We stopped at a roadside restaurant we both knew well. Nothing more was said about the imminent visit. Sitting opposite her I could see she was elated by her successful trip, but that she was exhausted after the long flight. I knew and understood how Jo felt about my involvement with all those Dearth cops. I had said to her I would be concentrating on my novel again. I felt guilty, slightly deceitful. I did not want to ruin the pleasure of her return. It was an unfortunate clash of private life and work life, but not really even that. The Dearth murders, as I now thought of them, had become a kind of displacement activity away from my writing, my real work life.

A little under an hour later we continued. It was not far to the house. As I turned the car into the access road that runs behind our house I saw a Raba City taxicab driving out. I paused to let it pass. When we reached our house we could see two men were standing outside, looking expectant, as if they had just hammered on the door.

One was of course Spoder – the other? If I had had a mental image of Enver Jeksid before then, it was replaced forever by the reality. Jeksid was a short man, slight of build. He had his back towards me when I first saw him, and when he turned he did so with physical awkwardness, as if he had a damaged hip or knee or foot. He was leaning on a metal cane. He had a small sand-coloured moustache, and his grey hair had thinned to a few patches across his narrow head.

Jo said: ‘Oh, please! I wish you hadn’t arranged this today, Todd.’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t set it up. Spoder called this morning, just as I was about to drive to the airport to collect you.’

‘I’m going to take a shower, and keep out of the way. I’ll see you later. Don’t offer them food, OK?’

She let herself out of the car, walked quickly past the two men, giving a brief smile of recognition to Spoder and a polite nod to Jeksid, then let herself in with her key. I followed her.