‘Whatever you need, just do it. Money isn’t a problem.’

‘On the contrary – money’s always the problem,’ he snapped.

His words hung in the air, sparkling between them like chandeliers, beautiful and true.

‘You should know things on your side have become a lot more urgent since I . . . saw you,’ she faltered. Had it really only been yesterday afternoon that the two of them had raced across that street, hand-in- hand, seemingly running towards their destiny? ‘Carlos Mendoza is hopefully being discharged from hospital this weekend and Mateo has offered to fly Marina and her granddaughter down to Ronda in the family plane, ready for a reunion. I’m accompanying them down for the journey tomorrow morning. You are welcome to travel with us if it would help.’ Her voice sounded stilted, formal. Like her mother’s.

Another silence. ‘Fine.’ He could hardly argue for a seat on a commercial flight if they were taking a private plane.

‘Fine. I’ll arrange for the driver to collect you at ten, then.’

Another unhappy silence. ‘. . . Fine.’ And he hung up.

Chapter Thirteen

Charlotte sat in the back of the car, trying to look calmer than she felt. It was a black stretch Range Rover and had looked like a presidential motorcade when it had pulled up outside her apartment. Mateo had arranged for his driver to collect Marina and then her grandmother first – Charlotte couldn’t imagine how it had managed to turn down Marina’s street – and they were already sitting in overwhelmed silence when she first climbed in.

A little small talk – health, the weather, was the glass really bullet-proof? (yes) – had tided them over for the first few minutes, but they were all nervous and soon lapsed into distracted silences.

‘Where are we going now?’ Marina asked. ‘The airport is that way.’ She pointed right as they swung left.

‘Yes. But we are also collecting my colleague. Professor Nathan Marling.’

‘A professor?’ Señora Quincy enquired, like her nephew – an eye for the details. ‘What kind of bank is this, that has counsellors and professors?’

‘My clients try to be . . . holistic in their approach,’ Charlotte said lightly, not wanting to give too much away about Nathan’s work. She didn’t think Señora Quincy would take kindly to knowing her past was being thoroughly investigated.

‘And what is he a professor of?’

Too late. Charlotte swallowed. ‘History.’

The old woman’s eyes narrowed with immediate displeasure and it was evident she knew exactly what was happening behind her back. They sank into a stiff silence, looking out of the windows instead.

The Las Letras district had none of the flashy townhouses of Salamanca, nor the trendy condos of Goya. Rather it had a bohemian vibe, with boldly painted buildings veering from the usual umber and ochre palette to terracotta reds, hot pinks and oranges. The buildings were functional rather than beautiful – in spite of their exotic colours – and crowded so close together Charlotte thought it must surely be possible for people to stand on their balconies and touch the fingertips of their neighbours across the street.