‘Just tell me where she is and I’ll go.’ Jake takes a step back. Has the man seen him? He’s striding across the forecourt with what looks like a key fob in his outstretched hand.

Jake turns his back and bends down to fiddle with his rear tyre, out of sight, pretending to unscrew the valve cap.

‘She’s at the house,’ the woman says.

A moment later, Jake hears the car drive off. He stands up, barely able to breathe, and pulls out his phone.

‘I thought it was her, Bex,’ he says as an angry pump attendant comes towards him. ‘But it wasn’t.’

‘Que faites-vous?’ the attendant demands, gesticulating wildly for him either to buy fuel or to bugger off.

‘Was she with Rob?’ Bex asks.

‘I don’t know any more,’ he says, trying to pacify the attendant with an upheld hand. ‘It looked like him. But I think it must have been Gilmour. I’m driving on to the house.’

‘What’s going on, Jake?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he says, getting into the car. The attendant is still cross with him. ‘She looked really unwell, whoever she was,’ he says, driving off. ‘And I think she might have just taken Kate’s place in the world.’

100

Kate

‘We haven’t got long,’ Putin says, opening the front door of the house. ‘I don’t know why you need to see inside, but he insisted.’

‘Who?’ Kate says, following him into the hall, eyes widening. ‘Who insisted?’

‘He likes us to call him “Gil” when he’s here.’

She shakes her head, looking around in disbelief. The interior is identical to the house in Cornwall, down to a copy of the Financial Times neatly folded on the chair in the hall. The same Persian rug on the concrete floor, white lilies in an identical glass vase. And then she hears the unmistakeable sound of little feet. A dachshund comes trotting out of the kitchen to greet them, sniffing at Putin’s leg.

‘He’s a rat,’ he says, kicking the dog away.

Kate winces, desperate to scoop him up in her arms. He looks just like Stretch.

‘What’s his name?’ she asks, leaning down to beckon the whimpering animal, but he’s already retreated to the kitchen. She doesn’t blame him. She’d run away if she could.

‘What does it matter?’ Putin says. He picks up a plastic supermarket bag of what looks like clothing and throws it to her. ‘You need to change into this,’ he says. ‘In there.’ He nods at the bedroom, waving the remote at her. She looks inside the bag and then at him. It’s a hospital patient gown. A pair of flip-flops too.