“Saint Joseph of Arimathea, Edgware Road.” She twisted the doorknob, and the door swung aside.

“Sister?”

“What?”

He thought about mentioning that she had nearly suffocated him with that stupid head-dress of hers, and for once found that sarcasm died on his tongue. “Thank you. I’m grateful.”

She shrugged again. “Doing good things is in the job description, Petrovitch.” She looked down at the patient, crumpled man sitting across the corridor from her. “Police are here.”

She left, robes billowing out behind her. Neither man, the one in the bed, the one in the chair, had the authority to stop her.

4

Eventually, having watched the sister stamp angrily down to the first corner and disappear, the policeman got up wearily from his chair and wandered in. He ignored Petrovitch at first, and walked around, touching the furnishings, playing with the window controls, pouring himself a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.

Petrovitch looked over the top of his glasses at the man as he drank, one gulp, two gulps, three.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” the man asked, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve, then sat down anyway without waiting for an answer. “There’s always too much standing up in this job.”

He patted his pockets for his warrant card, and passed it over to Petrovitch with an air of distraction: he was already looking for something else in a different place.

Petrovitch inspected the card: Chain, Henry—Detective Inspector, Metropolitan Police. The hologram looked twenty years out of date, because the Chain in front of him had far more wrinkles and much less hair. His head was flaring under the lights, the thin strands dotted haphazardly over his scalp illuminated from below as well as above.

Petrovitch passed the card back, and Chain opened the cover of his police handheld. The detective chewed the stylus for a moment, then pecked at an icon.

“Right then,” said Chain, and interrupted himself with a volley of wet coughing. “Sorry. It’s the air. I’ll start again: Petrovitch, Samuil. Twenty-two, citizen of the Russian Federation, here on a university scholarship. Address, three-four-one-five, Clapham Transit A. You will stop me if I mess up here? I know these things are supposed to be accurate, but you know what it’s like.” He paused. “You do know what it’s like, don’t you?”

Petrovitch cleared his throat. “I know.”

“Your English good? Don’t need a translator or a dictionary?”

“I’m fluent.”

“This is just an interview, you know. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just asking a few questions. If you think you might need a lawyer, do say.” Chain coughed again, an episode that left him breathless. He twisted round in his chair and poured himself some more water. “Nice room.”

Petrovitch nodded slowly. Either the man was brilliant or a buffoon. Only time would tell which.