When she woke, it took her a few seconds to remember she was in London, not Tokyo. She had no idea what time it was. Checking her phone, she was appalled to discover she’d slept for more than seven hours. There was a glow of street lamps beyond the curtains and a shushing noise of traffic on wet tarmac. It must have rained while she was asleep.

There was a message on her phone, but not from Kodaka. She didn’t recognize the number. She opened it, even so.

It was a text message, from the lawyer Kodaka used whenever one of his cases became legally sensitive. Wada had never actually met Norifusa Dobachi, though she’d spoken to him and his secretary on the telephone quite a few times. Her impression of him was that he was a cautious, meticulous man. She was surprised he had her phone number. And she was even more surprised by his message.

Please excuse mode of contact. Please call as soon as possible. Very urgent.

If Dobachi said something was very urgent, Wada was inclined to believe him. She put a call through to his office number on the hotel phone, fearing her own phone mightn’t have enough charge left to sustain a lengthy conversation at international rates.

She half expected to be greeted by a recorded message, since it was only just past eight o’clock in the morning in Tokyo. But the phone was answered promptly, by Dobachi himself.

‘Dobachi-san. This is Wada.’

‘Wada-san. You are not calling on the number where I left the message?’

‘No. This is a hotel phone. I am not in the country.’

‘I know where you are. Kodaka-san notified me of your trip.’

‘He did?’

‘I will explain shortly. But in the present situation your choice of telephone is probably wise. You should take all precautions that Kodaka-san may have taught you.’

‘What has happened?’

She heard him sigh before replying. It was almost a groan. ‘Kodaka-san is dead.’

For a moment, Wada couldn’t speak. How could it be true? She’d seen and spoken to Kodaka only three days ago. How could his life – everything he amounted to – have ceased to exist since then?

‘Hit-and-run,’ Dobachi continued solemnly. ‘Near his apartment, last night. The police contacted me because they found my card in his wallet. He was crossing a street after leaving his local minimarket.’

‘I do not know what to say. This is … terrible.’

‘Indeed. Very terrible. According to the police it may have been deliberate. The car hit him twice. Witnesses said it knocked him down, then stopped and drove over him before speeding off. None of them recorded the registration number. Nor could any of them describe the driver, though they thought there were two men in the car.’

‘Why would anyone do such a thing, Dobachi-san?’

‘I cannot say. But a private detective makes enemies. It is the nature of the profession.’