‘So what did he want?’

‘He’s using me. He wants to meet you. He has promised there is no threat to you.’

‘That’s not what Frejah Harsent told me—’

‘He swore he is no danger to you.’

‘Was he carrying a gun when he came to your flat?’ I said.

‘Not that I was aware of. The only thing he had brought with him was this.’ Spoder indicated the low pile of papers lying on the table in front of him. ‘He wants you to read what he says. I read it last night – he described it as a confession but to me it seemed more of a boast.’

‘A confession of what?’ I said.

‘He claims to have killed Hari Harsent, the husband of the woman cop you know. He said you should read it.’

I stared at the pages, lying on my long table. They were handwritten.

‘Why are these people around you?’ Spoder said. ‘Who are they, and where have they come from? The Harsent woman and the man who claims he killed her husband. She says Jeksid intends to kill you too. He denies it. All three of them are police officers, or were. They were involved somehow in the murders of the twin brothers. You know, I’m much more concerned about the future of Terrik and Noella, my own children. They’re grown up and have their own lives and know nothing of this, but I’m suddenly bankrupt and every plan I had for them, to leave them something to provide for their future, all that has been suddenly undermined, taken away. That’s much more important to me than the intrigues of these ex-cops.’

‘I agree,’ I said, knowing the words were inadequate, feeling great sympathy for him. He lived alone. At least I had Jo. I was feeling the separation from Jo intensely at that moment. She was due to leave Muriseay in a couple of days – I could barely wait to see her again. I felt certain that once she was home all this intrusive madness of fast cars, guns and ex-cops would somehow go away. Meanwhile, what I had was Spoder and his story, now Jeksid and what appeared to be his. I added: ‘Frejah Harsent said that Jeksid claimed to have committed a perfect murder.’

‘That’s more or less what he says here. He’s stricken with guilt, but a part of him is bragging about it. It doesn’t make for pleasant reading.’

‘I don’t believe in a perfect crime,’ I said. ‘Crime is too crude, too rough, too negatively intended, for perfection.’

Whatever Jeksid had done it would not have been perfect. I remembered the many articles and books on the subject that I had read over the years, written by my fellow crime novelists. It was a subject of recurrent interest in the unusual, generically defined but popular business I was in. I was interested in it too.