“And Raymond?”

Zelda smiled. “Raymond’s an artist. He loves the light in France. He’ll go with me. And the French love artists.”

“Paris?”

“No. I couldn’t. Not after . . . But perhaps we could discover some beautiful, hidden little corner of the countryside that hasn’t already been spoiled by foreigners like us. I’m sure I would be able to sneak back in and disappear.”

“Good luck. And in the meantime?”

“We’ll stay in Yorkshire. To be honest, we’re pretty isolated from the rest of the country up there. We have no close neighbors, and we’re a couple of miles from the nearest village. Not that there are any foreigners there. It is North Yorkshire, after all. And I’ll just carry on with my work, I suppose. Keep an eye on Hawkins. Look for any signs of this Phil Keane in photographs or in the street. Find out what he was doing in London with Petar Tadić.”

“And the policeman?”

“Alan Banks? We are friends. Raymond and I see him and Annie socially, too. They don’t press me for information every time we meet.”

“He probably thinks you’ll tell him if you find out anything.”

“Perhaps. Though sometimes . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think he knows that I’m keeping something back. Just the way he looks at me.”

Mati leaned forward. “Be careful, Nelia. You should not need me to tell you that, but I do.” It was rare that she called Zelda by her given name.

“What do you think I should do, Mati?”

Mati picked up the bottle and poured them more wine. It was the local grape variety, Malvazija, and very good indeed. Zelda passed the cigarettes again. “I think you should have another glass of wine, then you should help me settle in the new girl.”

Mati ran a shelter for trafficked girls fortunate enough to have escaped the sex trade into which they had been forced. It was housed on the slope behind them in a rambling old mansion on an acre or two of land. Mati’s work was her life these days, and the shelter, a place of healing and safety, was always full. There were even some Yazidi women, and their stories never failed to break Zelda’s heart: how their husbands were thrown into pits and shot; how they were forced into marriages with abusive ISIS warriors. Mati’s two strapping sons, known affectionately as Ić and Ićić—“Son” and “Son Son”—both built like heavyweight fighters and armed to the teeth, took care of security. Once or twice various trafficking gangs had launched attacks to try to take their girls back, but Ić and Ićić had fought them off. In the end, the gangs had stopped bothering. The risk wasn’t worth their while; there were plenty more girls for the taking.

Zelda smiled. “And after that?”

“After that, we’ll leave the boys in charge and go down to the village to sample the catch of the day at Martina’s. Then perhaps we’ll go dancing.”