He checks out the other rooms. There’s a study just large enough for a pine desk, a chair and a bookshelf. The bedroom is generous: a king-sized bed, as promised, a flat screen TV bolted to the wall and a wardrobe. He knows the place is booked this weekend and most nights next week, which makes sense; it’s cheap ($155 a night, including the cleaning fee), central and neat, and there’s not enough places in the city to go around. This place averages seven bookings a month. Most importantly, it’s available for single-night bookings. Ideal for a one-night stand. Perfect for his needs.

He lays both suitcases down in the living room and opens them to reveal a handheld vacuum cleaner, white cardboard boxes, a cordless drill, screws, screwdrivers, chisels. He also has a plaster kit and a small tin of paint. Using a flathead screwdriver, he opens the paint. He stares into the tin, then at the wall, then into the tin. You can’t tell until it dries what colour it will be, but it looks like a perfect match. He’d been worried he might have to go back to the hardware store but that won’t be necessary.

His eyes scan the walls and the ceiling once more. His gaze comes to rest on the black pendant light fitting hanging down. Lights are good; people tend not to stare directly at lights. He takes one of the four dining chairs gathered about the table and places it at the centre of the room before climbing up to examine the elaborate bowl-shaped design of the lampshade. He lowers himself back to the carpet again and pulls a portable stereo from one of the suitcases. He puts on music, ‘Paint it Black’ by The Rolling Stones. With the volume up high he takes the drill. The two-millimetre bit is already fitted. He climbs onto the chair again, holds the light in place with one hand, wields the tool with the other hand and begins drilling a tiny aperture. It’s an expensive tool, quiet, much quieter than the splash of the cymbals, the rolling thud of the base drum. He hums the tune.

Back down from the chair, he opens the boxes, looking for the size he is after. Bingo. Three millimetre, fish eye lens. He removes the camera, about the size of a pen nib. He climbs back up, presses it through the hole in the light fitting and fastens it in place. He blows on the lens, thumbs the sleeve of his shirt over it then returns to the floor and inspects his handiwork. Unless you knew what you were looking for, you would never notice it.