‘Have the French police been alerted?’ Jake continues. ‘I can’t see anyone around.’

Silas takes a deep breath and surveys the street. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not as straightforward as that.’

‘How do you mean?’ Jake says. ‘I thought there was an arrest warrant out for Gilmour? Kate’s in real trouble. I think I’ve just seen her. Behind the house, up on the cliffs.’

There’s no easy way to tell him. ‘Kate’s back in the UK, Jake,’ Silas begins. ‘With Rob. He’s just visited Gablecross police station. Claims he’s being framed by Gilmour.’

‘What?’ Jake’s sense of disbelief is even greater than Silas’s. ‘That’s not possible. It can’t be Kate. It must be someone else. You’ve got to believe me.’

Jake describes his encounter at the petrol station in Saint-Renan.

‘And you’re sure it was Rob the woman was with?’ Silas asks.

‘I’m not sure, no. It definitely wasn’t Kate, though. She had a different accent, different… I don’t know, presence. Physically, sure, she looked just like Kate, but… I lived with Kate for twelve years. I’d recognise her anywhere. And this woman looked terrible. Pained. Terrified. Kept begging me to leave. She also told me that Kate was back in the house. You’ve got to help me. I’m on my own here.’

104

Kate

The low lighting in the warehouse is a sickly blue, like a morgue at dawn. The temperature is low too. Putin is beside Kate, letting her take in the hideous scene.

‘Your new home,’ he says, but she’s not listening. She’s staring ahead, trying to comprehend the nightmare laid out before her, the saline tubes and TV screens, the smell of disinfectant. She’s back at the hospital again, bruised and battered in the dark early days after the accident, listening to the anguished cries of other patients as they call out through the night. The flickering screens remind her too of the very worst days in the super-recogniser unit, the endless scrutiny of human faces in a cramped, late-night office.

Her hands start to shake. She clutches her arms, pulling the thin gown tighter around her sore ribs. She’s got to get away from here.

She forces herself to count a total of eleven people, six men and five women. They appear insensate, lying in separate cubicles, torpid faces staring up at large display screens suspended from the low ceiling above them. Their eyes are pegged open in some strange way, giving the impression of gross, misshapen eyelashes. They are all wearing gowns and what look like EEG headsets, identical to the one she was made to use, and they’re breathing through ventilators. Drips are attached to their arms.