When Kearney got out of the bathroom, she had made poached eggs and stale toast, also stale croissants. It was 9 a.m. and the table was carefully set with place mats and lighted candles. Generally, though, she seemed better. She signed up for yoga classes at Waterman’s Arts Centre. She stopped writing notes to herself, though she left the old ones pinned up on the back of the bedroom door where they confronted Kearney with forgotten emotional responsibilities. Someone loves you. He spent much of each night staring at the wash of streetlight on the ceiling of the room, listening to the traffic murmur to and fro across Chiswick Bridge. As soon as he felt settled, he went to Fitzrovia to see Tate.

It was a raw Monday afternoon. Rain had emptied the streets east of Tottenham Court Road.

The research suite—an annexe of Imperial College orphaned recently into the care of free market economics—was entered through a bleak, clean basement area with a satin-finish nameplate and newly blacked iron railings. A few streets further east it would have housed a literary agency. The ventilators were open and noisy, and through the frosted glass windows Kearney could see someone moving about. The faint sound of a radio filtered out. Kearney went down the steps and punched his access code into the keypad by the door. When it didn’t work, he pressed the intercom button and waited for Tate to buzz him in. The intercom crackled, but no one spoke at the other end, and no one buzzed.

After a moment he called, “Brian?”

He pressed the buzzer again, then held it down with his thumb. No answer. He went back to street level and peered through the railings. This time he couldn’t see anyone moving, and all he could hear was the sound of the ventilators.

“Brian?”

After a moment, he assumed he had been mistaken. The lab was empty. Kearney turned up the collar of his leather jacket and walked off in the direction of Centre Point. He hadn’t got to the end of the street when he thought of phoning Tate at home. Tate’s wife picked up. “Absolutely not here,” she said. “I’m glad to say. He was out before we woke up.” She thought for a moment, then added dryly: “If he came home at all last night. When you see him tell him I’m taking the kids back to Baltimore. I mean that.” Kearney stared at the phone, trying to remember what she was called or what she looked like. “Well,” she said, “in fact I don’t mean it. But I will soon.” When he didn’t answer she said sharply, “Michael?”

Kearney thought her name was Elizabeth, but people called her Beth. “Sorry,” he said. “Beth.”

“You see?” said Tate’s wife. “You’re all the same. Why don’t you just bang on the fucking door until he wakes up?” Then she said: “Do you think he’s got a woman in there? I’d be relieved. It would be such human behaviour.”