The driver’s wraparound sunglasses showed him which way to go, and Petrovitch became a mute passenger until he felt he was back on his own territory.

“If you drop me here, that’ll be fine. I want to get a coffee.” They knew where he lived, but he didn’t have to take them to his door.

Hijo tapped the driver again, and the car pulled up next to the curb nearest Wong’s.

“Chyort!”

“Sorry, Petrovitch-san?”

Petrovitch pressed his fingers into his temples. “This morning, I had a brand new Random Access Terminal delivered. Detective Inspector Chain took it in for questioning, and it vanished from the evidence room. Your lot didn’t have anything to do with that, did they?”

“I believe not, but I will ask. Should I return it to you if we have it?”

“Bring it here,” he said, “Wong will look after it for me. No offense, but the less I get seen in your company, the better.”

“As you wish, Petrovitch-san.” Hijo slipped his seatbelt and opened the door. He got out first for a precautionary look around, before allowing Petrovitch to step out onto the litter-strewn pavement.

They were attracting more than a little attention, not least from Wong who was at his shop door with his arms folded disapprovingly.

“Right then,” said Petrovitch. “Dobre den.”

“Please,” said Hijo, “I would like to know: why did you help Miss Sonja?”

Petrovitch could already taste coffee in his mouth, bittersweet and strong. “Tell you what, Hijo,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “I’ll answer that if you tell me what the yebat she was doing out on her own.”

Hijo looked like he’d just been slapped.

“Yeah. Thought so,” said Petrovitch, and shouldered his way past Wong in search of an empty table, cries of what a bad man he was ringing in his ears.

10

He woke up, but this time not to the sounds of the streets and windmills and voices. Someone was hammering on his door with something hard and heavy.

The door was steel, reinforced with electrically operated bolts. No need to panic, he lied to himself even as ice water flooded his veins and his poor heart struggled to keep in time.

He grabbed his glasses from where he’d thrown them the night before and listened carefully. The banging wasn’t the right rhythm for breaking in—he’d expect a slow, heavy concussion with sledgehammer or a ram. Neither was it someone with more technical expertise and a gas axe or plastique; he’d have woken with the room full of smoke and a masked man standing over him with a gun.

Petrovitch pulled on the death metal T-shirt from the day before and stood close to the door. Through the insulation he could just about hear his name being shouted out.

Bangbangbangbang. Petrovitch. Bangbangbangbang.

“Ahueyet? You opezdol, you raspizdyai! Go away,” he called back, but the banging and shouting redoubled.