‘And no one knows where Rob is?’ Bex asks.

‘I’m hoping I’ll find one of them at the house,’ he says. ‘And Kate.’

‘Jake, I really think you should leave this to the French police.’

He wonders whether he should too. Dr Varma’s death has escalated things, made the authorities sit up, but he still wants to be here in France, wants to do something. Kate called him last night clearly in distress and he failed to stop her being taken away from the flat this morning.

‘Gilmour must have friends in high places,’ he says. ‘How else did he get Kate into France?’ He’s still haunted by Dr Varma’s words. You have no idea who you’re dealing with here.

Twenty minutes later, as he’s queuing through roadworks in Saint-Renan, Jake idly glances across at a Carrefour supermarket. Beside it is a petrol station. The traffic lights in front of him turn green and he’s about to pull away when someone catches his eye on the station forecourt. It looks like Rob, standing beside a car as he refuels. There’s someone in the passenger seat too: a woman.

He turns around at the next junction and pulls off at the petrol station, drawing up behind the car. Rob, if it’s him, has gone inside to pay, leaving the woman on her own. Scanning the tills, Jake gets out, careful to keep his face turned away, and walks up to the car. The passenger window is down and the woman is wearing sunglasses, staring impassively ahead. Jake’s mouth goes dry. Could it be her?

‘Kate,’ he whispers, checking the tills again. Rob is out of sight, must be buying something.

The woman turns, but not with the speed of someone responding to their own name. Is it Kate? She’s tired and sallow. Possibly drugged.

Jake hangs his head. It looks like her.

‘Jesus, Kate, what’s going on?’ He puts a hand through the open window, touching her shoulder. ‘Are you alright?’

The woman recoils from his touch as if he’s a pariah.

‘Please, you mustn’t talk to me,’ she says. ‘Move away from the car, I beg you.’

Jake stares at her in disbelief. She looks like Kate, but she doesn’t sound like her. There’s a trace of another accent in her voice, but he can’t place it. Scandinavian?

‘Oh God, where is she?’ he asks, looking up at the tills. The man has just paid and is turning to leave the shop. He’s no longer sure it’s Rob. ‘What’s he done with Kate?’

‘You must go – please.’ The woman has tears in her eyes now, and she’s nervously fingering a rubber necklace.