In daylight, when the town was awake, I walked to the police shooting range. I arrived a few minutes after it had opened for business. The woman civilian worker I had previously seen on the desk was not there. A young guy had taken her place. I was wearing the last of my cotton gloves. I flashed my Alman warrant card at him, then handed over the gun in its holster.

He took the weapon from me, opened it expertly, removed the firing pin, examined it, then put it back. He noted down the number engraved on the barrel.

‘Have you brought back unused rounds, Serjeant Alman?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘OK.’ He typed something on his keyboard, then handed me the refund of the deposit. I signed for it as W. Alman.

The next day I flew back to Dearth, using the Alman identity for the last time. I had to wait a while at Tristcontenta for the traffic helicopter to arrive, but I was home before midnight. The day after I put on my usual work clothes, pulled on the ID lanyard, and reported to the station. As usual I was rostered for desk work.

The news of the death of Detective Inspector Harsent broke towards the end of that day. He was a well known and popular figure on the station, at least among the more senior officers. He had been working undercover for so long that recently appointed officers knew of him only by reputation. The station went immediately into mourning, a formal roll was called as a tribute, an investigation was announced to work alongside the homicide squad of the Salay Ewwel police. Many officers volunteered to take part, but I did not. I saw Superintendent Frejah Harsent during that day, but she either did not realize I was attending the roll call, or did not notice me. For all of the next day the mystery of Hari Harsent’s killing was covered by television, press and internet news media.

I continued to work my shifts at the station, but was fearful of being challenged. I fretted endlessly about the effectiveness of how I had concealed the evidence. There were two weak areas I was painfully aware of: the knowledge that Superintendent Harsent would deeply suspect me of the crime, and the fact that I had strong personal links with the victim.

My working belief about Frejah Harsent appeared to be correct. She was herself too deeply involved to reveal her knowledge, or to make accusations against me. I rarely saw her again, except on the most formal of occasions – if she came to the station when I was working there I never had any contact with her. She knew what I knew, and vice versa. There was a silent pact between us, and it held.