His job did not end straight away. He worked for the family until June. His departure, when it came, was unceremonious. Only little Anton was visibly affected, holding tightly to Paul’s leg and refusing to say goodbye.

There were no other positions available, he learned at the agency. The recruiter, a polished woman, apologised and shook his hand, making the resin bangles clack loudly on her arm. It was the uncertainty in the air; everyone in Moscow was watching and waiting, business was on hold. No one was hiring. From what Paul could gather, the main activity was that of wealthy Russians shifting their money out of the country as the rouble slipped.

Flying back to England felt strangely like defeat. Paul moved into the house in Kent. He put buckets under the new leaks, lining them with towels to silence the drips. By mid-autumn he had a job. The school was posh, the kind of place that would once have made him feel like a sell-out. He had always told himself he would work in rougher comprehensives. But he liked the boys in his classes, their deferential manners. ‘Tell us about Russia, sir,’ they would say to put off a lesson.

Not long after he started, a reporter on the Financial Times called him. Owen Dorsey had got his number from Julius. Julius was still in Russia but was thinking of leaving too – not for the house in Bulgaria, which was no longer mentioned, but to work for his father’s investment firm.

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.