Though it was supposed to be an Italian restaurant, Fry had a suspicion that the waiters were East European. Judging by the shouted exchanges she overheard occasionally, probably the kitchen staff were too. It hadn’t occurred to her when she chose the restaurant and booked the table. But now she wondered whether an idea had been in the back of her mind to make Kotsev feel more at home, give him a little bit of Eastern Europe right here in this strange, foreign town.

But then, as they’d entered the restaurant, she had a momentary panic at the thought that he might be offended instead. The waiter who’d served her last time could have been Albanian or something. There were a lot of old territorial disputes and ethnic conflicts in the Balkans. Didn’t Bulgarians and Albanians have some kind of long- standing hatred between them? Might Kotsev refuse to be served by an Albanian waiter and make a terrible scene?

Oh, God. And all she’d wanted to do was make life a bit easier for someone. That would teach her to keep out of other people’s lives.

But Kotsev behaved impeccably. And she was relieved she’d chosen somewhere smart, because her guest was turned out nicely for the evening. She was glad she’d made a bit of an effort herself. Come to think of it, she might have been wearing the same cord blazer and hand-knitted alpaca cotton top that she’d put on tonight when she came here with Angie. She didn’t get many opportunities to wear them, and nothing else in her wardrobe had seemed suitable.

Kotsev looked at the menu. ‘Could you recommend anything?’

‘The confit of duck is excellent,’ she said, since it was the only thing she’d ever eaten here.

‘I think I will try a steak,’ he said.

Fry wondered if he’d read her ignorance so effortlessly.

‘What would you normally drink in Bulgaria?’

‘Our national drink is rakia – grape brandy. Or wine. People of this country are acquainted with Bulgarian red wine?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Our white wine is also delicious. But Bulgarian folklore presents a lot of songs about red wine and only one about white, which goes: “Oh, white wine, why are you not red?”’

Fry laughed. ‘You said you were born in a village. So your parents were country people, Sergeant Kotsev?’

‘Please. Call me Georgi.’

‘I’m Diane.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Kotsev’s brown eyes were rather sad when you came to look closely. The dark hairs on his wrist curled over the band of a gold watch, and his shirt cuffs were white and crisp. His clothes surely hadn’t come out of his suitcase like that. Fry could picture him ironing his shirts in his hotel room. Not many men could use an iron properly, but she bet that Kotsev did it very well.