Leaving it to bubble, I scanned the shelves above the work surface by the cooker. They were stuffed with herbs and spices and tins of smoked mussels and five kinds of pepper, but not what I was looking for. They didn’t seem to go for Colman’s mustard around here, and the Gucci packet of pink Himalayan rock salt was almost empty. I dived into the cupboard under the sink. Dishwasher salt would do just fine.

I reached for the bag and got another whiff of white spirit vapour. I’d been aware of the smell upstairs in the wing that was still under reconstruction, only fleetingly, though, and in an environment where I’d expect it. Maybe this smelt stronger because it didn’t belong here.

As I straightened, the socket powering the kettle buzzed and flashed and popped and the blue light snapped off. I flicked the nearest wall switch and half a dozen LED bulbs in the ceiling sparked up, so only the ring circuit feeding the sockets had blown.

I emptied the dishwasher salt into a glass jug, poured the not-quite-boiling water over it and gave the concoction a stir.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Lyubova was pretty much where I’d left her, still out of it, but breathing more easily. I fixed her a saline cocktail in the plastic beaker and gave it an experimental sip. If this stuff didn’t work, nothing would.

I went down on one knee and, keeping her arse on the floor, hauled her up far enough to lodge the back of her neck in the crook of my left arm. Her ribs must have been on fire, but she didn’t even blink. I reached round and gripped her jaw with my left thumb and forefinger, locking her chin in the web of skin between them. Keeping her face horizontal, I pushed open her mouth and poured as much of the emetic down her throat as I could.

A fair amount of it spilt down her cheeks and some went into her nose, but most of it was on target. The result was almost immediate. Her sneezing then her gagging reflex went into overdrive. Her chest heaved and I managed to tilt her sideways before she propelled whatever she’d had for lunch across the tiles and, with any luck, a critical amount of whatever had been forced into her before I arrived. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but house beautiful had been put on hold.

I poured her another slug of saline and she gave a repeat performance. Then she opened her perfectly shaped eyes. But this wasn’t a Snow White moment. Her surgeon wouldn’t have been pleased. She still looked like shit. And felt like a dead weight. I didn’t expect her to crack into a kettlebell workout anytime soon.

She didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.

She took a deep, rasping breath, swallowed painfully and tried to lick her lips. Then she spoke.

‘Those … fucking … bastards …’ Her words were slurred, but her voice was deep and husky.

‘Who?’

She turned on her own this time and sprayed the porcelain once more. It took her another couple of minutes to gather her marbles. I knew exactly how she felt.

Then she managed to wrench her head back in my direction. ‘Whatever that little … shit … is paying you …’

She closed her eyes and I felt her body slump.

I shook her like a ragdoll until she resurfaced.

‘… I will … pay you … double … to kill them …’

Her eyes flashed.

‘What little shit? Frank?’

‘Frank?’ She snorted. ‘He’s dead.’

‘What little shit?’

Her mouth opened and closed. ‘Frank’s … creature …’

I waited. I didn’t have a fuck of a lot of choice.

‘Laff … ont …’

‘Who did this to you?’

I knew the answer, but I needed it to come from her.

‘The Albanian … bastard.’

‘Uran?’

She summoned the energy to curl her upper lip. ‘Ur-anus …’ She must have been quite pleased with that one, because the sneer almost turned into a smile. ‘And … the other … asshole …’

‘Dijani?’

I couldn’t help admiring her anger. But I didn’t want her confusing me with her new best friend. I tightened my elbow and felt my left fist clench. ‘You helped them to kill Frank.’

‘Frank … deserved … to die.’ Her dark eyes blazed. ‘But they … are … peasants …’

I couldn’t argue with that. And Lyubova should know: she’d made the journey from air stewardess to aristocracy in double-quick time.

She went limp on me again. I bundled a big fluffy bath towel under her head, then stood and filled the jug with cold water and emptied the whole thing over her face.

Her eyelashes fluttered and she fought to get some more oxygen into her lungs.

I knelt down and gave her a slap, leaving a livid red mark on her cheek. So her circulation wasn’t completely shot.

‘Where are they? Where are your peasants?’

She mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

I felt for her pulse again. Her heart was now beating like a snare drum.

‘Where?’ I leant in closer and turned the volume up. ‘Where?’

Her eyes widened, but they were glassy now. Unfocused. Her breathing quickened.

‘WHERE?’

Blood-flecked spittle leaked out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Ad … ler …’

In the silence that followed, I knew that the interior of the chateau was no longer still. The quality of the air had changed. My eardrums registered it first. Something or someone had fucked with the molecules in our immediate environment.

I drew down the Sphinx as I got to my feet.

10

I reached the archway that led through to the bedroom and heard a crack from below us. The entrance hall, maybe. A door banging shut? No. I had a bad feeling about this.

Then a noise behind me.

The empty glass jug smashing against the tiles.

I turned to see Lyubova struggling to raise herself off the floor. Gasping. Her skirt riding up her bare thighs. One hand clutching her ribs, apparently unaware that blood was flowing freely from the other, where shards of glass were embedded in her palm.

‘Mis-ter …’

She shook her head, trying to clear it.

‘Stefan …’

I smelt a hint of smoke now. I glanced in the direction of the stairwell. I couldn’t see any sign of it in the corridor, but it was definitely in the atmosphere.

‘They … have … him …’

As I went back to her, Lyubova’s supporting hand slipped away, leaving a streak of crimson on the tiles. She collapsed, shoulder first, on to the towel I’d shoved underneath her head, and gave a pain-racked groan.

I gripped her outstretched arm and rolled her on to her back. She was in all sorts of shit, but her eyes were open. She was relishing this.

Steering clear of the broken jug, I pushed my head right up close to hers. ‘What did you say?’

It was a fucking stupid question. We both knew what she’d said. And I’d just given her the pleasure of saying it again.

‘Those … assholes. They have … taken … the … boy …’

‘You’re talking shit.’

Her tongue slid out, moistened her lips, then slid back in again.

‘So … go back … to … the beach … and check …’

I replayed my movements over the last few hours at top speed inside my head. I hadn’t been followed. I was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure of that.

‘Where have they taken him?’

She said nothing. Didn’t even blink. Her expression told me everything she wanted me to know. You may have saved Frank’s son on the mountain. But now you’re both well and truly fucked …

I let her have a good look at the muzzle of the Sphinx, then pressed it against her forehead, right between her eyes.

‘I said, where?’

The weapon meant nothing to her. She’d already been a milli-metre away from terminal and, with a bit of help from a gutful of dishwasher salt and sheer determination, she’d fought her way back to consciousness. Whatever else was going to rat-shit in her life, this was her reward.