‘I thought you might be interested in seeing some of the projects we’re working on,’ he said later that day as the car swept around Patriarshiye Ponds, pulling over in front of the apartments opposite the one Gabriela had stayed in when she had just arrived in Moscow. She had a flash of memory of those first few days, staying at Emsworth’s flat. She hadn’t questioned at the time how he had afforded such a place; it wasn’t an official FCO residence, she knew that much.

‘I’ve just got to drop something off to Andrei,’ he said, before stepping out of the car, then walking across to the lobby and disappearing inside.

‘Andrei lives here?’ she asked when he got back into the car a few minutes later.

‘Not really. He owns a couple of the apartments,’ he said, turning to stroke Layla’s head as she snoozed in the car seat.

Gabriela felt a note of alarm ringing in her ears but she pushed it away. Was it so strange that they owned apartments in the complex that was occupied by her former boss? After all, it was one of the most coveted blocks in Moscow, an obvious draw, surely, for both monied oligarchs and senior FCO figures who fancied a bit of cultural heritage while they swaggered around the city? She felt a stinging on her thigh and when she looked down saw she was pinching herself so tightly with her fingernails that she could see the indentation in the flesh beneath her tights.

Looking away, Gabriela focused on Layla’s face, the soft lines of her eyelids, the skin so delicate and new. She was still at that age when she seemed to spend more time asleep than awake. Briefly, she imagined what Layla might be like in a few years. Would she be anything like Sadie? The thought made her stomach flip.

‘Is everything OK? You’ve been quiet ever since dinner last night,’ Ivan said. When she looked up at him, his face seemed less familiar.

‘I’m just tired. Maybe it’s jet lag.’

‘Right,’ he replied, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. ‘Andrei and Irena seemed to take to you.’

‘Really?’ she said, trying to push away the thought of the bunny, the exact replica of Callum’s rabbit. Stop it, she told herself. She was being paranoid. After Emsworth’s threats, and the ordeal with Sadie on the Heath, it was understandable. But there was no way Irena could have known about Otto.