‘There’s a suspicion the car might have been stolen,’ Silas says, thinking on his feet. He has no evidence yet, but it wouldn’t surprise him. And he doesn’t want to lose the traffic officer’s interest. ‘We just need to know who’s on board and where they’re heading.’

90

Kate

Putin steps out of the car with a folder of documents and starts to talk to the police officer on the pavement in Southwark, beside Kate’s window. The noise of the passing traffic makes it hard for her to hear what they’re saying, but Putin looks relaxed as they skim through the paperwork together. Cara is beside her, remote in hand. Kate’s neck still aches from the shock she gave her a few seconds ago. Is this her moment? If she smacks the glass and shouts as loud as she can, makes a scene before Cara has time to trigger another shock, tells the officer she’s being abducted…

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Cara says, nodding at the traffic officer. ‘He’s one of ours.’

Kate sits back, too embarrassed to look at Cara. For the second time the woman has read her thoughts. Is she also lying about the officer? ‘Where’s Rob?’ Kate asks.

A moment later, a knuckle rap on the window and the officer gestures for Kate to get out. She glances at Cara, who seems momentarily thrown. And then she nods.

‘We’re just making a few checks,’ the officer says as Kate steps out of the car. ‘A Tesla like this one was recently reported as stolen.’

It feels good to be out in the fresh air, the bright sunshine. Has someone slipped up? Without thinking, she raises one hand to the neckband and touches it; she’s barely able to breathe. All she needs to do is speak, tell the officer what’s happened. Is he really one of theirs? She glances back at Cara, who’s staring at her through the window, and remembers the pain.

‘May I ask your destination today?’ the officer continues.

She glances at Putin and then back at the officer. ‘To France, to see my boyfriend,’ she manages, recalling Putin’s instructions. No names.

‘Would you like to speak to him?’ Putin interrupts, holding out his phone to the traffic officer. Putin’s suddenly full of charm, like he was yesterday when he greeted her at Paddington. ‘My boss – he is calling me now.’

The traffic officer hesitates for a moment, as if weighing up his options, and then takes the phone out of what looks like a bored sense of duty. Is this a charade for Kate’s benefit?

‘Am I speaking to Gilmour Martin, registered keeper of a Tesla Model S?’ he says formally, leaning over to look at the number plate, which he proceeds to read out.