‘No,’ I said, raising my voice over the mounting hiss of the gale, ‘it’s just that the road to Pesok looks a bit sticky, that’s all.’ I jerked my head towards the lake. ‘I’m going to head up to Krupp and see if I can get round that way instead.’

A gust of wind hit the side of the Lada, blowing snow into my face.

‘Pesok?’

I nodded.

‘OK then. No problem.’ He stepped back and raised his voice. ‘I’ll just check your licence and insurance and you can be on your way,’ he continued. ‘Wouldn’t want you out-of-towners to think we didn’t do our job right, would we?’

‘Of course not, officer. It’s in my wallet.’ I looked at him, still smiling. ‘May I?’

He nodded and I moved my right hand slowly behind me, putting my fingers into my jeans back pocket and producing a folded hundred-dollar bill. Benjamin Franklin had been getting me in and out of trouble for days now. He was worth a final shot, either way. I straightened the note and held it out, so the policeman could see how much I was offering.

‘Here you go.’

He snatched the note immediately and folded it, palming it out of sight with a flick of the wrist so practised he could have performed on stage.

‘And your insurance, Mr …?’

‘Ivanovich,’ I replied. And then, producing another hundred-dollar bill: ‘My pleasure, officer.’

The second bill followed the first into his top pocket.

‘It’s fortunate your paperwork was in order, Mr Ivanovich.’ He wrinkled his blade of a nose. ‘Have a good night.’

He turned and walked back towards his vehicle, signalling to his partner through the windscreen with a flick of the baton to kill the flashing top lights. I put the Lada into gear. I could do it now and eliminate any uncertainty. But I didn’t want to kill Russian cops any more than I did Irish or French ones. Corrupt or not, they weren’t the enemy. And anyway, knocking a traffic patrol out could cause more problems than it might solve. As soon as they failed to respond to their HQ’s first radio call, someone somewhere would know something was up. Much better that everyone went home happy.

The patrolman opened the passenger door of his DPS Niva. I let out the clutch. My tyres rolled forward, biting into the freshly fallen powder. But instead of climbing in, the cop hesitated for a moment, half covered by the open door, before turning around to face me. His right hand dropped to his side, degloved, struggling with the cover flap on his white leather holster.

His partner must have run the stolen Lada’s plate.