‘What about the trial this week?’ Jake asks. He sounds tired. Desperate. ‘Is that why I was sent the footage?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Silas says. He wishes he did.

  Jake cuts a tragic figure as he turns to the boat and then looks back at Silas. ‘You think this is related to my visit to the pub today, don’t you?’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t have come out here at midnight otherwise.’

  Silas feels a pang of shame. Is he really that transparent? ‘You shouldn’t have visited the Bluebell,’ he says. And nor should Kate.

  ‘The jerrycan was found over there,’ Jake replies, changing the subject. He points down the towpath and pauses, struggling to keep it together. ‘If I hadn’t been awake… The fire started above where we sleep. Where I sleep.’

  ‘Talk to DC Strover,’ Silas says. ‘You got somewhere to stay tonight?’

  Jake nods, blinking hard. It looks like it’s all suddenly caught up with him.

  ‘Have you told Kate about the fire?’ Silas asks.

  Jake nods again.

  ‘How did she take it?’ It’s very unlikely she’s involved, but they’ll still have to eliminate her from their inquiries.

  ‘Pleased that I’m safe.’

  ‘Is she still with her new man?’ Silas shouldn’t be asking. It’s none of his business.

  ‘He’s had to go back to London. Usually comes down for the weekend.’

  Jake’s still in love with Kate, poor sod. At least it was mutual when Silas and Mel, his ex, split up. No arguments, just a heavy-hearted acceptance that they no longer had anything in common.

  ‘Leave it to us from now on, eh?’ Silas says, putting a hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘And try to get some sleep.’

  21

  Kate

  Kate can’t sleep, not after talking to Jake on the phone. She wants to call him back, let him unload a bit more about what’s happened, but she knows he’s no longer her problem. He’s safe and there her concern should end. She’s just not sure that Bruce and Sue, the kind couple who are putting him up for the night, will want to listen until dawn. Jake never keeps things in: he likes to discuss a problem until it has been examined from every angle. It’s why she’s not given him the chance to give his side of what she saw on the CCTV that night. She doesn’t want them to talk about it until they reach the point where his infidelity somehow becomes forgivable or acceptable.

  Bex went to bed after they chatted some more on the terrace and Kate is now in the open-plan sitting room, tucked up on the sofa, about to surf through late-night TV channels on the vast home-cinema screen. When she asked Rob if such a big TV was necessary, he said he needed it for his work. He hasn’t watched anything on it yet, apart from the tennis.

  She turns on the TV and gawps. A naked couple are having sex on a benchpress in a gym, the woman lying on her back, head hanging awkwardly off the end of the bench as she sucks off the man, who is standing. Instinctively she switches channels, shocked by the explicitness of what she’s just seen, and then switches back to watch again, turning her head ninety degrees to see the poor woman’s face. There’s nothing remotely arousing about the couple, who seem more focused on holding their positions than giving each other pleasure. What concerns her is why the TV has been left tuned to a porn channel. Did Rob come in here last night while she was asleep? Wasn’t he satisfied after they’d had sex?

  She works her way through some dodgy films, darts and a shopping channel, trying not to feel disappointed, hurt. Does he need porn as well as her? She knows Jake was an occasional user, but that was after they’d stopped having sex. And then she acknowledges the thought that she’s been struggling to keep out of her head. It doesn’t feel like the sort of thing Rob would do: slipping out of bed in the middle of the night to watch other couples having sex. Coding, perhaps, answering emails, maybe practising his backhand, but not porn. He doesn’t have enough hours in his day as it is.

  She pushes the thought away and alights on France 24, the French news channel, half watching a report about another gilets jaunes riot. It’s followed by an item on the rise of the tech sector in France and the growth of Station F, the world’s largest start-up campus, in Paris’s 13th arrondissement. She’s about to change channels again when news footage of Rob flashes up on the screen. He’s in Brest, talking about the ‘rich digital ecosystems’ of western Brittany. Talking in fluent French.

