He showered and dressed in loose clothing that would be comfortable while he was travelling. He satisfied himself that he had left nothing behind, picked up the gym bag that contained his small collection of clothes, his books and his toothbrush, and left the room. He would not be coming back. His next stop was Istanbul, and then he would take a second flight to Bali.

The fact that he had to travel to the island was no inconvenience at all. Milton had been there once before to deliver justice to the unconvicted mastermind of a bombing that had murdered twenty people in 2005. It had been a typical working trip for him—in and then out within the space of a few hours—but he had found the island to be beautiful and had always intended to return. The circumstances of this visit were not quite what he would have preferred, but it was what it was.

He shut the door behind him and made his way down the undecorated but functional fire escape of the hotel, stepping over the piles of laundry that littered the stairwell. The elevator was unreliable and he had a plane to catch. He did not want to miss it because he was trapped in a metal box.

He walked out into the foyer of the hotel and saw the elderly man who staffed the desk. The man was arguing with a couple of backpackers whom Milton had noticed yesterday afternoon. Milton stood behind the two youngsters and gathered that they were debating the cost of the room. The male backpacker—an American—was trying to negotiate a discount because the room he and his female companion had stayed in was—he said—“crawling with lice.” His girlfriend scratched herself a couple of times to make the point. Her companion grew angrier and angrier with the elderly concierge.

Milton stepped forward. “How much is the room?” he asked the man behind the desk.

The elderly man shook his head. “You paid already.”

“Their room?”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

Milton dug into his pocket and pulled out four tens and placed them down on the counter.

“We don’t need your charity,” the male backpacker said with a forced smile.

Milton frowned at him. “It’s not charity. Your parents probably spent more on your teeth than this man earns in a year. Why not just say thanks and go on with your day?”

The backpacker’s girlfriend stifled a laugh before crossing her arms over improbably firm breasts. “Come on, Casey,” she said, her voice nasal. “We’re done here.”

Casey fixed Milton with a hard stare. Milton could almost hear his brain working as he tried to come up with a reply that would enable him to save face in front of his girl. Milton returned the stare with interest until the young man thought better of it. He snorted derisively and turned around.

Milton turned his attention back to the elderly concierge.