‘I will design on screen, zen print on self-adhesive vinyl. You can come back in one hour for ze decals. You can apply zem yourself. Piece of piss.’

He reached for a bruised student portfolio and fished out a handful of graphic illustrations of a dominatrix not quite dressed in PVC. ‘Maybe you like vun viz a naked girl instead of sree sink bubbles? Very good for business …’

I massaged my chin with my hand for a moment. ‘Tempting … But no. It’s not really that kind of business.’

‘If you say so, my friend. Zo I never came across a business zat didn’t involve somebody getting focked.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ I tapped the dial of my Suunto. ‘And right now you’ve got fifty-four minutes before you have to add your name to that list.’

He gave me a snort of derision and reached for his keyboard.

I left him to it and walked back to Stefan.

The boy had his nose in a Spider-Man comic. He’d stocked up on fizzy apple juice and Kinder Eggs too. The foot well on his side of the wagon was filled with empty wrappers. He was really cutting loose from the curly kale. I leant in through the window. ‘You know that stuff has no nutritional value …’

He looked up. ‘Want one?’ He held out his hand. The wrapper was still in place, but it wasn’t egg-shaped any more.

‘Last one?’

He nodded.

‘Nah. You have it.’ I got in behind the wheel. ‘But you’d better get it down your neck before you have to drink it. We’re going to the beach. You like to swim, remember?’

I knew he thought I’d totally lost it now. And maybe I had. But I’d decided he was right: he couldn’t spend the rest of his life stuck in the boot of one wagon after another. It had taken a lot of courage to tell me he was having nightmares about Frank in there, and I didn’t want him freaking out. Besides, today had turned into a scorcher. I didn’t want him hallucinating or dying of heat exposure.

I followed the signs to Kreuzlingen until I came to a stretch of grass covered with parasols and half-naked bodies. A crescent of trees shielded it from the road on one side, and the lake on the other. An overpriced parking area and a cab rank sat close by.

The primary-school day had obviously come to an end, because the place was crawling with kids Stefan’s age, their mums or nannies, and even some dads. Not many of them were reading Dostoevsky.

I fed the meter, then handed him his rucksack, fifty francs and the keys to the Polo. After a moment I added another fifty. ‘This isn’t all for Kinder Eggs, mate. It’s for a taxi into town, to the ERV, if I’m not back before last light.’ I told him to ask the driver to take him to the cathedral. It was the safest place I could think of. And if I still wasn’t with him by ten tonight, he should go and ask a priest for help – because that would mean I needed one too.

He tried to keep his happy face on, but I could see he was rattled.

‘Nick …’ He did that chewing thing with his lower lip. ‘What are you going to do?’

That was a fuck of a good question, and I had no idea how to answer it. Stefan might have had the IQ of a university professor and the armour plating of a born survivor, but he was still a kid. I couldn’t tell him I thought his stepmother had had something to do with the murder of his dad, and had probably aimed to kill him too. I couldn’t tell him that I was going to persuade her to tell me why.

And I also couldn’t claim that I was about to wave a magic wand over the whole situation so we could all live happily ever after.

I gripped his shoulder. ‘Listen, it’s a nice sunny day. Enjoy it. Just don’t talk to any bad guys. And remember, I’m only telling you this stuff because it pays to have a plan. You know that. ERV, remember?’

I walked him across the grass and fixed him up with a couple of deckchairs and a parasol near a friendly-looking woman in a sundress, who’d just treated her twin girls to the Swiss version of a Mr Whippy. I went and got one for Stefan while he laid out his towel. It was already melting when I handed it to him.

He seemed to cheer up as he took his first lick.

‘Mate …’

He nodded, dribbling ice cream down his chin.

‘You know that has—’

‘Yup. Absolutely no nutritional value.’ His eyes narrowed in the sunlight. ‘But who gives a fuck?’

I looked for a hint of a grin on his face and couldn’t find one.

I left him surrounded by very healthy-looking families. As long as you didn’t spot the haunted look in his eyes, he blended in nicely. Maybe it would remind him of the things he didn’t have, but there was fuck-all I could do about that.

And he wouldn’t be the only kid in the world to feel like he was on the outside, looking in.

I’d been there too.

8

I took the first cab on the rank and paid off the driver when I was only a brisk walk from the Expert. Next stop was my anarchist sign painter. He’d done a great job, and even helped me press the decal to the metal, without a single air bubble. He stepped back to admire it, but I knew he felt something was missing.

‘Viz tits next time, eh? Big vuns.’ He cradled an imaginary pair in his open palms in case I hadn’t caught his drift. He must have been on the weed again.

I nodded as I brought out his bonus. ‘Without a doubt.’

He returned to his own planet as I reversed away to go in search of a DIY shed he’d aimed me at. It didn’t take me long. The place was in a trading estate just off the main, and the size of an aircraft hangar, with a cash-and-carry right next door.

Even without artificial stimulants, it was decorator’s heaven. A smart white overall, a hard hat, safety glasses and a yellow hi-vis waistcoat went into my trolley. Then tins of paint, brushes, white spirit, sandpaper, disposable cloths, a hammer, a set of screwdrivers, a serious-looking padlock, a box of double-barbed fence staples and a staple gun, screws and ring-shanked nails, a bag of heavy-duty cable ties and two rolls of gaffer tape.

I needed the right equipment if I had to lift Lyubova and take her into the woodland at the northern end of the lake for an in-depth conversation. And if I didn’t, all well and good. Everything looked a bit squeaky clean, but it was the sort of shit that belonged in the back of any builder’s van.

I rolled back the side door and loaded everything up, then climbed inside, took off my jacket and Timberlands, shrugged on the overall and rolled back its sleeves. I replaced my boots, tore open the bag of cable ties and took off the lid of the box of staples.

I visualized a diagonal cross – the shape of a prone body with arms and legs outstretched – and banged sixteen ties, two at a time, into eight key positions: wrists, ankles, knees and elbows. Then two more for the neck. The gun gave a satisfying thud as it buried them in the ply.

Maybe she’d just tell me what I needed to know over tea and biscuits. But I wasn’t counting on it. And if I did have to lift her, I needed to keep her secure. The gaffer tape plus one of the cloths would take care of the mouth until I needed her to start talking.

When I’d fired in the final staple, I selected one slotted and one Phillips screwdriver, both medium, slammed the door and stepped up behind the steering-wheel. My next task was to go and find myself some extra licence plates.

I stayed on the wrong side of the tracks and drove past three or four white vans, which had either doors or windows open and looked like their owners would come back to them any minute.

Then I spotted another, streaked with grime and with a nice collection of dents, parked on the street alongside a church. It carried a German country code, so I pulled in twenty metres ahead of it, ducked down in the gap between its radiator grille and the taillights of the next vehicle and spent less than a minute removing its front plate.