The services were local ones, not motorway, a labyrinth of roads twisting them around the edge of an industrial park to a retail mecca offering a reassuringly homogenous blend of forecourt and food court, a thin Bank Holiday crowd of hungover travellers stopping for breakfast.

Luca clipped the lead on the puppy. ‘I’ve a call to make. I’ll stretch this little guy’s legs while I’m about it.’

‘He hasn’t had all his injections yet,’ she warned, still scrabbling to plug her own phone into the car charger.

‘What’s he called?’ He tossed the car keys onto the seat beside her.

‘He’s not.’

‘Not’s a lousy name.’ With a flash of that startling smile, he strode away.

He uses it like a weapon to keep people at a distance, Pax decided as she went in search of coffee. They weren’t so different. She’d used ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ as her shield long before the retro poster campaign.

Luca and the puppy were still missing when she returned with a bag weighed down with Coke cans and dog-food pouches, plastic handles digging into her arm, and a hot coffee cup in each hand, what Mack called an ‘Irish handshake’ when carrying pints in the pub. Her husband had a mildly offensive cliché for every nationality and occasion.

Mack. Like a metronome tick in her head. Mack, Mack, Mack. Kes, Kes, Kes.

Shivering by the bonnet, she drank her own coffee, then Luca’s, wondering where the hell he’d taken her dog and if he was still on the phone. It was a seriously long call if so. Weren’t they all still in bed in Canada? She knew nothing about the set-up he’d left behind. She must be friendly, find out facts, play detective. Alice would be mad at her for letting the opportunity slip.

At last he reappeared, phone still pressed to his ear, puppy straining to rejoin her, dark eyes gleaming and tail whipping. Handing over the lead, Luca rolled his eyes, mouthing ‘Sorry’ and then resumed talking quickly into the handset.

She fed the puppy on a disposable plate she’d nabbed from a fast-food outlet, trying not to listen in. It took her a moment to realise that he was speaking Italian, his voice rising and falling far more expressively than it did in his softly spoken mother tongue. As soon as he hung up, he started thumbing a message. She eyed the screen. Was that German?

The puppy didn’t like his food, sitting down by the plate and looking up at her apologetically.

Luca was back on the phone, speaking French now, which he did badly, with a marked Irish accent. They all stood by the bonnet for a while, Pax waiting for him to open the car, but as soon as the call ended, he was back to scrolling and messaging.

‘It’s cold out here,’ she said pointedly.

‘Yes.’

‘Best get going.’

‘Agreed. Just got one more quick call to make.’

She could feel her teeth starting to chatter. ‘At least unlock the bloody car.’