Knox’s hangover was vicious. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and he could barely focus. He couldn’t remember how long he’d stayed at the bar under Tisbury Court. The taste of whisky was still on his tongue, but it was mixed with enough other flavours for it to feel like a drop in a large ocean of alcohol. He wasn’t sure what else he’d drunk, or eaten, but given how queasy he felt he was fairly sure he’d skipped dinner.

He also had no idea how or when he’d got home. Or who with. Someone was lying next to him in his bed, completely covered in sheets that rose and fell in time with their unconscious breathing. Knox had no memory of meeting anyone last night. But he clearly had. At some point he’d work out what had happened. But first, he wanted to know who was in his kitchen, loudly grinding coffee beans.

He slid out of his bed and slipped on a robe. He left the stranger under the covers and walked out into the kitchen, half-expecting to see Peterson waiting to question him about his ungentlemanly nocturnal habits. Instead, he found a young woman pouring two cups of fresh coffee.

This was the second time in three days someone had surprised him in his own home—the third if he counted the person still asleep in his bed. Through the haze of his hangover it took him a moment to recognise her pixie-cut hair and realise that he’d met her before.

‘So, you’re not Kaspar’s assistant, then?’ he said. His voice was croaky. He picked up the coffee she’d made for him and took a tentative sip, letting a small amount of the hot liquid mix with whatever was still sloshing around in his stomach.

‘Afraid not,’ she replied, her Midwestern accent coming through even in this short phrase.

‘Are you working for Peterson?’ he asked, realising she was also the right size and build to be the person in the hat who had followed him two nights ago.

She shook her head. ‘I’m a friend.’

He resisted the dismissive grunt he felt in his throat. ‘What were you doing in Cambridge?’ he asked instead.

‘The same thing as you, I reckon,’ she replied. ‘Not finding the answers I was looking for.’

Knox made a mental note to have some better locks fitted to his front door as she slid a photograph over the kitchen counter to him. It was a slightly blurred, blown-up image of a woman on a street. Knox reached out to pick it up, wincing as his side reminded him of the kicking it had taken last night. He didn’t recognise her, or any details in the background of the picture that would tell him where it had been taken. All he could see was that whoever she was, she looked like she’d been through hell.