I handed him his envelope. He transferred the notes to his wallet, inserted the flash drive, opened a file. It was CCTV footage: a static shot of a broad, black Mercedes S-Class on a six-lane road. The backdrop looked like Astana: tower blocks and snow. Next shot you knew it was Astana because the car turned in through the gates of the Gazprom office. Time stamp: 11.31 a.m., 25 November. One day before the wireless dead drop in the mall, two days before Joanna went missing.

‘Who is it?’

He clicked to another shot, seventeen minutes earlier. The car was parked on a back road, someone in a parka with the hood up approaching it. He zoomed in. You could just about see a face beneath the hood. It was Joanna.

She appeared to climb into the car. It pulled out while the door was still closing.

Shomko went over to the window and checked the street outside.

‘The car’s registered to an individual called Aleksandr Kolobkov,’ he said. ‘He’s a fixer for a man called Vladislav Vishinsky.’

I looked again at the images, starting to feel uneasy.

‘A fixer?’

‘The driver has been identified as Viktor Trunenkov, former special forces soldier now working for Vishinsky.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘This is why you are hunting her, no?’

A car door slammed outside. Shomko peered down.

‘Customer,’ he said.

We both listened to the customers arrive, and kept listening until the showers came on.

‘Where does the car go?’

‘We don’t know. Did you know she was working for the Russians?’

‘That’s not what this says.’

‘I deserve a bonus, no?’

‘There’s a lot of ways of forcing someone into a car. They don’t all involve guns.’

‘Blackmail.’

I clicked back to the car shots. ‘What cameras are these from?’

‘The earlier pictures are from a police security camera. The ones on the alleyway are from a camera belonging to the Keruen shopping centre.’

‘You took them from the systems yourself?’

‘No. Someone else did.’

‘Seen the original footage?’

‘This is original footage.’ He took the envelope out of his pocket and counted the notes.

‘What about the man who was shot on Malakhov Street?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Maybe he found out what she was really up to.’

‘What does the investigation say?’

‘I have heard nothing about the investigation, except that people want to find the English woman.’

‘I told you to get information from the investigation.’

‘I got you information about the woman you want. Five thousand dollars, you said.’

‘Who gave you these? I need a name, otherwise this means nothing.’

‘He is trusted.’

‘Not by me. I don’t buy this.’

‘You don’t pay?’

‘I don’t believe.’

‘So you were fucking her and she deceived you. Now she’s fucking some Russian.’ He spat. ‘I am sorry for your heartbreak. Don’t fall in love with spies.’

THIRTY-FOUR