Some statistics flash through my head. Of those who are shot in the head, five per cent survive the injury. And in the USA, most gunshot wounds are self-inflicted.

It no longer seems strange that Hope works from home, even though the company she works for has an office not far from here. It’s so her parents can keep an eye on her. She and I have something in common. We’ve both survived a suicide attempt.

I wonder if she, like me, has mixed feelings about it.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Jon comes home to find Cleo dead, surrounded by broken glass.

He accuses Tom, who doesn’t deny killing her. Why is Tom never arrested?

‘Have you checked that the gun is still here?’ I ask Gabriela.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Agent Thistle asked me to confirm that none of my husband’s belongings were missing. I checked that the gun was still in the safe.’

‘Any bullets missing?’ I ask.

She hesitates. ‘I didn’t check.’

Hope returns with a glass of water. She doesn’t drink it. I guess she just wanted to be out of the room while the gun was discussed.

‘Do you mind if we have a look now?’ Thistle asks.

‘That is okay. You stay here, Hope.’ Gabriela stands—again I’m struck by how small she is—and leads us to the stairs.

A wrought-iron spiral staircase leads to the upper level of the apartment. Christmas lights are wrapped around the bannister. They must throw parties sometimes.

Gabriela climbs slowly, looking more reluctant with every step. I suspect I know why.

When we reach the top, she leads us into the master bedroom. There’s a king-size bed with a thick mattress and high thread-count sheets. Cat hair on the duvet, white. Bedside tables with thick books piled atop them. Some of the books on one side are in Spanish. The ones on the other side are popular science. I don’t see anything about cryptography, though. Nor is there any sign of a wheel cipher to match the one Luxford has on his desk.

Gabriela opens the walk-in closet, revealing dozens of dresses, several suits and a gun safe. I’ve only seen Biggs naked—strange to think of him in one of these suits.

Gabriela punches in the combination, retracts the bolts and heaves the door open.

Like she said, there’s a single handgun in there. A Ruger LCP—inexpensive, reliable and compact, although I’ve heard gun enthusiasts say the trigger-pull sucks, whatever that means. There’s a box of .380 ACP cartridges.

‘You see …’ Gabriela begins.

I pick up the box and open it. The bullets are lined up in rows and columns like lipsticks in a department store. One is missing—I assume it’s the one that went through Hope’s head. Bullets are easily replaced in Texas, but I can see why Gabriela and Biggs wouldn’t go out and buy a new box right away.