‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I have them. We’re all here, we’re driving, as you said.’

‘Wait there, I’ll call you straight back,’ she says.

A moment later, her phone rings and when she answers Madeleine says, ‘This is a better line … You remember where you’re going?’

She recalls the address Madeleine had scrawled on a piece of paper before pushing it towards her in the restaurant. She can still see her perfect looped scrawl making out the name of the final destination, reached by passenger ferry once they have handed over their car to be disposed of accordingly. The address Madeleine had held in front of her before picking up the piece of paper and tearing it into pieces.

When Madeleine speaks again now, without waiting for an answer, her voice is businesslike. ‘Do you have a pen? I’m going to give you the number of the man who will meet you. Gabriela?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m listening.’

‘You have already destroyed the SIM card you used to communicate with Ivan?’

Gabriela swallows. ‘Yes.’

‘Because if he ever traces it … If Irena traces it and finds out where you are …’

‘I know,’ she says, her voice snapping.

Madeleine pauses. ‘Write this down. Call the number straight away. It’s for the man who will meet you at the house, he will tell you what you need to do next.’

‘I have a pen,’ she says, bracing herself for the next stage.

‘Right,’ Madeleine says. ‘His name is Harry. Harry Dwyer.’

Chapter 85

Isobel

I have barely hung up from the call with Robert Phelps when my phone rings again. This time, as I look down, I see Ben’s name flashing on the screen.

The previous conversation has caught me off-guard, and the sight of my boss’s name floods me with guilt. I hadn’t said no to Phelps’ offer, not outright, though I also hadn’t said yes. I would come in and have a chat, that’s all I had agreed to.

Before I can stop myself, I shake my head to clear my thoughts and press ‘Answer’.

Before I can say a word, he speaks. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘OK,’ I say slowly, pouring a dash of milk into my coffee.

‘There’s been a suicide.’

He pauses for effect and I roll my eyes, kicking the door closed with my foot. ‘Ben—’

‘It was in one of the big houses in South End Green. Yesterday evening …’

I stand straighter, noting the excitement in his tone and my mind flips back to the ambulance I’d seen by the edge of the Heath.

‘It was the wife,’ he says, his voice light with amazement. ‘Anna Witherall. The wife of the TradeSmart bloke you mentioned, David Witherall. The one who died last month. She hanged herself.’

I step backwards and lean against the fridge door, his words ringing in my head.

‘Isobel, are you there?’