Knox was suddenly very tired of arguing with Peterson. ‘If you want me to find out who killed Bianchi and Moretti I have to start with why,’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ Peterson replied. ‘Why two Italians died in the arse end of Deptford. Not how you can make this part of a grand conspiracy. Just because you want there to be a connection between them and Manning doesn’t mean there is one.’ He stood up and smoothed his suit jacket. ‘You might not believe me, Richard, but I am trying to help you.’

He took one more look at the papers spread over the table, then started to make his way to the door.

‘Manning’s generosity isn’t limitless,’ he said. ‘Find a lead worth pulling on. Quickly.’

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Valera’s resolve lasted another hour. The sun never completely set in Karelia in July, but the nights still got cold. She passed another abandoned village without registering it. Its old church still stood, offering sanctuary, but she didn’t seek it.

She ignored the pools and peat bogs she stepped in, and the gnats that had become a constant buzzing swarm around her. She stumbled over uneven ground, only changing direction for the largest of obstacles—a boulder deposited on the tundra by some ancient glacier or an inexplicable and long-felled tree trunk—until her body finally gave out.

Her legs crumpled under her and she collapsed onto a patch of moss and stunted bracken. As she hit the ground the small pack fell out of her arms. It was the first time she’d let go of it since she’d retrieved it from its hiding place. For almost a year she’d been collecting things, preparing emergency packs for her and Ledjo in case they ever got the chance to escape Povenets B. The chance had finally come, but only for Valera.

Her stomach suddenly demanded sustenance. She reached out and unfastened the flap of Ledjo’s pack. A small parcel of nuts and dried biscuits sat on top of a thick jumper. The jumper was one of Ledjo’s favourites from Leningrad. He’d almost grown out of it when they’d arrived in Povenets B, but years of feasting on scraps meant it still fitted him. Valera couldn’t remember when she’d put the nuts and biscuits in the backpack—it had been weeks since there’d been any of either in the naukograd’s sole, undersupplied shop. She bit into a biscuit. It was dry, brittle, stale, and tasteless. But that didn’t matter. It was food, the fuel she needed. Her body was slowly shifting from shock to survival mode. Next it demanded water and shelter.