‘Sorry, but –’

‘Don’t worry. In the circumstances, you’re forgiven.’

As she was writing her reply another message landed, this one from Xander. ‘Holed up here,’ it read, followed by a link to an Airbnb. Amelia messaged him that we were on our way. I hoped he’d got to the apartment unnoticed. It seemed to be near to the Gare Centrale, so I asked the taxi driver we hailed at the airport rank to drop us there. I wanted to scope out this new place, or at least look at it from a distance and make sure nobody was watching, before going in.

58.

‘Gare Centrale’ turned out to be pretty close to the Congo riverfront, and the apartment was in a boring-looking five-storey block with a balcony that looked out over the water. We walked past the building once, eyes peeled, but nothing on the street seemed out of place. A Volkswagen with a one wing mirror dangling from its broken bracket drifted by, but a tatty car didn’t seem to have anything to do with us. We took the external staircase up to the third floor and knocked on the door, which opened a crack to reveal Xander’s face. I could have hugged him, I was that pleased to see him, but made do with a fist bump.

He showed us around, a natural on his crutches now. There was a tiny kitchen diner with a spindly modern table and chairs, a main room not much larger leading out onto the balcony, which I was pleased to see gave a view of the street as well as the river, and a couple of bedrooms with identical Christmas-themed duvets. Whatever. With the main door safely locked, I cut to the chase.

‘Let’s see the footage then.’

‘I was hoping it might show a licence plate on the motorbike or something,’ Xander said, pulling out his phone, ‘but there’s really nothing to see.’

The original CCTV recording was in black and white, and the fact Xander had filmed it on his phone made the quality ropier still. He was right, of course – the man who delivered the ransom note had parked out of shot and kept his motorbike helmet on with the visor down right the way through the argument with the concierge. He wasn’t wearing anything unusual, no logo or badge, and I watched the short clip with a sinking heart, right up until the point when the guy was escorted out by security. Something snagged then for me. It was the way the guy walked. He was bow-legged. I’d seen that bandy gait before, recently. It took a second for the penny to drop, but once it did I was certain I knew who it was. Certain and dumbstruck.

‘Langdon’s driver,’ I said under my breath. ‘But it can’t be.’

‘Why not?’ asked Amelia.