He went out, there was silence, and Harry said, “Very stubborn, my nephew. What would you say, Ruby?”

“I’d say he needs a good night’s sleep.” She carried the coffee things to the bar. “But I’d also like to say that I think he’s marvelous, and on that, I’m going to bed, too.”

And she walked out.

HAMPSTEAD AT SIX O’CLOCK in the morning, Greta Novikova was moving through rain-soaked streets that were relatively empty. A Mini Cooper, dark blue, a couple of years old, was what she preferred, the engine lethal. The house was easy enough to find, with its large, old-fashioned Edwardian railings. She called Roper.

“I’m here.”

“I’ll give her a nudge,” and after a few moments she heard over a voice box, “Gate opening.”

It revealed a fine driveway lined by poplars, a gracious Edwardian house standing at the far end, with terraces and French windows.

Greta had left her phone on. “Fantastic. That’s worth four or five million, easily.”

“Clever lady, four and a half. But when his great-grandfather bought the place it went for one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Gasp away, that’s inflation on the housing market for you.”

Molly Rashid opened the front door at the top of the terrace steps, her hand outstretched. “Major Novikova. Welcome.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“The house? Oh, we’re very happy here. My husband worships the place and so does my daughter.”

It was as if everything was normal. Greta looked around, noticing dramatic paintings everywhere, and Yorkshire stone on the floor, which from the warmth was heated underneath.

“Kitchen’s at the end of the corridor,” Molly said. “I’ll make us a brew unless you would prefer coffee.”