“You said you were a journalist, Beatrix.”

Beatrix regretted that she had lied to her now. “Yes,” she said, because what else could she say? “That’s right.”

“Perhaps you could tell a story about what has happened?”

“To your brother?”

“Yes. Perhaps it would make a difference.”

“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps it would.”

The girl smiled and exhaled, and Beatrix watched as the enforced maturity sloughed away and she saw her for exactly what she was: a twelve-year-old girl who was growing up too fast under the most awful circumstances. Beatrix thought again of Isabella, and the loss that she was going to have to face before the year was out. A loss on top of all the other losses. The thought brought the pain back to the surface in a sudden rush, and she couldn’t suppress the wince.

“Are you alright?” Mysha said, hurrying over to her.

“Maybe he hit me harder than I thought he did.” She braced against a chair and did not resist as the girl guided her down into it.

“You should rest, Beatrix.”

“Maybe I should.”

“It is getting late. Stay here tonight. I will tell you about my brother. For your story.”

The hour was getting late, that was true. Beatrix thought about it. There was very little that she would be able to do this evening, and in any event, Duffy might have already started to look for her by now. Roadblocks were a possibility. Rolling patrols. Her earlier decision was right: it made sense for her to lay low for a few hours until the initial impetus waned. If it were her looking for him, she would scour the immediate area and then gradually widen the perimeter until it reached the city, and then she would search the hotels.

The risk of discovery was greatest now.

It was safer to stay where she was.

And it would give Faulkner a chance to make an assessment, too, and work out the safest way for her to return to the city.

And she felt so very, very tired.

“Thank you, Mysha. That’s very kind. But I need to speak to my colleague. He will be worried about me. Do you have a telephone I could use?”

“Of course,” Mysha said. “It was my mother’s. There is some credit on it.” She opened a box and took out an old-fashioned Nokia. She switched it on and handed it to Beatrix.

Beatrix had memorised Faulkner’s number. “It’s me,” she said as soon as the call connected.

“What happened?”

Mysha surely wouldn’t be able to speak English, but she spoke quietly and quickly, nonetheless. “A demonstration of how Manage Risk does its business.”

“Are you alright?”

“I got cold-cocked, but I’ll live. Where were you?”

“They moved me on. I doubled back, but they wouldn’t let me get anywhere near you.”

“It’s fine, Faulkner. Relax. I’m fine.”

“Did you get closer to Duffy?”

“Yes. It’s him. He was there. Right in the middle of it. I think he saw me.”