hour of following the car from a safe distance, I arrive at a backstreet behind Tottenham Court Road and the driver pulls over abruptly outside a building painted a crumbling, sickly pink.

Driving past the car and pulling up slowly several metres along, I watch in my rear-view mirror. For a moment the BMW is still, and then a side door slowly opens and a pair of pale, bare legs appear from the passenger door, followed by another. A second later the driver emerges too, and the door slams shut.

Again, the man looks around, as if sensing he is being watched. Pushing myself lower in the seat, I follow him in the rear-view mirror, as he beckons the girls with a gesture of his head towards the back door of one of the buildings.

Once the door closes, I find myself staring out onto an empty pavement. Despite being in the middle of central London, the backstreet is quiet, lined with terraced houses on one side and a couple of warehouse-type buildings on the other, including the one into which the passengers from the BMW have disappeared.

For a moment, I am stumped. I can hardly go and knock on the door, and yet I can’t simply sit here. Just as I am about to open the car door, I see movement once more in the wing mirror: the same man, followed by a different girl this time, emerging from the front of the building.

Ducking down out of sight, I watch the girl follow him, blank-faced, into the car. Seconds later, the engine starts up and the vehicle screeches down the street straight past me.

For a second I think about heading after them, but something stops me: a familiar figure moves into view – the bright red cap and post-bag flashing in my line of sight as he turns into the building next to the one from which the man and woman recently emerged, pulling his trolley behind him.

Without a moment’s thought, I push open the door and walk briskly, trying to look casual, meeting the postman’s eye just at the point where he reaches the large black door. Pretending to search in my bag for a pair of keys, I smile.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, glancing gratefully at the letters in his hand.