But I had not expected so much blood. I knew without looking that my slip-on shoes had been in the spilled blood as I searched for the spent cases. My trainer pants too – I had been kneeling. I imagined a trail of incriminating bloody footprints following me. Had any of Hari’s blood spurted on to my shirt? I did not dare to look back or down. And there was blood on the cotton gloves, which I was wearing when I picked up the bullet cases. These gloves were now stuffed into my pocket with the four casings. I imagined traces of blood seeping out through the cheap synthetic material of the trainer pants.

And although I was wearing a fresh pair of white gloves, had there been some of Hari’s blood on my hands when I pulled them on? Were traces of that blood even now oozing through the glove material?

I did not look, could not risk looking. Worse, I could not risk discovering the truth.

Stay calm, stay calm. It became a mantra. I could not have regrets. I could not think myself wrong.

I reached the harbour area. The largest part was the main port for the inter-island ferries, as well as the longer haul passenger and cargo services. A tall ferry, blazing with deck and navigation lights, was slowly approaching the terminal. Another was already departing, heading out across the sea.

There was also a small harbour where the local fishing fleet was based, its outer wall facing the open sea. This quay was sparsely lit at night. It was a quiet period in the harbour as most of the fishing vessels went out at night. I could see the ice and auction shed on the shore – all lights were off.

I was soon on the long outer arm of the fishing harbour, the dark sea heaving below me to my left, the calm waters of the harbour on the other side. My hip was sore from walking, and my weak right shoulder was aching. I went on, from one dim pool of light to the next. There was a long gap between lights where the quay wall turned at an angle to contain the harbour.

In the middle of the gap between lights I scooped the four spent bullet cases from my pocket and tossed them into the sea. The soiled gloves followed, and after a moment’s thought so too did my slip-on shoes. The sea would not destroy them, and one day soon they would turn up in the harbour or on one of the beaches as jetsam, but they would be bleached of all signs of Hari’s blood. Also of any traces of my skin or perspiration that might otherwise be forensically traceable to me.