There was a momentary flash of something in Hope’s eyes. A twitch from a muscle in her neck. ‘That name sounds familiar. Do I know you?’

‘Rebecca’s mother was killed in the recent attack in Tunisia,’ Sean said. ‘The Islamists were targeting a women’s charity if you remember?’

‘The journalist.’ Hope wore a mask of pure innocence and compassion. She reached out and grasped Silva’s hands with both of hers. ‘How awful. I’m so sorry for your loss, Rebecca. The world deserves to be a better place so we don’t have to endure this type of tragedy.’

Silva muttered something and it was all she could do to restrain herself from wrenching her hands free. She tried to speak, but still nothing coherent came out. Hope gave a little nod towards Sean. Do something, it said. An executive order. Comfort on command.

Then Hope released Silva’s hands and was wheeled away by Mavers to press more worthy flesh.

‘Jeez, Becca, are you OK?’ Sean had his arm round her. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

‘Air,’ Silva said. ‘I need air. I need to get out of this fucking place.’

An elderly man close by gave Silva a glance. Bad form, swearing, the look said. Especially from a lady.

Silva stumbled away, shrugging off Sean’s attempts to come with her. She passed through security and ran outside. She walked across Trafalgar Square to one of the fountains and sat on the edge. She clenched her fists. Hope had known. What Sean and Mavers had taken for being well briefed was in fact evidence of her guilt. Silva had seen the fleeting look of horror cross Hope’s face. The realisation this was the daughter of her nemesis. What else had she realised? Did she have an inkling that Silva knew the whole story?

The air was warm and the stone wall she sat on radiated the heat of the day but despite this she shivered. After a few minutes she walked back up the road to the gallery. She slipped inside and made for the toilets. Along the corridor a couple of guests waited by the cloakroom desk while an attendant retrieved their belongings. To one side there was an anteroom, and a sheet of paper with the words Green Room printed in bold type had been stuck to the door. A raised voice floated out. Instead of going into the toilets, Silva moved towards the door. She hung near the entrance and casually peered through the crack. Greg Mavers stood over near one wall, his bulbous face white, his eyes wide and staring. A disembodied finger jabbed at his face. Silva shifted her position, but she already knew who the finger belonged to because she could hear the near screech from Karen Hope echo round the room.

‘An apology isn’t enough, Greg. Not nearly fucking enough.’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t think it would be—’