The lift was in use when I returned to the corridor. By the time it had stopped at the floor below I was already moving down the stairs. The sheltering family were all awake, eating out of tins.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Apologies.’

The four of them stared at me, new fear in their eyes. I kept my head down and kept walking.

When I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror, I saw why they’d looked scared. I had someone else’s blood smeared down the side of my face. I got out, used mineral water to wash, swore again. I sat in the car and briefly shut my eyes. I’d left prints all over the place. I’d be on cameras somewhere. The car certainly would. I had witnesses to my face and voice. The lock of the apartment was now broken and it was only a matter of time before someone walked in.

I parked a couple of blocks away from the Lion Hotel, watched the street for two minutes before going up. The same girl sat behind reception, reading a magazine.

‘How was your night?’ she asked.

‘Excellent.’

‘You saw the city? Bayterek?’

‘Yes, Bayterek. Has there been anyone here looking for me?’ I asked.

‘No.’ She shook her head. Then, as I moved away: ‘Mr Bell?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve put an extra blanket in your room. Let me know if you need more bedding.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

The state of the dead man’s face made facial recognition impossible. The frozen temperature made gauging time of death difficult. Nothing on local news about a man missing. I watched the Catalyst clip again and it definitely wasn’t the same man. No help there.

I tried the owner of the apartment and got a recorded message about bookings. Online, a calendar showed it was booked for another four days.

I made up an emergency go-bag in case I had to move quickly – spare phone, cash, some first aid – placed it under a pillow. I felt uneasy thinking of the body lying untended in the sixth-floor flat, as if it had become my responsibility, and I was failing obligations to care for the dead. I could call it in anonymously, find a phone box, use my Russian. An ID would surface once media reported it. But did I want to trigger an investigation?

Three days, I thought: in, out. How was that going? I stood at my window and watched the snow, the business district flashing, the river beyond it. The art of espionage involved remembering where you were. This wasn’t London, Washington or even Moscow. Mankind, as a whole, had never sunk any flag very deep in Kazakh soil. Frederick Burnaby, passing through one hundred and fifty years ago, heard talk of a Russian expedition against the Khans that set out in midwinter. A thousand men, nine thousand camels, three thousand horses, never seen again. Not even the bones.