The waitress pointed to the staircase and Betty threaded her way through the tables and up the wooden stairs to a large room on the floor above. Like the café, it was full of young men and women, the air thick with smoke, the table littered with coffee cups and papers, and there in the middle of the table was a model made from papier mâché of a homeosaurus, painted grass-green, the same colour as the front door her father had redecorated.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

London: July 1958

She packed a punch, he’d give her that. He deserved it, but even so he hadn’t expected that. He’d let her go. Hooked a fish and thrown her back in the sea. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Anatoly had blindsided him, made him see the world through trick lenses. He should have explained, told her who Anatoly was. Coded it in some way.

She was a fast runner, long out of sight. She’d be heading for King’s Cross. He had to talk to her. It wasn’t too late. He’d hail a cab. With a bit of luck he’d get there before she caught her train. He pushed himself up but his leg buckled and he fell back. He sat on the pavement, rubbing his thigh.

‘Quite some hiding she gave you, my friend.’ Anatoly was looming over him, blocking the sun, extending a hand. ‘Knock spots off a boxer, I can tell you. Let me help you up.’

‘No,’ John said. He spat the words. It was Anatoly’s bloody fault. ‘Get lost.’

‘That’s not very friendly.’

‘I’m not your friend.’ He rested on one hand, pushed himself up. His leg couldn’t take the weight so he hopped on his good one.

Anatoly grabbed his elbow. ‘Lean on me.’

John shook himself free, began to limp away, but Anatoly was by his side.

‘We need to talk,’ he said, taking John’s elbow and gripping it tight as he steered him towards Argyle Square, and an empty bench. John’s gut knotted and he began to sweat, moisture wetting his shirt and collar, palms tacky. He wanted to cry out, to call for help. He began to twist, yanked his arm, elbowed Anatoly.

‘Keep still, my friend,’ Anatoly said. ‘If you value Bette.’ He pronounced it Bette, the German way, and her name was as sharp and sinister as if he’d punctured him with a poison dart.

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