‘Didn’t matter anyway. They still arrested Heather and Marnie for “aiding and abetting”. Never caught Keston though.’

‘No. He vanished.’

‘We’re good at that. I was glad Marnie and Heather didn’t do jail time.’

‘They both spoke up for you.’

‘I know. Good friends. The PICSOs all sang like canaries. Hashtag bad friends. Still, it’s nice when the trash takes itself out.’ I drained my Pink Panther and signalled to the waitress for another one.

‘You seem… happy. Confident. Sort of settled.’

‘Shouldn’t I be?’

He shakes his head and sinks a few gulps of his beer. Wipes his mouth. Looks back to the bar. Looks back at me. ‘Am I dreaming?’

The cluster of fat, baseball-capped men around the TV screens whoop at something and there follows a hasty symposium on whether the referee’s decision is correct or not. Someone didn’t hit a ball right or something.

‘I can get it to you, the money. A fake account or something—’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘It’s not?’

‘Nope. I’m on a layover. Had some time to kill before my connection. Brought a present for someone…’ I tap the top of the box, ‘and I was walking past the bookstore when I saw the poster in the window. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. Complete coincidence.’

‘A layover from where? Where do you live? Where have you been?’

‘I could tell you some stories but you have a flight to catch.’

Freddie takes a deep breath, checks his Breitling Chronomat watch – ten grand’s worth – lets the breath go. ‘I’m going to miss it.’

‘Not if you run. You can get a cab right outside—’

‘No,’ he says, staring me down. ‘I am going to miss it.’ He fumbles for his phone and clicks into his voice recorder app.

‘No, Freds,’ I say, holding down his hand. He looks at my hand like a tarantula’s crawled into view.

‘Can I at least make notes?’

‘If you must.’ He fumbles in his knapsack for a pen and a battered leather-bound journal, opening it out to a brand-new double page, smoothing it down and breaking the spine. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything,’ he says, eyes flicking towards the box again. ‘Absolutely everything.’

Part 1: Europe

Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Sluggers Bar, Fifth Avenue, New York City

‘I had to get to Madeira. Bobby Fairly had it all worked out from there.’

‘Bobby Fairly, Bobby Fairly,’ Freddie mutters, furiously scribbling in writing I recognise from my Gazette days as shorthand. I never did shorthand. They wouldn’t pay to send me on the course. He riffles through a list of bullet point reminders. ‘There’s no Bobby Fairly mentioned in your confession.’

‘Well, there wouldn’t be. He wasn’t integral to my former story. He’d been a friend of my dad’s from his boxing days.’

‘A vigilante like Keston Hoyle?’