It was heartbreaking and infuriating in equal measure. As soon as one question was answered, another presented itself. But we were getting somewhere. While Doc had worked on my wounds, he’d told me that I’d been lucky to find him, that he’d had a shooting trip planned. And there’s good shooting in Donegal in January – snipe and woodcock, particularly. The more I looked at everything, the more it seemed Doc must have been the intended recipient – even if he might not have known he was, or what the banknote signified. But as soon as he’d spotted the name of my mother’s birthplace, he – like me – would have understood it meant something important. But if Doc had known what was going on, or if he’d had the means to work it out, then that knowledge was gone, too – incinerated in the remains of his eccentric mansion.

Trying to work out what it all added up to didn’t make me feel like an A-grade student. It made me feel sick to my stomach. No matter how hard I tried to wash it off, Doctor Jacob Levy’s blood still clung to my hands. I went back over every detail of the firefight in the cottage, sieving my memory for anything that might help point to the path ahead.

Discovering the banknote and then deciphering its significance had been woven inextricably into my own personal quest to find Rachel. Seeing my photograph in the paper had forced me to run. Sure, it had shrunk the world around me. But as much as it had made life more complicated, it had also released me. The press reports were like a knife, cutting the bonds that tied me to process and procedure. However difficult it was operating beyond orders, I was free to do what I liked, how I liked. There were no rules, and no one to answer to except myself.

I didn’t know if Rachel had made a run for it or had been abducted. I didn’t even know if she was still alive. But if Avilov was as much in the dark about her whereabouts as I was, I might still get to her first.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ve only got one lead left, so we may as well use it.’

‘What’s that?’ Baaz asked.

I put Moshe’s book of matches face up on the table. The black 7 logo danced on its yellow flame. Then I opened the book and pulled the matchheads forward to reveal the hidden cell phone number scrawled on the cardboard backing. Baaz half rose out of his seat in excitement.

‘You’re going to call it?’

‘Not yet.’ He sat down again, disappointed. ‘Let’s scope out this Gallery 7 online first. Look nationwide, not just in Tel Aviv.’

Baaz opened the case to his digital demon and clicked away at the keys.