‘I’m still trying to establish exactly who lives there,’ she says. ‘No other vehicles registered at the property. Seems like it’s owned by a shell company in the Cayman Islands. Wouldn’t mind taking a look in person.’

‘And maybe get your friend in digital forensics to help with information on Gilmour,’ he says.

‘She’s already had a trawl. No social-media footprint, nothing. But she did find one thing.’

Silas looks up. He’s come to recognise Strover’s tone when she’s onto something.

‘A person calling himself Gilmour Martin appears to have flown into Stansted from Cork on a British passport six months ago,’ she says. ‘And given the Home Office has no record of a Gilmour Martin matching his age, it must have been a fake.’

Silas is aware that passports aren’t always checked as closely as they should be on flights from Ireland to the UK, but there’s also been a recent rise in convincing counterfeits. And many of the best are coming out of Bangkok.

‘I’m trying to get a photo and flight manifests, but it’s going to take time,’ Strover says.

‘Just don’t tell the boss what you’re doing,’ Silas says.

‘We should tell Kate, though – she asked us to look for a match for Rob and she still doesn’t know about Gilmour Martin.’

The discovery is hardly going to put her mind at rest.

79

Kate

Kate knows she’s woken late. Not because of the daylight outside – the steel blinds are still down and it’s dark in the apartment, a faint light seeping in from the bedroom. It’s just a feeling. She sits up on the sofa, the memories of last night flooding back. She’s here in the main room with a blanket because she was sick – after thinking again that Rob had been replaced by a double. Knowing, not thinking. There’s no way her Rob would have known what she was saying in French, given her that look of understanding. He could barely speak a word when she tried teaching him. She hasn’t got Capgras.

At least the power is still on. She gets up from the sofa and walks towards the bedroom. Rob’s not here, she can sense it. The flat feels empty. Sure enough, the sheets have been stripped back, the bedside light left on, a note beside it. She reads the message without picking it up:

Sorry you had such a rough night. Hope you’re feeling better. Power working but blinds still not responding. I’ll call mid-morning. Had to leave early for Brittany – looking forward to you joining me… R xxx