“I have a plan—don’t worry. His reaction will be enough. Unless Dr. Locke’s right, and the bugger’s brain-dead.”

“They said that because it was part of the police investigation, some of the cost should come from the police budget. Do you know what fifty percent of an fMRI scan costs?”

“Oh. Does Thrupp know?”

“He will soon. And then he’ll wonder why I didn’t tell him.”

“Ah.”

Atkinson sank heavily down into a chair.

“Jo. What we did last night was stupid. And dangerous. We’ve got information the investigation needs, but we can’t tell anyone because of how we got it. That passport—and the finger, for fucks sake. The fact that Gregor isn’t who we think he is.”

“Relax, Steve. We were one step in front, that’s all. CSI will be opening up that box as we speak. They’ll find the passport and then they’ll know everything we know, and they’ll start running checks on Mr. Mysterious immediately. And then there’s this scan. If I ask him a question and his brain lights up in response, we’ll be able to work out where Ruby has gone.”

“Oh, so you’re planning to stake your reputation on a highly expensive version of the yes or no game, with no guarantee that it will even work?”

“It will work. You’ll see.”

“Even if it does work, we’ll still be in trouble. You think Thrupp’s going to overlook the fact that we broke into a suspect’s property and then carried out an unrecorded search of the victim’s place?”

“We won’t be in trouble if we get the results. Plus, he’s not going to find out about either of those things.”

“You broke the lock on Ruby’s apartment.”

“After you left, I went back and fixed it. Good as new.”

“You cut that padlock on the box in Gregor’s wardrobe.”

“I replaced the padlock too. It was only a cheap model. Anyway, they already cataloged the key, so they’ll have to cut it themselves if they want to get inside quickly.”

Atkinson rubbed his temples and made a low, frustrated groan.

There was a tense silence, in which they both stared through the glass into the MRI scan room at the huge, space-age machine.

“This is too risky, boss. I think you should—”

“I’m only going to ask a few routine questions.”

“Of a man who can’t consent to being asked. The ethics of this are all over the shop.”

The door to the control room opened, and a technician entered, along with Dr. Locke and a short, bald man who introduced himself as Mr. Cunningham, the consultant radiologist in charge of the trial.