Wada set her phone to charge, took two miniatures of gin and a can of tonic water out of the minibar and poured the contents into a glass. She turned off the bedside light and opened the curtains. Rain was slashing across the glass in random tear-tracks. She sat down on the bed and took a deep swallow of the gin. Then she leant back against the headboard, cradling the glass in her lap.

She felt safe here, in the dark, in a hotel room, in a city where no one knew her. But safe for how long? If they’d gone as far as murder to stop Kodaka, wasn’t she likely to suffer the same fate once she returned to Japan? If Nishizaki had sokaiya connections, commissioning another hit-and-run or something similar wouldn’t be too difficult. In fact, it would make sense, as insurance against the possibility that she knew too much.

She worked her way steadily through the gin. The alcohol stilled some of her anxiety and helped her see her situation more clearly. She didn’t know too much. She knew barely anything, in fact. That was what she had to change. That was her only recourse.

She picked up the hotel phone and dialled Dobachi’s number. There was a gulf of silence before it began ringing.

Then he answered. ‘Wada-san?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you made your decision?’

‘Send me the file.’

Wada barely slept for the rest of the night. By asking Dobachi to send her the file, she’d committed herself to remaining in London for several days at least. And, in effect, she’d committed herself to continuing what Kodaka had so fatefully started. Every time she thought it through, it seemed that was what she had to do. Every course of action, even inaction, held its hazards. Yet still the timid, unassertive part of her longed to run away and hide. It might work, after all. It was possible Nishizaki didn’t even know she existed. It was possible Kodaka had been run over by some drunken salaryman – or the aggrieved husband in one of the divorce cases he’d been handling.

Yes, all of that was possible.

But she didn’t believe it.

And, come morning, she still didn’t believe it.

Her appointment with Martin Caldwell was for ten thirty. The British Museum was only a short walk from the Envoy Hotel. She wondered if Caldwell had arranged to meet her there for that very reason. He thought he was meeting Shitaro Masafumi’s daughter, after all. He probably reckoned she’d want to see the Envoy, even though, as Wada now knew, there was little to be gained by it.

Wada still felt safe, reasoning no one could know where she was. But she was aware that could change when she met Caldwell. His affiliations and intentions were unknown. Plenty of people might know where he was. Their rendezvous was a moment of risk.