She steps back so that she is pressed against the wall, in shadow, but then the bathroom door closes and she hears Polina cough lightly as she uses the toilet.

Waiting there, she listens to her run the tap and then step back out of the bathroom. There is a moment’s hesitation at the top of the stairs and Gabriela waits, in horror, for her to come down in search of a glass of water, the effect of the tablets crushed into her food making her mouth dry. She shouldn’t have woken up at all, given how comatose Ivan was, but she hardly ate any of the dinner Gabriela produced, unlike Ivan, who had settled in for two helpings while she watched on, silently urging him to keep going. Gabriela had been relieved when Polina had headed upstairs so early, clearly worn out.

For a fleeting moment, she wonders if it was something else that had been bothering her, making her look so wan, but then she hears her move back towards her room, pausing only briefly in front of the door to Layla’s room, where she has bundled the covers so as to mimic her shape in the dark.

Once Polina’s door has been pulled to, though still slightly ajar as she always leaves it in order to listen out for Layla, she moves quickly, opening the front door, careful not to make a sound, and lifts the buggy outside into the night, with her daughter still asleep in her other arm.

She has just a small bag, which she hooks over the handlebars of the pushchair, only strapping Layla into the seat once they are safely down the road, out of earshot in case she might call out at the disturbance. But she doesn’t. She barely stirs as Gabriela pulls the blanket over her.

Walking quickly away from the house, she gives a discreet look over her shoulder as they turn the corner towards the high street and the cashpoint where she withdraws £300 and slides it carefully into her bag.

Waiting until they are out of sight of the CCTV cameras that line the main street, dark as it is this late in the evening, she stands back slightly so that she is concealed by a doorway, before pulling out her phone and ringing one of the smaller cab firms.

‘Hello, I’d like a car for a long-haul journey, as soon as possible, please,’ she says, reeling off the address of the house they are in front of. ‘I’ll need a car seat. As soon as you can. My name’s Jill.’

‘You off on your holidays then?’ the cabbie asks as the car sweeps onto the M4, half an hour later.

‘Something like that,’ she says. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m just going to make a phone call. Is it possible to put on the radio?’