Moving back into the kitchen, she waits until she hears the door slam shut and then she pulls out her phone, her fingers struggling to keep up with her mind. Googling Heathrow flights Moscow delays, she closes her eyes briefly, silently praying she has got it wrong, that he hasn’t lied about his flight being cancelled. Because why would he come back and lie about it, unless he knows something?

Following the links to a page entitled Live flight information, she types in Moscow and waits as the results emerge on her screen.

She spots Ivan’s flight within seconds, and next to it, the departure information. GATE CLOSED.

And in that moment, her stomach drops as if a boulder has been stuffed down her throat.

Chapter 77

Isobel

It’s nearly three in the morning before I finally sleep, my head spinning with information overload.

When I wake the next day, around midday, unusually rested but somehow drowsy from the excess of unmedicated sleep, I force myself to brush my teeth and shower, pointedly ignoring the computer that sits drained of life on the kitchen table.

Forcing myself to put on my shoes, I pick up my keys and move down the stairs towards the street and head across the road to the café. Once I have my coffee in hand, I stand in the doorway and look out at the cars, wondering where the hell to go.

Turning left, I ignore the usual path towards the office to my right where the road splits at Camden Town tube station, veering towards the Stables market, weaving through the crappy jewellery and incense stalls, stopping briefly for a crêpe when my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.

It must be around two when I make my way past the Hawley Arms, resisting with every inch of my body the desire to step into the pub. Instead, I sit by the canal and smoke until the packet is empty, watching the ducks pick at the contents of an old plastic bag. After a while I turn back and exit onto the street at the bottom of Kentish Town High Street.

Turning left, I stop at the Owl bookshop and browse the titles before carrying on, passing the refuge, walking without stopping until I reach the Heath.

Jess’s memorial bench stands at the top of Kite Hill. It is less than two weeks since I sat here on the way back from the squat party, and yet already it feels like a lifetime ago.