Finally, the gun. I looked around, suddenly concerned that someone might be watching. But I was alone, in darkness. I released the clip of unused bullets and fingered them free of the spring loader and down into the sea. Then I broke the weapon open, slid the firing pin from its mount – that too I dropped into the sea. I returned the gun to my pocket.

Now walking barefoot, I went slowly back along the harbour arm. It was painful to walk, but I felt safer than before. No bloodied shoes to worry about. Just before reaching the harbour road I saw a litter bin. It was crammed with used drink cans and food waste. I dropped into it my cotton gloves, pushing them down beneath the top level of waste.

When at last I came to my hotel I noticed the street vendor I had seen earlier. He was working hard for a group of customers, standing close by his brazier, making up portions of sliced broiled meat with a handful of salad, crammed into a pitta. I passed him, went to my hotel. I wanted to change my clothes, rest my feet – I had not walked barefoot in city streets before.

In my room, under the dim light of the single bulb, I stripped off the trainer pants and T-shirt, bundled them up. Next, I attended to the gun. The ammo clip was inside, but empty. I had brought a replacement firing pin with me, concealed in my luggage. I pushed it into place.

Now, apart from hand and fingerprints, the gun was unidentifiable. The gun itself was already registered by the firing range to ‘W. Alman’ – that thin disguise would not of course resist good police work, but I had the resources to deal with it. When I handled the baseball bat I was wearing gloves. The bullet cases I had scattered around Hari’s body were from another gun, the one the rookie had been using at the range. The bullets they would find in Hari’s apartment, and the one (or two) somewhere inside his body, were not from those cases. The firing pin was not the one that had detonated the charge in the bullets. The barrel, if examined, would reveal that the bullets had passed through, that it was the murder weapon, but there were no other traces to identify it further.

Wearing another pair of cotton gloves I wiped the gun clean. I laid it on the table beside the bed.

I filled the hand basin with cold water. I rinsed my hair, then washed my face, hands, chest, everything.

I lay on my bed for half an hour, listening to the sounds of the night through the open window.