‘Well –’

‘If you think I’m doing it in the back of a car at my age, Darren Turnbull, you’ve got another think coming. Especially in your bloody Astra, with the police looking for it everywhere. I don’t want some copper banging on the window and catching me with my knickers off.’

‘We’ll go somewhere quiet. There’s lots of places we could find.’

‘No. Darren, either you go to the police like you should, or I’ll phone them myself and tell them who that car belongs to.’

‘Stella –’

‘Yes, I will. And then they’ll come round to your house to pick you up. How would your precious Fiona like that, eh?’

Darren went cold at the thought. He glanced guiltily out of the phone box, but no one was around to see him.

‘Look, Stell, there’s no need for that. I’ll come round to the cottage as usual tonight, and we’ll have a talk about it, OK?’

‘Fine. See you, then. And don’t forget the booze.’

Before she left West Street, Fry knocked on the door of the DI’s office to report her movements. She found Hitchens staring at a passport that lay on his desk in a clear plastic wallet. Its cover was the familiar burgundy red, with the royal crest embossed in gold. The lion and the unicorn, dieu et mon droit.

‘Is that Rose Shepherd’s passport?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Don’t you think it’s weird to have a French motto on the front of a British passport? I bet most people don’t understand what it means.’

‘We’re in the European Union now,’ said Fry. ‘We’re not supposed to understand what anything means. So why is it here?’

‘The HOLMES team checked the passport number. It seems that no such passport was ever issued by the UK authorities. We’re going to send it to the FSS for their document examiners to have a look at, but the conclusion seems pretty clear. Rose Shepherd’s passport is a forgery. A very good one – but still a forgery.’

‘But that means –’

Hitchens swivelled his chair to face her.

‘Yes, Diane. It means we have absolutely no idea who she really was.’

It was five thirty-eight in the evening when Lazar Zhivko tapped the numbers into the keypad and locked the door of his electrical shop in Stephenson Place, Chesterfield. He rattled the handle to make certain it was secure and looked over his shoulder, as if afraid that a mugger might choose this moment to strike. Lazar’s eyes were dark with anxiety as he scanned the pavement and the cars parked in front of the shop.