Letitia was the more listless, the more likely to lapse into moods of depression, alleviated by her son’s almost omnipresent good humour. Kiley had made contact with Anton’s brother, Taras, as requested; driven up from London and met him at an Ibis hotel, off the M6 north of Preston. Phoned Cordon to report. Anton was under a lot of pressure, Taras had told him, seeking to explain his brother’s behaviour. Business, it does not always run well. He chose not to elaborate. And on top of that, this thing with Letitia and his son … much as he liked Letitia, Taras said, she was in the wrong. Taking a man’s son away from him, his flesh and blood. Taras had gripped Kiley’s arm. ‘In our country, in Ukraine, it is most important bond. Family. Father and son. Holy, you understand? Here, in England, perhaps is different. But for us, for Anton … And what did she think, Letitia? She could run, hide forever? And you, you know where she is. Her and the boy.’ Kiley had shaken his head.
