She sat on the sofa – a sagging, green floral eighties chintz – carefully pushing a pair of kicked-off trainers further under the tiled-top coffee table with her feet. If the flat was basic, attempts had still been made to give it a homely feeling: there were handmade, coloured crocheted-doilies on a sideboard, funky embroidered LOVE cushions on the ecru armchair opposite, the beautiful, original floorboards were covered with a metallic purple shag rug. Several framed black-and- white and bleached-out seventies photos were arranged on top of a bookcase. This place certainly wasn’t unloved. Marina may not have much, but she had still made this a home.

Charlotte heard the kettle coming to the boil and she sat forward, straining to see into the next room. Marina was only just visible from behind, efficiently arranging the wet laundry onto a clothes horse. Two minutes later, and she was back in the room, instant coffee poured into two glazed mugs and a plate of churros – taken from San Ginés no doubt – arranged on a small chipped plate.

‘Amazing, thank you,’ Charlotte smiled as the older woman sat down opposite her, no trace of a smile on her face. She looked worn out and brittle. ‘It’s lovely here. Have you lived here long?’

Marina shot her a wry look as if to say, must we play this game of small talk? ‘My whole life. It was my grandmother’s first and my father grew up here too. I lived in my husband’s place for six years but when I found him in bed with another woman, I came back here.’ Her words were deliberately abrasive, intended to push Charlotte back.

‘Wow, so it really is home then,’ she said mildly instead. Charlotte picked up the mug but didn’t immediately move to sip from it. Her hostess was right; there really was no place for small talk here. ‘Marina, what if I told you, you could afford to buy this place outright – and I don’t just mean this apartment, I mean the entire building.’ Now she sipped the coffee, allowing her words to settle on Marina like a mist, spritzing her, waking her up.

Sure enough, there was a pause. ‘I would say you were crazy.’

‘Would you? Even though you know what I do? Who my clients are?’

‘A private bank, you said.’

‘That’s right. And one of their clients wants to make a special offer to you. He is prepared to give you ten million euros.’

‘Ten— ?’ There was a stunned silence; Charlotte could almost hear it rebounding off the walls, until Marina threw her head back and laughed. ‘Now I know you’re fucking crazy! Why? Why would someone do that?’

But Charlotte wasn’t smiling now. ‘It is being offered on strict conditions which I need you to hear and understand: the offer stands for today only, it is a one-off payment with categorically no scope for further negotiations or subsequent revisions. Furthermore, you can never apply to my client’s estate for more; acceptance of this sum would forfeit any future rights to either apply for or receive a gift, donation or bequest from my client’s estate. It’s very important you understand all that.’