‘I popped out to the corner shop,’ and held up the Match Attax cards to which he had decided to treat himself after all his hard work. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Helping Paula. I’m sorry I missed you. I was running late …’

‘I called you,’ said Leandro. ‘Mrs Updark lent me her phone. I don’t know what happened, but it was weird.’

‘I’ve changed my number. Here, let me give you the new one.’

He wrote it down and handed it to Leandro, whose perplexed expression hadn’t changed.

‘Dad, the landline wasn’t working either. Magda had unplugged it …’

‘That was me.’

Leandro frowned. ‘I thought it was Magda. Oh, and she didn’t make your bed.’

‘She made yours,’ said Dyer, not wanting to open that can, and walked over to the fridge and looked inside.

Four bare shelves glared back. He hadn’t bought dinner. He hadn’t bought anything.

‘Dad …’

He tensed. What was Leandro going to say? ‘Are you having an affair?’

‘My history test—’

‘And I want to hear how it went.’

Dyer closed the fridge and turned, he had remembered his promise. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it at Peppers Burgers?’

Less than a quarter of an hour later, after Leandro had changed out of his school clothes, and both of them had taken a shower, Dyer called in a sharp voice as his son headed towards the front door: ‘No, Leandro, wait! This way.’ He opened the French window and stepped into the patio. ‘Let’s invite Paula. She’ll want to hear, too.’

The brown Skoda was no longer there when the three of them returned, shortly before nine o’clock. Paula said goodbye with a little bow. Her husband had been a submariner; he had taught her not to waste words. ‘Thank you, both. What a nice surprise. You’re welcome to climb over my fence whenever.’ She was glad the key had been found, though.

Dyer unlocked the front door. He had left the lights on downstairs. He came into the kitchen. Quick look round. All in order.

After Leandro disappeared to his bedroom ‘to read’, but most likely to play Fifa 18, Dyer took out his laptop and put it on the kitchen table. Ever since he’d dropped her off, he had been champing to look up Katya Petroshenko.

It was a risk, his searches could be traced. Yet as with Marvar, he might raise more suspicion if he showed no interest.

Not knowing how to say anything in Russian, not even hello, he typed Katya’s name into his browser. A sweep of Russian websites yielded one hit: a reference to Gennady Petroshenko, associate director of GAZPROM (m. 2004 Katya 1 s).

Without her maiden name, Dyer was not going to discover more. Frustrated, he replayed their conversation in his head. She had been more miserly with her details than Marvar.

He went to the loo, then tried again.