He’d doubtless work it out, but first things first. He turned his steps south, back towards St. Martin’s Lane. Leo surely wouldn’t have called in his name yet, that would be too obvious, so there was a decent chance the police wouldn’t yet have identified him. He’d do a recce, and if it looked safe, he could grab clothes and cash. If not, he’d leave, and try Kim again, and...something, whatever. He’d be fine. He hadn’t, after all, murdered Quiller, even if it was oddly easy to feel like he had.

Will made his way back down along the Tottenham Court Road, sticking to the busiest thoroughfares in the hope of being invisible in a crowd. That meant walking past two policemen, both of them patrolling with leisurely authority. He kept his pace steady, controlling the urge to hide his face.

The papers weren’t proclaiming a special edition yet. He had time still.

Down the Charing Cross Road. Across to St. Martin’s Lane. The smell of motor-cars and London streets, underpinned by a faint imaginary whiff of mud, as though his brain felt that was what a crisis smelled like. He paused casually outside a bookshop window, patting his pockets as if looking for a smoke, and saw nobody who seemed to be watching the entrance to May’s Buildings.

He went round the back anyway. As ever, the narrow alley was empty so he scaled the wall with the ease of practice, and came to his back door.

It was splintered. Someone had jimmied the lock.

That might be the police, in which case they were waiting inside. It might equally have been Zodiac coming to get the Messer, and they were probably long gone. Will stood and considered for an indecisive second, but he had little choice: he only had about a quid on him and without money he was going to get caught. He took a breath and went in.

The shop didn’t feel occupied. He stood still, listening for telltale creaks, then slid upstairs. The bedroom was empty too. He changed into the most dissimilar clothes he had in case of a description being circulated, threw a few days’ worth of clothing in a bag, checked he couldn’t see anything of Kim’s, and came down.

He felt horribly exposed by the bare windows but to pull the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon would be too noticeable. He emptied the petty cash into his wallet, and checked the desk drawer. White Stains had gone along with the Messer. He’d told himself to expect that, but it was still a blow.

Right, keep going. Clothes, money: he considered his other needs, had a good drink of water, and added a kitchen knife to his bag. It wasn’t the Messer, but it might come in handy.

And that was it. Time to go to wherever the hell he was going.