Kate touches the neckband again as Putin follows the coastal road around the bay. If she were there in different circumstances, she could appreciate the scenery more. Rob was right. Brittany and Cornwall are uncannily similar, like twins: the hidden sandy coves and rocky headlands, high hedgerows and Monterey pines, windfarms and gorse. It’s enough to make her cry. Rob has often raved about Brittany – Cornwall without the crowds – but she knows Jake would love it here too. And she has a terrible feeling that she’s never going to see him again.

There were no checks when they arrived at Brest Bretagne airport. No opportunities to put some distance between her and the neckband’s remote. They were waved through the VIP channel and Putin picked up a car from the car park. Rob must have passed through the airport many times. He never talked about it though, not until recently, when he suggested they visit Brittany together. And now she’s here, wondering if he is too.

As far as she can tell from the car’s satnav, they’ve since headed west from the airport, skirting around the north of Brest and through Saint-Renan and Ploumoguer to the coast. They’re now somewhere northwest of Illien, driving down an increasingly narrow lane to a headland.

‘Is this the house?’ she asks.

‘No questions,’ Putin says. ‘He will explain everything.’

Who will? Kate holds her breath as the car rounds what she assumes is the final bend. The countryside feels so familiar – glimpses of the sea through five-bar gates, the fresh salty air, the promise of holidays – but there’s nothing reassuring about it. And then the lane opens up and she struggles to take in what’s before her. They could be at Rob’s house in Cornwall. The property looks identical: the same modernist mix of glass and oak and concrete, cut into the hillside and overlooking the sea.

They pass through high open gates that close behind them and head down the gravel driveway. A man and a woman are waiting for them in front of the house. One looks like Rob. And the other… looks like her.

96

Silas

‘First it was Cornwall and now it’s central London,’ Detective Superintendent Ward says on the phone. Silas rolls his eyes at Strover. They are both standing on the pavement outside Dr Varma’s practice in Queen’s Square. ‘You seem to be making a habit of investigating murders committed outside Wiltshire.’

‘I think they’re related, sir,’ Silas says, watching as more scene of crime officers in white oversuits enter Dr Varma’s practice. The square has been sealed off to traffic and there are a number of police vehicles parked up, including a Major Incident mobile command van. He misses his time in the Met, envies their resources.