He spoke as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Gabriela, if you mention a word of this to anyone – Madeleine, your husband – sorry, boyfriend – any friends – and here I would name specific ones, but to be honest you don’t seem to have many … If you mention a word to anyone, they will find you and they will kill you. Do you understand what I am saying? If you ever so much as mention my name, or that of anyone you think you know anything about, your children will die.’

With that, he reached forward and picked up the photos, shuffling them neatly into a pile as if preparing to create a family album.

‘Oh, and with regard to handing in your notice, I’ll explain to HR. Just send an email explaining that you’ve had a family emergency, you had to leave without working your notice. Keep it brief. Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you, smooth things over here. And you can leave your work phone on your desk. You won’t be needing that anymore.’

Gabriela said nothing, moving backwards towards the door as though she had been shot.

Chapter 23

Isobel

At six-thirty the next morning I pull myself out of bed. Casting my eyes across a sea of ashtrays, papers and dirty glasses, I walk to the bathroom, slapping the boiler to life, the water starting up with a heaving growl.

By the time I step out of the shower, the whole room is a fog. Wiping the mirror with my hand, I see my own face staring back at me through the steam. My reflection comes as a shock: the fine, clear skin I remember has been replaced by dark rings circling bloodshot eyes.

Pulling on the same skinny black trousers and jumper I wore the day before, I walk into the kitchen, switch on the kettle and scrabble around for a mug.

Once I’ve removed the barricade of chairs from in front of the door, I walk downstairs and onto the street. Whatever sun there might have been has disappeared behind a thick cloud which threatens to smother London.

The day is fuzzy, pigeons gathering on the cables running across the street. Lighting a cigarette, I cross the road and feel an arm brush against mine as I reach the other side, followed by a tiny shock of electricity. When I turn, it is just a young woman moving in the opposite direction, a hood pulled above her head.

Inside the café, stodgy air billows out of the heaters. I have just finished ordering my coffee when I hear my name. Turning, I find Hugh about half a foot behind me, his hair gelled into a limp fifties-style quiff clearly left over from the night before, his skin grey, pores secreting the stale smell of vodka.

‘Isobel,’ he says.

‘Hugh. What are you doing here?’

He gives me a confused smile. ‘Going to work. Some of us do have proper jobs.’