Reykjavík was a sprawl of mostly modern buildings, the Hilton a big glass and steel block beside a busy highway just outside the centre. George gave Wada his card and urged her to contact him if she found herself with time on her hands in the evening. ‘You can rely on me to show a girl a good time.’ Wada wasn’t sure when she’d last been called a girl, but the novelty wasn’t enough to make her give him her phone number. A good time, in the evening or at any other stage of the day, simply wasn’t on her agenda.

The Sol was in a quieter location, neither new nor old, middle-ranking, with modest facilities, all of which suited Wada just fine. She went to her room, unpacked, showered and gave in to the mild jet lag the flight had left her with by taking what she thought would be a short nap.

Nick hadn’t slept well in Greenwich. Crossing time zones wasn’t the problem in his case. But travelling into other people’s pasts had taken a similar kind of toll in its way. He felt disorientated and half removed from his normal life. Only a few days ago, he’d been looking forward to Kate’s return home that afternoon. Now he found himself wishing she was away for longer, freeing him to delve further into the mystery surrounding his father without having to explain to her what he was doing and, fundamentally, why he was doing it.

He got up early, aware that Kate would expect him to do some food shopping before she arrived. But the idea of checking what he needed to buy and then going out to buy it, as if this was an ordinary weekend and nothing had changed in his world, wasn’t so much absurd as ungraspable. He needed answers to the many questions April’s admission had left him with, answers she’d been unable to supply.

At the moment, he could only think of one person who might be able to tell him more. He reckoned the earlier he called on her the better his chances of catching her unawares, so he hurried through breakfast, threw on some clothes and headed out.

The residential streets of Chelsea, lined with stuccoed townhouses and colourfully prinked front gardens, were quiet so early on a Saturday morning. The weather was cool, shower-clouds blocking the sun at fitful intervals. Parking was at a premium and Nick was left with a five-minute walk to Miranda’s door.

As he approached, he was surprised to see a tall dark-haired man emerge into view from behind a swag of wisteria blossom and step out on to the pavement.