Paul knew Owen but only vaguely. Owen said he was working on a profile. ‘Nikolai Kalinin, one of our lesser-known oligarchs.’

Paul, on his way home from work, pulled over to talk. Other cars were whooshing by, headlights flaring across the marsh. He frowned into the phone at Owen’s use of the word ‘oligarch’. ‘That’s a bit strong,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I’d call him that.’ He knew bits and pieces from reports he’d found online; he knew Nikolai had done well. There was something oddly hurried about his exit from Moscow; it made Paul think there was a reason why he’d cut and run. Cannily selling his interests before the oil price slid too far, he had bought an estate in Scotland, stables included.

‘Oh, come off it, Cullen. There’s no need to be bashful.’

‘Who else have you spoken to?’

‘Everyone’s keeping shtum.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘Which one?’

The question threw him for an instant. Then he understood. Of course, Darya had become the new Mrs Kalinin. Of course they were married, that was how things happened. Even so, he was caught off guard. The thought dogged him for days, recurring at odd hours in the night or during class.

Two weeks later, the newspaper ran the story. Paul read it on the pebbly beach. Sure enough, there was the stuff about Nikolai getting out handsomely, the Scottish estate and stables. There was talk of him buying a racehorse from the Queen. As for Zolotneft, the report gave details of a deal with a foreign outfit. Having won the licence for a bluefield site offshore, they had launched a joint venture to go into the Arctic proper. This must be the deal that Darya had mentioned; the only mystery was how Nikolai came out of things so well. The paper said the deal had nearly foundered over concerns about Zolotneft’s environmental record, after the authorities gave notice of breaches in the Northwestern Federal District, but Nikolai had managed to broker a settlement.

It was cold on the shore and the breeze rattled the pages. The shingles were hard to sit on, and clung to his trousers when he stood up. Brushing himself off, he thought of how foolish he’d been, asking Darya to come here. She would have had a September baby, he thought, counting the months. She’d now be leaving Miami, if she hadn’t already. Strange to think of her in London, passing through on her way to Scotland, but then her London was not his London. They were completely different cities.

How had Nikolai turned the tables? he wondered, walking back. How had he scuppered the attempt to do him out of his shares, getting one up on whoever had tried to cheat him? He recalled his comment about foxes, that first day at the flat. His admiration for them as survivors, living and thriving in the most extreme conditions. That applied equally to Nikolai.