  She holds her hand to her mouth and stares at the screen in disbelief. Rob is hopeless at French. It’s why he’s recently started to have lessons. She’s always been good at languages, speaking decent French and Spanish, and has been teaching him too, marvelling at how little he can recall from his schooldays. She steps closer, listening to the words coming out of this man’s mouth. It looks like Rob – same blinking eyes, shy smile, lanky gait – but it’s not him. She’s sure of it. It can’t be. ‘Jesus,’ she says quietly. The presenter is speaking, but she’s not listening.

  She rushes down to Bex’s bedroom, opposite Rob’s office, and opens the door. ‘Bex? Are you awake? Bex?’ She can’t disguise the urgency in her voice.

  She’s forgotten what a deep sleeper Bex is.

  ‘Bex?’ she asks again, rocking her shoulder.

  ‘What time is it?’ Bex asks, bleary eyed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate says. ‘I need to show you something.’

  ‘It’s one thirty in the bloody morning, Kate,’ Bex says, glancing at her mobile phone on the bedside table and sinking back on her pillow with a groan.

  ‘I know. I’m really sorry, but it’s important.’

  It’s the second time today she’s shared her worries with her. She’s not sure she could cope without Bex.

  ‘It always is,’ Bex says.

  Five minutes later, they’re in the sitting room on the sofa, a confused Stretch at their feet. Bex is watching France 24 while Kate tries to find the footage of Rob on her laptop.

  ‘It was on a few minutes ago,’ she says, wondering if she’s imagined the whole thing. ‘A feature about the tech sector in France. Rob was being interviewed in Brest, but I swear it wasn’t him. He was speaking in fluent French but he’s crap at languages.’

  ‘When was he there?’ Bex asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t know he’d gone.’

  Bex has every reason not to believe her without seeing the footage for herself. Where is it? And then Kate finds the story and she’s shocked all over again by the words.

  ‘Here,’ she says, turning the laptop so that Bex can see it. ‘Take a look at this.’

  They both watch the item on the France 24 website, Kate offering a rough running translation.

  ‘He is saying how his company was drawn to that part of France… one of thirteen regions recently awarded “Capital French Tech” status or something… because it has a history of military digital expertise and investment in health tech.’ She stops, unable to go on. They both listen as Rob talks about Brest providing the perfect culture for developing neural networks and machine learning. It’s complicated, technical French. ‘Brest est la culture parfaite pour nous alors que nous cherchons à déveloper des réseaux de neurones profonds et un apprentissage automatique.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Kate says, glancing at Bex.

  Bex looks at her and then back at the laptop. ‘It looks like him, Kate,’ she says quietly, still staring at the screen. ‘That’s definitely Rob. The man I met at Paddington yesterday. Who I’ve met several times before. Your fit new boyfriend, you lucky bugger.’

  ‘Who’s suddenly fluent in fucking French.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got a good teacher – you said he’s having lessons.’

  ‘He’s rubbish, Bex,’ she says. ‘And I mean truly rubbish. I was trying to help him just the other day.’

  They stand in silence, watching as the video finishes. Bex appears troubled by it too, at least momentarily.

  ‘Just the other day?’ she asks.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  Bex leans down to stroke Stretch, who seems to have picked up on the tension that’s suddenly flared between them. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ Kate says. ‘I’m sorry. It’s late. I saw the news, I’m tired, my brain began to get ahead of itself.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bex says, putting an arm around her. ‘Rob’s a bright boy. Must be a quick learner.’

  Maybe she’s right. Rob can turn his hand to anything when he tries. Even French, it seems. Kate’s still not convinced, though.

  ‘What are we going to do with you?’ Bex asks.

  ‘I just thought, you know, maybe someone has taken Rob’s place…’ She stops, her lower lip beginning to tremble as the feelings return.

  ‘We need to get you some help for this, Katie,’ Bex says, her arm still around her. ‘When did you say that nice Dr Varma is coming down to see you next?’

