Rutledge smiled to himself. The police and the Yard answered to the Home Office. He wondered how Melinda had come to know FitzThornton. But the fact that she did cheered him. The thought of returning to the confinement of that cell left him feeling cold.

Inspector Norman said, “My advice is to leave matters the way they are until someone is able to question Mickelson. Then the veracity of witnesses won’t come into it.”

“And very good advice it is. But I’m told that the Inspector is on the point of undergoing surgery to relieve the pressure of the swelling on his brain. He may not be able to speak to us at all.”

In the end, Hubbard got his way, by rank if not by persuasion. Rutledge’s belongings were accounted for and returned to him. As he signed the receipt, Inspector Norman asked, “What am I to do with Carl Hopkins?”

It was a question designed to irritate Hubbard. It failed.

Hubbard said blandly, “He stays where he is until the inquest. And at the moment, that must wait on Mickelson’s recovery.”

“I’d like five minutes with Hopkins,” Rutledge interjected, speaking for the first time as he accepted his watch and his keys from the constable.

Hubbard hesitated. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

“It isn’t a matter of wisdom. Come with me, if you prefer. But if I’m to take over this inquiry again, I need to know where Hopkins stands.”

“Take over—it was understood that I should carry out Inspector Mickelson’s brief.”

Rutledge turned to him. “You know why I was removed from this case. You know why I found myself in these straits today. You owe me a chance to redeem my character.”

“This is not the time nor the place to decide this. Propriety—”

“Propriety be damned.” He turned and walked to the door, continuing down the passage toward the cells at the rear of the police station, listening for the order to stop. And none came.

He found Carl Hopkins lying on his cot, one arm over his eyes. Rutledge wished he had had the forethought to ask the constable for the cell keys. But it was too late to go back. He looked at Hopkins’s cell. It was a mirror of his, and he could feel that frantic sense of being closed in sweeping over him again.