Fry knew there was something else that he wasn’t telling her. His silence invited another question, if only she could work out what it was.

‘Wait a minute – you said that was the official theory. What’s the unofficial one?’

Kotsev smiled. ‘You may know, Sergeant Fry, that we have a highly efficient secret service in Bulgaria, the Darzavna Sigurnost. They were trained by the KGB in the old days, and many of them have remained in their employment. Their usefulness did not disappear with Communism.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, Georgi.’

‘Some of these people have a talent for convenient assassinations. What more efficient way could there be to remove annoying criminals and save the difficulty of a trial, where embarrassing facts about government officials might emerge? A few extra stotinki in the pockets of a Darzavna Sigurnost operative. Boom, boom. Problem solved. Now it’s, “See, Mr EU Commissioner, we don’t have the nasty Mafia any more. How lucky. Now you can let us into your club.”’

Fry put down her fork. ‘No, that’s too incredible,’ she said.

Kotsev’s eyes crinkled as he held up a forkful of steak.

‘To you, perhaps. But you’re not in Kansas now.’

25

Cooper took his brother’s call at home in the middle of the evening, just as he was settling down to watch a good film with a bottle of beer in his hand and the cat on his knee.

‘Ben, it says here that older fathers are more liable to have kids with schizophrenia. If you’re between forty-five and forty-nine, you’re twice as likely to have a child with the illness as a man of twenty-five.’

‘Matt, you’re only thirty-five now. You were still in your twenties when you had the girls.’

‘Yes, well. I’ve written down all the facts to talk to the doctor about. Did you know schizophrenia can start at any age, but most people are affected in their late teens or early twenties? In their teens, Ben.’

‘Considering the average teenager, I wonder how they can tell.’

Matt had taken a breath to continue, but came to an abrupt halt as if his brother had made a rude noise down the phone.

‘It’s not funny, Ben.’

Ben found himself standing in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. The framed photograph on the wall was one of the few things he’d brought with him when he moved out of Bridge End Farm. It was both reassuring and somehow disturbing to have his father’s eyes watching him as he listened to his brother.

‘You know something?’ he said. ‘Mum would have found it funny.’

Matt sighed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ben.’

And the strange thing was that Matt was so similar to their father in many ways. Even this conversation sounded like one of those occasions when Joe Cooper would sit his sons down and give them advice. A few words of caution … It had been one of his favourite phrases.

‘Matt, have you thought of joining one of the support groups? There’s one called Rethink. It used to be the National Schizophrenia Fellowship.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘So you could talk to people with similar experiences and get some reassurance. That’s what those organizations are for.’

‘You’re not being very helpful, are you?’

‘Actually, I think that’s exactly what I’m being.’

Ben was glaring at his phone now. But he couldn’t keep it up. He had to smile when he pictured his brother doing the same at the other end. This was the way their arguments always started.

‘I can tell you’re not in the right frame of mind at the moment,’ said Matt. ‘You must have had a bad day, or something.’

‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t such a bad day – until now.’

Of course, he didn’t really mean that, but there was almost a set script between them when they got to this stage. Matt knew it as well as he did.

‘Oh, right. Sorry to have bothered you, I’m sure. I suppose that means you won’t want me to share any information I manage to find out from Dr Joyce tomorrow?’

‘You’ll suit yourself, Matt. It doesn’t matter what I say.’

There was a muttered swear word, a crash of something falling over, and silence. His brother had gone.

Ben found his eyes focusing straight ahead. And there was Sergeant Joe Cooper, gazing out from his place in the second row, among all those other solemn-faced police officers lined up in their best uniforms to have their photograph taken.

It was odd, really. He’d spent so much time thinking that his life had been dictated and overshadowed by the legacy of Joe Cooper. Everyone who’d known his father said how alike they were. Here he was doing a similar job, in the same place, and often dealing with the same individuals that Joe Cooper had encountered.

Sometimes it had made Ben feel as if he was a clone, a walking carrier of his father’s gene pattern. He hadn’t seriously considered what he might have inherited from his mother’s side, or which of her chromosomes he’d been allocated during conception. Her hair colouring, yes. The eyes, maybe. But what else was lurking in his DNA that he’d never been aware of? What genetic predispositions might he be carrying, that he risked passing on to future generations? Both of his parents were part of his nature. And he didn’t regret it. But the feelings stirred up by that thought had become equivocal.

He switched his attention away from the photograph to the Richard Martin print of Win Hill on the adjacent wall. The landscape normally brought him back to earth when he got too preoccupied. Literally back to earth.

Then Ben laughed to himself. All of this anxiety presumed he would ever get married or find a permanent partner. He didn’t have any such intentions at the moment, and maybe that was for the best. He’d really hate to be in Matt’s position, discovering the awful possibilities when it was already too late.

 ‘This is pretty, but I still prefer cities,’ said Kotsev as they walked by the river after dinner. ‘At ten o’clock at night in Sofia, the streets would be full, even though it’s a Thursday. People would be selling sunflower seeds or salted sweetcorn. They would be buying books from fold-up tables. There would be loud music from stalls dealing in pirated CDs. A few counterfeit Rolex watches or Levi jeans, perhaps. Beggars and street artists, and pickpockets and prostitutes. It would be like a party. Here, there is nothing.’

Fry studied him, wondering whether he was joking. It was difficult to tell sometimes. She could only get a clue by watching his eyes. Then, when he saw her staring, Kotsev laughed.

‘You like living in Sofia?’ she said.

‘In some ways.’

‘It isn’t all one big party, then?’

‘Let me tell you something, Diane. In a suburb of Sofia where I used to live as a young police officer, we were in an old apartment block from the Soviet era. Very grey, very ugly. We had a two-bedroom apartment for the family. But we were lucky. Some of our neighbours had many more children – they had to put mattresses in the kitchen, in the sitting room, on the balcony. Every shop in the neighbourhood had brightly coloured stickers on the door, to show which Mafia protection agency they were insured with. This was normal. It was the way everyone lived, and we understood it.’

‘I don’t think I would understand it, Georgi. A situation like that wouldn’t be tolerated here, even in our worst neighbourhoods.’

‘Some people say the power of the Mafia is a necessary phase in the progress towards a capitalist economy,’ said Kotsev, with a questioning tilt of his head.

‘I think that’s rubbish.’

He stopped, teetering on the stone ledge bordering the river. It occurred to Fry that she might be considered foolhardy to be alone at night in a quiet spot with a man she’d met only a few hours ago. But she didn’t feel uneasy at all. Big as he was, she could probably disable Kotsev easily. She hadn’t lost her skills completely.