  ‘End of next week.’ Kate takes a deep breath, regains some composure. ‘What’s happening to me, Bex? Who’s doing this? I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘No one’s doing anything to you,’ Bex says. ‘And you’re not losing your mind. You just need to rest.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can cope,’ Kate says. ‘I see Rob speaking in French on the news and I don’t think he’s been lying to me, or keeping a secret. My first thought is that he’s been replaced by a French-speaking double.’

  ‘Except that it wasn’t his double, was it, Kate?’ Bex repeats. ‘It was Rob.’

  ‘But it does happen,’ Kate says. ‘Unrelated people can look identical.’

  ‘Sure it can happen. My sister looks weirdly like Lily Allen. Amber Heard is the spitting image of Scarlett Johansson. But that was Rob on TV, who we now know speaks good French. Not someone who looks like him.’

  Bex walks over to the door, staring at Kate. ‘Come on, you,’ she says, without much conviction. ‘Bedtime.’

  ‘It’s the only thing Rob’s frightened of,’ Kate adds, still on the sofa. ‘His doppelgänger.’

  The day I see him again will be my last.

  Sunday

  22

  Jake

  Jake leans over the edge of the lock gate with a long branch and scoops out the last floating item of clothing. It’s one of Kate’s old dresses, grossly misshapen by a bubble of air trapped under the orange material. Until this morning, Jake has never had to divide his worldly possessions into those that float and those that sink. And as he drops the sodden orange dress onto the grass next to the other items he’s retrieved, he hopes he’ll never have to again.

  It’s been a long, difficult night. Bruce and Sue did all they could to console him after Strover had taken a statement, but he couldn’t sleep.

  ‘What are you going to do with them all?’ asks one of the locals, gesturing at the large pile of wet clothing and ruined books. Kate was always complaining the boat was like a waterborne library.

  ‘Chuck them,’ Jake says, quietly. Everything except Kate’s orange dress. He’ll keep that. She used to wear it to Womad, their nearest festival. Before they could no longer afford to go.

  He picks up the dress, wringing it out as he walks back around to the towpath and his boat. It finally sank in the night and is now resting on the canal’s muddy bottom with just the remains of the roof showing. His few possessions are still trapped inside. He’s been in a daze all morning, retrieving clothes and logs and kettles and plastic mugs from the water with the help of kind villagers and narrowboat owners. He even found his passport, sealed in a plastic folder. The generosity of others has been overwhelming. Even Kate was sympathetic, but it was unfair of him to call her. The last thing he wants is for people to feel sorry for him.

  His plan is to finish clearing up and then move out of the village as soon as he can. He doesn’t feel safe hanging around. The fire was clearly deliberate – DI Hart suggested as much last night. Besides, there’s not much left for him here. No boat, latest book destroyed. And no partner. It’s safe to say his life has now officially hit rock bottom, just like his narrowboat. And, in all honesty, he feels strangely liberated by the unambiguity of his circumstances. If he can’t make a fresh start in life now, he never will.

  He bundles the dress into a plastic bag, turns to take one last look at the sunken boat and sets off down the towpath, away from the village, passport safely in his pocket. It’s a longer route, but he’ll avoid having to walk past the line of moored narrowboats and the obligation to make more polite conversation. Christ, he could do with a pint right now. By the time of Kate’s accident, he was drinking heavily, but he’s cut down a lot since then and is determined not to lapse again. Even if he could afford it.

  All part of trying to sort his life out, triggered by a small, misguided belief that if he can regain some of the mojo he had when he first met Kate, he might be able to win her back. There was a time when he was going places: published author, sharing his bohemian life on a watertight narrowboat with a beautiful portrait painter. Where did it all go wrong? On which rocks did their idealism run aground?

  He keeps walking, towards the fields and railway line beyond, his brain struggling to process all that’s happened. What worries him is that if the fire was a result of his visit to the pub, Kate’s drink must have been spiked that night by dangerous people. Might they target her again? If, as Hart hinted last night, it’s connected to the modern-slavery trial, there could be organised crime gang members still at large who want revenge for the hefty sentences imposed on their colleagues – people who were put away on the strength of Kate’s identifications.

