Tim came out of the building behind her. He was dressed, and he had his car keys in his hand. He crossed the pavement without looking at Anna or Kearney, and got into his car. He wound the driver’s window down as if he thought about saying something to one of them, but in the end shook his head and drove off instead. Anna stared after him puzzledly then burst into tears. Kearney put his arm round her shoulders. She leaned in to him.

“Or did you come back to kill me,” she said quietly. “The way you killed all those others?”

Kearney walked off towards the Underground station at Gunnersbury. His phone chirped at him suddenly, but he ignored it.

Heathrow Terminal 3, hushed after the long night, maintained a slow dry warmth. Kearney bought underwear and toilet articles, sat in one of the concessions outside the departure lounge reading the Guardian and taking small sips of a double espresso.

The women behind the concession counter were arguing about something in the news. “I’d hate to live forever,” one of them said. She raised her voice. “There’s your change, love.” Kearney, who had been expecting to see his own name on page two of the paper, raised his head. She gave him a smile. “Don’t forget your change,” she said. He had found only the name of the woman he had killed in the Midlands; no one was looking for a Lancia Integrale. He folded the paper up and stared at a trickle of Asians making their way across the departure lounge for a flight to LAX. His phone chirped again. He took it out: voicemail.

“Hi,” said Brian Tate’s voice. “I’ve been trying to get you at home.” He sounded irritable. “I had an idea a couple of hours ago. Give me a ring if you get this.” There was a pause, and Kearney thought the message was over. Then Tate added, “I’m really a bit concerned. Gordon was here again after you left. So call.” Kearney switched the phone off and stared at it. Behind Tate’s voice he had heard the white cat mewing for attention.

“ ‘Justine!’ ” he thought. It made him smile.

He sorted through the courier bag until he found the Shrander’s dice. He held them in his hand. They always felt warm. The symbols on them appeared in no language or system of numbers he knew, historical or modern. On a pair of ordinary dice, each symbol would be duplicated; here, none was. Kearney watched them rattle across the tabletop and come to rest in the spilled coffee by his empty cup. He studied them for a moment, then scooped them up, stuffed newspaper and phone hastily into the courier bag, and left.

“Your change, love!”