Silas’s head spins as he tries to process his boss’s words. Kate definitely flew to France earlier today. The general aviation report submitted to Border Force confirmed it.

‘How did Rob get there?’ Silas asks.

‘I didn’t inquire,’ Ward says. ‘Apparently, he’s been meaning to talk to us about his fears for some time. And then yesterday he was sent a speeding fine for a car he doesn’t own, which focused his mind. It’s registered in the name of Gilmour Martin, this lookalike who made threats against him in Thailand nine years ago. And now one of his employees, Dr Varma, has been murdered. He’s quite frightened, actually. I explained that the Met wants to interview him and he’s on his way up to London to talk to the SIO now. They also offered to hand in their passports until the matter’s resolved, and I agreed.’

Silas is speechless, doesn’t know where to begin. ‘Did you ask him about the missing super recognisers?’ he asks.

‘I would have done if you’d told me more about them, Silas. In due course, he’ll need to account for his movements when these super recognisers apparently disappeared. He’s not going anywhere, said he’s staying at his London apartment tonight.’

Silas still can’t get his head around the timings. Kate must have turned around as soon as she touched down in France, flying back to the UK with Rob in his private helicopter and landing somewhere near Swindon. Beats crawling along the M4.

‘It’s not all bad news, though,’ Ward continues. ‘Rob confirmed that Centaur’s finally coming on-stream tonight. Our all-new facial-recognition software. Man and machine working in perfect harmony.’

102

Kate

‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ a woman is saying. ‘You were not to be harmed. Strict orders. He will be in trouble.’

Kate’s at the kitchen table in the house, barely conscious, sipping from a mug of mint tea. The woman is young and pretty and wearing what looks like a nurse’s uniform. Kate can’t place her foreign accent, but it’s similar to Putin’s. Slavic. Kate’s neck is still sore, but it’s her ribs that are throbbing. They feel badly bruised, possibly broken. Her lower back’s agony too.

‘Thank you,’ she says to the woman, feeling a little stronger. ‘For the tea.’

It’s so weird to be sitting in this familiar kitchen, the light flooding in from all directions, a painting of Stretch on the easel to her left.

‘If he laid a finger on your head, he would have been killed,’ the woman says, glancing up at the rear kitchen door that leads out to the warehouse.

‘My head?’ Kate says, thinking back to Putin, how he aimed all his blows at her torso.

‘Your brain.’ The woman nods at Kate’s tea. ‘Drink it quickly.’