London, present day
She doesn’t know what to expect as she waits in the room they have been allocated for the purposes of this interview. She has looked him up, obviously, after reading his file, trying to build as much of a picture as she can. Her interest in this particular suspect is more personal than it usually would be. She wants to see him from every angle, to understand as best she can why. But it’s useless. How can anyone fully understand what attracts one person to another, what compels a person to make decisions that defy logic?
Ivan Popov is in his fifties, she has discovered. He was born in Kybyshev – now Samara – the ninth-biggest city in Russia. His parents, both active members in the Communist party, were engineers who worked making parts for naval ships. Ivan’s first business was selling shoes. After making some money, according to the official story, he became interested in philanthropy and started working in charity. His association with Irena Vasiliev, although yet to be fully unveiled, would suggest a more circuitous path.
He moves between a townhouse in Richmond, South-West London, and a swanky Moscow apartment but is currently residing in an altogether different setting, courtesy of Her Majesty’s Prison Service, awaiting trial. How long he will be here is yet to be ascertained.
What neither the file nor Madeleine’s Google searches have mentioned is his demeanour: the way he moves through a room and owns it, even in a uniform prison-grey tracksuit, flanked by a guard.
He nods courteously as he sits in front of her, the power of his presence making her sit up straighter.
‘I’m Madeleine,’ she says.
‘Ivan, but you know that already.’ He pauses. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.’
There is a hint of something she can’t quite read in his eyes as she takes in the empty room, the bare table between them. What is it: danger, amusement, pain? Sitting opposite him, she can understand, against her better judgement, what Gabriela might have seen in him.
‘I’m here about Gabriela and Layla,’ she continues without flinching, watching his jaw clench. She sees him brace, shifting his chair, a tiny slide away from her. She wonders for a moment if he might leave. This is not an official interview, not yet; he is not compelled to be here, certainly not without a lawyer present. If she’s honest with herself, she hadn’t even expected him to agree to meet her today. This meeting is for her, to help herself reset. After everything that has happened with Gabriela, she needs to see him face-to-face, to understand who this man is who took her friend’s life, and those of her children, and tore them to shreds. She wants to look him in the eye and try to understand something that she knows she never will.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Madeleine says quickly, watching his reaction carefully for traces of how much he knows. He looks down at his hands, twisting his fingers, and Madeleine’s forehead furrows.
His pain is real, that much she can be sure of – not that this means anything.
He moves forward, lowering his voice though the guard appears not to be listening.
‘I’m going to testify,’ he says. ‘Against Irena.’
Madeleine pauses, waiting for him to continue, but he sits back in his seat.
After a moment, she nods. ‘That’s good to know. We can offer protection—’
Popov laughs, looking away from her. ‘You think you can protect me? Even after what happened to Gabriela, you still believe that?’ His face twists. ‘You think Vasiliev can’t get to me, even from behind bars, if she wants to?’
What’s left of a contorted smile fades. ‘None of it matters, not now. I’ll tell you what you need to know. I’ll tell you everything. I want her to pay for what she did.’
He raises a hand to his chest, absent-mindedly, as if responding to a stab of pain, and his face hardens again. ‘I have nothing to lose.’
By the time Madeleine gets back to the office, it’s lunchtime. She has barely pulled the lid off her Tupperware, seated back at her desk, when her phone rings.
‘No!’ She slams her fist tragically on her desk. Not now, for the love of God, she is starving. The temptation of the lasagne in front of her is such that she is minded to ignore her phone, but when she looks down and sees the name, she smiles. Taking a mouthful and chewing quickly, she answers, her voice distorted by the food.
‘Isobel, how are you doing?’
‘Madeleine, can you talk?’ Isobel’s voice is urgent. Madeleine dabs her mouth with a tissue, sitting forward in her chair.
‘Of course, is everything OK?’
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Isobel says. ‘I’ve just had a call from a woman called Maria. I don’t know how else to say this – she says she’s in the Maldives, with David Witherall …’