The man’s eyes practically crossed at the question.

‘In Pythagorean numerology,’ Alec explained, ‘it symbolises the end of one cycle and the beginning of another. Perhaps you can appreciate that. Perhaps not.’

Alec walked over to his desk and Barry – understanding the unspoken invitation – followed, leaving his scruples at the door like a loyal dog abandoned. Given the man’s profession, he was likely searching the study for some clue as to how Alec had accrued such wealth and why, in spite of it, still appeared so profoundly miserable. A chair had been set in place for him; an antique Chippendale that now cried beneath his weight.

Barry’s face was solid and simple, as though chiselled out by an unimaginative stonemason. The closest shave wouldn’t lift the shadow from his skin. His dark hair was cropped short with a few silvered flecks trailing back above his ears, and he was dressed in a well-worn black coat and brogues. The man’s looks epitomised the model detective in a paperback thriller. But Barry was no hero. His reasons for being in Alec’s home were far from honourable.

‘You must understand, Doctor,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, ‘I don’t usually do this. As I’m sure you are aware, these files are not openly available to the public.’

Alec slid open his desk’s top drawer. There he procured the unmarked envelope, weighty and sealed, and dropped it between them like a slab of meat for a hungry dog.

‘I’m more than glad to support local law enforcement,’ he said, looking the man directly in the eye, ignoring the envelope’s existence. ‘I’ve no doubt that my donation will be put to good use.’

The detective sighed as he handed his folder over the desk. He took the envelope and quickly pocketed it inside his jacket, as if everyone who once respected him had lined the windows to spectate this moment of weakness. Both men forced a smile.

‘What’s your interest in this case?’ the detective asked, rubbing his hands together, trying to clean them of a stain only he could see.

Following the succinctness that had defined their past exchanges, Alec assumed Barry to be the quiet sort – a man muzzled by defeat. He sat back, coolly as he could, and lowered his clenched fists out of the detective’s sight. Alec was not in the habit of taking questions.

‘It’s just a hobby of mine,’ he replied, careful not to glower too intently. ‘Are you familiar with it? This particular case, I mean.’

‘I didn’t work that one.’

‘Oh, but I didn’t ask if you worked it. I asked if you were familiar with it.’

Judging by Barry’s hesitation, the man was unsure if his compliance in conversation was part of the deal. Alec’s eyes bored into him as though they could extract the answer regardless.