Walker’s Court was one of the small stretches of Soho that truly seemed to exist outside of time. Its narrow entrance off Brewer Street was framed by a windowed gallery that hung above the passage and connected the two buildings on either side. And it was lined with shops that looked like they belonged in a Dickens novel, and made their money selling the city’s gentlemen provisions for the weekend.

There were always a couple of men loitering in the passage, building up the courage to go inside one of its emporiums. This afternoon was no different, and as Knox stepped under the gallery bridge he spotted two hanging around at the other end of the passage. Maybe they were nervous shoppers, maybe they were watching the entrance to Kemp House. Knox decided that either way it made sense to encourage them to move on.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, doing his best impression of a plain-clothed police officer. ‘Enjoying yourselves?’

Both men turned bright red and immediately started to back off. Knox waited until he saw them both disappear round the corner onto Wardour Street, then he crossed over to the entrance of Kemp House, glancing up at the charred streaks that crowned the building.

He took the lift up to the top floor and checked the corridor and stairwell before heading for his flat. The front door had been smashed in by the firefighters and replaced with a heavy tarpaulin sheet secured around the frame. Knox guessed this had been done by the police, who would have taken over from the fire brigade last night and who might now also be looking for him. Depending on who at the Met had been given the case, word of the fire might even have already made it to Leconfield House.

Every inch of the tarpaulin edge was fixed down, but it had a covered seal running up one side of it. As Knox pulled it open fresh air rushed into the flat and a burnt stench flowed out.

He stepped through the heavy sheeting and made his way inside. The air was still heavy with smoke particles and water vapour from the storm and the firefighters’ hoses. There were more sheets across the blown-out windows—the place had been hermetically sealed.

The bedroom looked like it had survived the fire relatively unscathed. But the same couldn’t be said for the main living area. The walls were black, the marble dining table stained and cracked from the heat, and the Eames lounger had been reduced to a pile of ash and a set of twisted legs.

Knox walked around the room, leaving damp black footprints in the small patches of floor not already covered in soot as he inspected the full extent of the damage. He recognised the shape of his kitchen, but like everything else it was now a dull, matt black. It felt like he was fumbling around in the dead of night.