Fry couldn’t remember when she’d last sat in a bar with so little atmosphere. The walls were subdued pastel colours, designed in a mock Georgian style, but with ornate chandeliers. The armchairs were imitation leather and so deep that she had to sit forward on the edge of her chair to remain upright. Kotsev had left his glass of vodka untouched in front of him out of politeness, though she’d refused his offer of a drink.

‘Until the year 2004, baby selling wasn’t a crime in Bulgaria,’ he said. ‘Even now, a woman who sells her baby has committed no offence. By law, she is regarded as a victim.’

‘But what about the dealers? The middle men?’

‘Yes, their activities are now a criminal offence. If they’re caught, they might face a year in prison.’

‘A year? Are you kidding?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Things are changing. But perhaps not quickly enough for some.’

‘Why would a mother sell her baby, Georgi?’

‘Ah, babies are a valuable commodity. A mother might sell one to buy a house, or to feed the rest of her family for a little while.’

‘It can’t be so easy to smuggle babies out of the country, can it?’

‘What? Bulgaria has five borders – Romania, Serbia, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey – and all of them leaky, like a sieve. And we have the Black Sea coast, with little ports where you can sail a boat across. Yes, our country has become a corridor for smuggling of all kinds. Drugs, cigarettes, vegetables, people . . .’ Kotsev fingered his drink. ‘A while ago, our authorities broke a kidney-trafficking ring. Six people had been taken to a clinic in Istanbul, where their kidneys were sold to transplant patients. This is a rich business for someone – kidneys are worth between two and five thousand dollars each. It depends on the blood type, you see.’

‘Did you say vegetables just now, Georgi?’

‘Ah, yes. Potatoes, for example. Also apples. Any kind of food that is scarce. In Sofia, the police arrested a smuggler known as Nick the Chicken, on account of his speciality.’

Fry sat back, fighting the feeling that she’d stepped into some kind of Russian farce. The armchair squeaked at her movement. Taped music played somewhere, and a barman appeared to wipe glasses that hadn’t been used.

Kotsev couldn’t resist a sip of vodka. ‘The main interest to us might be in the connection with the victims of the double shooting in Pleven. It seems they not only had a personal relationship, but they were also colleagues.’

‘That’s not unusual.’

‘No. But guess where Dimitar Iliev and Piya Yotova worked.’