The outline of the card I found in Jacinda Molinero’s dainty suitcase, sitting in a corner of my brain, fills with colour and grows clear. I can picture the silver lettering over black, and the foil edging. Albert E. Mathieson, International Tax Law. Zac’s old friend. Maxine said this morning that when she followed this up two years ago, the information was useful. But she refused to give me the details. Why?

I make a second phone call as the train speeds through the darkening landscape. Close to the tracks are sacks of cement and the skeletons of tractors. Fifty metres beyond are some tumbledown farm buildings roofed with corrugated iron. As I look into the distance, at a field planted with rows of wooden sticks, Albert E. Mathieson’s personal assistant explains that Albert can meet with me by video link, and charges a consultation fee of $800 an hour for a minimum of two hours of his time, payable in advance and not refundable. In addition, she explains, I am in great luck, because although there is normally a wait for space in Albert’s extremely busy diary, he happens to be free today at 17:00 local time, which is 01:00 for me.

A ribbon of river winds its way around shadowy churches and castle turrets as I try to quell my panic at the thought of sticking $1,600 on my credit card to buy two hours of Albert E. Mathieson’s time. But his assistant cheerfully instructs me on how to complete and sign some engagement documents and forms, including my payment details, and reassures me that for my convenience these can all be emailed.

Bath, Monday, 8 April 2019

As I walk home from the train station, I dial Eliza’s mobile again, but there is still no answer. I leave another message. I tell her that although I know Alice must be asleep and she herself must be exhausted by now, she can phone me any time, no matter how late. I promise to ring her again first thing tomorrow. I try her landline, too, and recite the same message there, despite my fear that Zac is likely to hear it and recognise my voice. As an afterthought, I say I will come to the house to check on them in the morning if we haven’t spoken by then.

It is 8.15 when I reach the basement courtyard of my flat, the phone still in my hand. The night is coming quickly. As I make my usual checks, the silhouettes of the recycling bins look sinister. When I see a male figure sitting on the step in the shadows of my front door, I let out a startled cry.

‘Hello, Helen.’ George is statue-like in his stillness, as if he fears that to twitch even a finger will startle me more. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

I take a step back. ‘Why are you here? How did you find me?’