And that is where my freedom lies. Simultaneity and unity. One would be expected to state this in the introduction, but it should be part of the text, not at the beginning, but, say, in Chapter Ten. Drop it into the text without any need for a clean transition. Maria nervously opened the envelope, unfolded the letter and began to read. Biting her lip, she squinted at the small, uneven writing, struggling to filter out the distracting blathering of the police lieutenant on duty and the driver.

“Suicide,” the lieutenant said with the air of one who knows of such things. “You can tell from a mile off that this wasn’t murder.”

“Sanya, you only just got out of bed and already you cracked the case,” the driver laughed.

“Just you see, I’ll work this one out in my sleep.”

“Suicide’s too easy. No need to look for anyone,” insisted the driver. “You’re getting lazy, Sanya.”

It smelled of petrol. The Kopeyka van bounced along the cobbled bridge, causing Maria to lose her thread, so she had to make double-sure she had missed no details.

“You’re a dimwit, Valera. A dim. Wit. Availability heuristic, you know what that is? Maria Alexandrovna, do you know what that is?” asked the lieutenant, gently nudging her shoulder.

“An erroneous assessment of probability conditioned by a prior experience of similar events,” Maria said without looking up.

“Whaaat?” said the driver.

She sighed. Her day had just begun and already she was spent. She’d only got half an hour’s sleep. She scraped with a fingernail at the letters on the page.

“Just think, Valery Petrovich, a Boeing 747 crashes less frequently than, let’s say, a Zhiguli, but when you hear about a plane crash in the media, it sticks in the memory. And that’s why I’m more afraid of flying than I am of being driven by you in this car.”

“Huh? You don’t like my driving?”

He slowed down and pulled up by the side of the road. The gearbox rattled and creaked. Maria rocked back and forth.

“What was the address again?”

“Dzyuba 29A, second entrance. Not just 29, but 29A. Got it?” asked the lieutenant, checking his notes.

“Got it. But what’s eurythmics got to do with anything, Sanya. I don’t follow.”

“Heuristics, dimwit. What I am telling you is that suicides are twice as common as murders, but that they aren’t as memorable. That is why murder feels more probable.”

“Valery Petrovich, three more blocks, go up to the traffic lights, take a left and drive into the courtyard. Straight in, don’t drive around,” said Maria, still studying her brief note.

“You got the directions written in that letter of yours?” said the impressed driver.

“I live around here.”

“But seriously, Maria Alexandrovna, what’s on that bit of paper?” the lieutenant asked from the back seat, craning his neck. “What’s so interesting that you can’t afford us your attention?”

“Handwriting analysis, Alexander Yegorovich,” Maria responded coolly.

“From a case?” the lieutenant insisted, peering fruitlessly over her shoulder.