He knew from past experience that wavering over a decision could mean the difference between escape and discovery. You had to keep your head, make rational choices, then act on them swiftly and confidently. It wasn’t fear of failure holding him back this time. It was a much greater force, Freya’s voice again in his ringing ears. Why had he broken into Daniel Sanderson’s house if only to slink out?

Then a shout came from the living room, leapfrogging across decades: “Who’s there?”

For a second, the years seemed to concertina. Paul almost called back as Paul Jacobs, as if strolling into Daniel and Nathalie’s flat: Only me! Picked up some beers for us all.

As time bounced back, his fists balled tight. A cold draft emanated from the front door as if to remind him how close it was.

“Who’s there?”

Paul threw up his hands as Daniel crashed into the hall brandishing a cricket bat. He stopped dead when he saw Paul. A bubble of shock seemed to form around him, fixing him in place, like a bronze batsman on a trophy.

“What the . . .” For a moment his defenses seemed weakened. That would have been the time to rush at him, disarm him, but Paul’s composure was blown too. He took in the face he used to study endlessly for signs of untruth. The face he used to catch staring at Nathalie sometimes, with a look that was somehow both tender and cold, intimate and calculating. Now Daniel must have been fifty-three but the shadows beneath his eyes had a look of permanence, as if he was tired of being himself. He was still broad, though, and strong-looking, dressed in gray overalls with some kind of logo on the breast pocket.

Daniel’s face twisted with prolonged shock, then settled into an expression of dark loathing. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Paul kept his hands up. “Drop the bat.”

Daniel stepped forward, holding it over Paul’s head. Paul tried to gauge whether he could grab it, block it, but it didn’t swing down, only hovered. “I should knock you out. I should kill you.”

“But you won’t.”

You won’t if you’ve got my daughter, because you won’t want a scene. Equally, maybe you won’t if you haven’t touched Freya, because you must wonder why I’m here, after all this time, after everything.

“We’ve an agreement,” Daniel said. “I’m not under investigation anymore. You spying bastards admitted you were in the wrong.”

“I’m not here for that.”

“What, then? Not done enough damage?”

“My daughter.” Paul watched for a reaction, but there was only a flicker: possibly surprise, possibly knowledge, possibly imagined. He was long out of practice at reading what Daniel was thinking.