The Rasta sucked his teeth. ‘She got a temper, that one.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I hear her shout many a time at them bad men on the corner. You come see me if you get scared.’

The flat was immaculate but homely, kitsch even. The girl had long fair hair scraped back very hard from her bony face. She wore a kimono covered in delicate butterflies, out of which her long thin hands protruded like small spades, too heavy for her wrists. The coffee that was brewing smelled delicious and I realised how hungry I was.

‘Thank you.’ I took the scalding cup. ‘Nice place.’

She yawned widely. ‘What do you want?’

‘So you were friends with Katya?’

‘Katya?’ She looked at me and her tone was accusatory. ‘She died in your house. That is strange, no?’

‘Not really strange. Tragic, I think is probably a better word.’

‘Are you saying my English is not good?’

‘God, no, not at all.’ I was flustered. ‘I just – it was a terrible accident.’

‘Was it?’ she said flatly.

I stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I knew something like this would happen.’

‘Did you?’ My heart was starting to race painfully. ‘How? I mean, we just hired her for the party. For James and Liam’s party.’

‘And you, you are married to James Miller?’

‘Yes,’ I mumbled. She made me bizarrely nervous, this thin, cross girl.

‘Well, you should ask him then.’

‘He’s in prison. That’s why I’m here. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I’m trying to understand why.’

She sniffed disdainfully and spoke in a language I didn’t understand.

‘Look, please.’ I put my hand on her arm. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe I was near the truth. ‘Please, you must tell me what you know. I don’t even know where Katya came from. What country, anything.’

‘What country?’ She screwed up her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Was she Polish, like you?’

‘I am from Russia, actually. And she – she was from your country.’

‘What?’ I stared at her without comprehending. ‘My—But, her name and—’

‘Kate.’

‘But I thought—’

‘Katya is just for the act. More – exotic, I guess. Katya the Flying Angel.’

Kate, from my country. Alarm bells began to ring somewhere far off. ‘Christ. You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ On the shelf behind Lana was a photo of her and another woman, arms round each other, smiling into the camera on a summer’s day. Katya was older than I’d realised; I’d only really registered her in all her stage finery, thick make-up slathered on. I looked closely at the wholesome scrubbed face, the cropped pixie-cut, the beaming smile and my world suddenly seemed very small. I felt my chest constrict until breathing seemed difficult.