  As Jake approaches the next set of lock gates, an attractive woman he doesn’t recognise appears out of nowhere with a black plastic bag.

  ‘Brought you some spare clothes,’ she says. ‘Used to belong to my husband. He left them when he moved out. I heard what happened, thought they might help. You’re about his size.’

  ‘Out of shape, you mean,’ Jake says, grinning. ‘Thanks. That’s kind.’

  ‘I’ve seen you around but never said hello,’ she says, smiling at him.

  Jake smiles back at her, flattered by the attention. Maybe there’s an upside to everything that’s happened. He remembers the nurse who circled his father, a GP, when his mother passed away, turning up announced at the house before she’d even been buried. Her haste was unseemly, but it had given his father hope, a glimpse of a life beyond. No one’s died but maybe that what’s going on here.

  ‘I read one of your books,’ the woman continues, squinting in the sunshine.

  ‘Really?’ It’s the first piece of good news Jake has heard in a while.

  ‘Yeah, bought it in a charity shop for 10p.’ Ouch. ‘You got somewhere to stay tonight?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he lies, all interest in the woman wilting. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Ten p in a bloody charity shop?

  One half-formed plan is to hitch down to Cornwall and camp where he and Kate used to stay. It’s busy this time of year, but the owner always used to squeeze them in. His tent was his only possession not on board the boat – he’d lent it to a friend in the village. It just depends if the police or the Canal and River Trust want to speak to him again today about salvage.

  ‘See you around then,’ she says, smiling at him again before walking on down the towpath.

  He’s about to call after the woman, ask her name, maybe see if she wants to meet for a drink, when his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Bex. No doubt more grief for the shabby, hopeless life he leads. But it’s not.

  Just heard about the fire. Glad you’re OK. Please stay in my place. There’s a spare bedroom downstairs. Key’s under flowerpot by back door. Bex x

  23

  Kate

  ‘Where’s Bex?’ Rob asks on speakerphone as Kate makes herself a fruit smoothie in the kitchen. He taught her the recipe: blueberries, avocado and chia seeds. Superfood for the brain. He tried to facetime her first, but she kept cutting him off, hoping that he’d think the signal wasn’t strong enough. It often isn’t, down here, much to his frustration and her relief. She’s feeling better this morning, but she still can’t cope with seeing his face.

  ‘Sleeping,’ she says. ‘We had a late night.’

  ‘Heavy one?’

  Rob knows she hardly ever drinks these days, not since the accident. Neither does he. It’s Bex he’s worried about. She can fill her boots.

  ‘Wild,’ Kate says, not very committed. ‘You know me.’

  She’s trying to pluck up courage to ask him about the news item she saw in the night on France 24, his sudden ability to talk in French.

  ‘But is she with you now?’ he says. ‘In the house?’

  ‘She’s here, don’t worry.’

  ‘I should be there with you too. It’s just all these meetings…’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘I’ll be back down soon, I promise.’

  Rob is at his flat in Shoreditch. At least she assumes he is. He might be at the office. It’s the one drawback of not being able to see him. And he’s feeling so guilty today, it’s almost funny. A woman rang first thing to ask if Kate would be in all day. Said she had a flower delivery for her. Kate knows they’re from Rob. He’s done it before. When she first moved down here on her own, he sent her flowers two or three times a week. Since then it’s been more random, whenever guilt strikes. Last time no one rang in advance, though. A huge bunch of white lilies just appeared one morning, piled up against the front door like an overnight drift of snow.

  ‘How is it down there?’ he asks.

  She looks through the vast windows at the beautiful scene outside. Fields rolling down towards a calm, cobalt sea; solitary Monterey pine trees punctuating the vivid skyline. Her Cornish idyll, though, has been tarnished by the sight and sound of Rob speaking fluent French on TV.

  ‘I saw you on the news last night,’ she says, not as casually as she’d hoped. ‘France 24. I didn’t know you’d been back to Brittany.’