I left Stefan where he was while I went and checked out our accommodation, and our surroundings. The door was on one side of an archway that led straight through the building. I pushed it open and chucked both our bags on to the double bed. A ladder led to a bunk that ran across the head of it, and a small flat-screen Samsung was mounted on the opposite wall. There was a basic en-suite with shower and toilet and a small window above the cistern.

I fastened the shutters on the window overlooking the parking lot, went out and scanned the areas back and front. Once I was satisfied that they were deserted, I smuggled Stefan out of the Polo. He didn’t move a muscle when he saw where we were staying, and I gave him top marks for that. We were a long way from Louis Vuitton country.

I popped a couple of ibuprofen out of the blister pack for him, swallowed a couple myself, and replaced the makeshift bandage around his ankle with the Tubigrip. It was a bit late in the day, but would give him some support and limit the swelling. I pointed at his rucksack and told him to get ready for bed.

He removed his washbag and disappeared into the bathroom. I flicked on the TV remote and selected the news channel. There was nothing more on the body in the Range Rover or the wreckage of the Nissan, just the usual stuff about Putin trying to turn back the clock and flex his muscles in Ukraine. They showed him riding his horse, stripped to the waist, then ran through some more stock shots of the Kremlin, Red Square and St Basil’s Cathedral. That took me back. I wondered if my Russian ex still dropped by GUM to do her shopping.

Stefan poked his head round the door and asked if I’d remembered his Spider-Man pyjamas. He told me his real dad wouldn’t have forgotten them.

I told him we were on a mission. That you didn’t wear pyjamas on a mission. Even Spider-Man pyjamas. ‘And put your trainers back on. We might have to leave in a hurry.’

When Stefan had sorted himself out, he climbed carefully into the bunk and sat there cross-legged, like he was giving a yoga class. He was old beyond his years, this lad. Somalia must have kick-started it; Frank had done the rest.

I asked if he was in the mood for a bit of Dostoevsky.

The second smile of the day invaded his face. ‘Will you read it to me?’

I grinned. ‘I try to save Crime and Punishment for special occasions.’

‘You’re lying.’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’ll never lie to you, mate.’ I paused. There was something about his transparency and his intelligence that made it almost impossible to bullshit him. ‘I just might not always tell you the truth.’

He stared straight back. ‘Don’t worry, Nick. No one does.’

He wasn’t wrong there. But I hadn’t been talking total bollocks about Crime and Punishment. I’d never got to the end, but I had given it a go. It was one of the books Anna had raved about. I’d left my copy in Moscow with her and our little boy, when it became blindingly obvious to us both that I wasn’t the safest man in the world to be around.

14

Later, after I’d killed the lights, I lay there, still fully clothed and booted, listening for movement outside, and to Stefan breathing. I thought about when I’d dug him out from under Frank’s body, and when he had locked his arms around my neck. I’d never had much time for all that emotional shit. It always fucks you up.

The springs creaked as Stefan turned over and tried to make himself comfortable. There was silence for a moment, then a whisper. ‘Nick …’

‘Yup.’

‘Where will they bury my father?’

‘Don’t know, mate. I guess they’ll fly him back home at some point.’ I wasn’t going to tell him Frank was sitting with a bunch of angels on a nearby cloud, watching over him. I’d spun that sort of shit once, a few years ago. It doesn’t help.

‘Home?’

I let his question hang in the air. I needed to quiz him about Frank, but I didn’t want this conversation to continue. I’d never been an expert on home; I wished I’d never mentioned it. I should have known that the kid would be wondering where the fuck he belonged now.

I heard a train rattling past, somewhere in the distance.

‘Nick …’

‘Try and get some sleep, mate. I’m going to.’

The pipes shuddered as someone on the floor above flushed their toilet. Whoever had built this block hadn’t wasted their hard-earned euros on sound insulation. I didn’t have a problem with that. It meant I’d be able to hear any approach.

‘Nick …’

‘Yup.’

I couldn’t blame him for wanting to fill the silence. He was a tough little fucker, but he was only going to see one thing whenever he closed his eyes.

‘Do you have a son?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never really had the time for kids.’ I gave him a little chuckle. ‘Anyway, I’ve already got my hands full looking after you.’

He thought about this for a minute or two. ‘So, when you get old or die, who will run your business?’

This time my chuckle was genuine. It really was like having a mini-Frank in the room. ‘My business isn’t much like your dad’s. And if I had a son, I think I’d want him to do something else with his life …’

‘What?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Make movies, maybe. Toy Story, Monsters, Inc.?’ I didn’t know where this shit was coming from. I just wanted to back away from the whole dad thing.

‘“Infinity and beyond …”’ His Buzz Lightyear impression was pretty good.

‘Or play football.’

‘I play football. After I’ve finished my homework.’

‘For Brindisi?’

He actually giggled at that one. ‘Don’t be silly, Nick. I’m not old enough. But I watch them when my dad takes me …’

He went quiet again.

‘When my dad … took … me.’

I had an idea that Frank had mentioned Italy to me when we’d talked in the green room. I’d taken my rollercoaster ride down that side of the mountain. And he’d had an Italian map in the Range Rover.

‘Why Brindisi? Why not Man U, or Barcelona?’

‘My dad doesn’t own Man U or Barcelona. And we don’t have a villa there.’

‘Do you go a lot?’

‘Two or three times this year.’ His mood brightened again. ‘I like it very much in Italy, Nick. My dad is … was always happy in Italy. Except the last trip.’

‘The last trip?’

‘Something happened the last trip that made him sad.’

‘Do you know what that was?’

‘A bad business. That’s what he said.’

‘Is that all he said?’

He went quiet again.

I didn’t push him for more detail. I reckoned he’d fill the gap if he could. He seemed to be in the mood. I also figured that however keen Frank had been to have his boy follow in his footsteps, he wouldn’t have given him the lowdown on every piece of shit that floated to the surface of his pond.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, took off my jacket and went to have a crap and throw some warm water over my eyes. I ran my hands through my hair. The face that glanced back at me from the mirror above the basin didn’t seem to belong to a stranger now. And it had some colour in it.

The dressing I’d applied at the chalet was neat and high on the right side of my forehead, with only a small amount of bruising at the edges. I was never going to be confused with George Clooney in red-carpet mode, but I didn’t look like I’d been on the wrong end of a cage fight either.

I gave my hands and face a squirt of soap and water, but left the scribbles on my arm. The afternoon’s sweat had blurred the Adler eagle, but I didn’t need that any more. And Laffont’s address was easily readable.

I still felt a dull ache above my kidneys, so pulled up my T-shirt and swivelled. The outline of the fence post was clearly visible across my back, and the bruise was darkening nicely. Claude had tried pretty hard to fuck up my ribs and spine when he took me down, and though he hadn’t finished the job, he deserved some credit.