Outside a car swept past in the direction of the Square Ambiorix. The sound of it broke into Kale’s thoughts, stirring him to action, and he climbed the stairs two at a time. Two-thirds of the way up a door led off to the bathroom from a small landing. Up another half-dozen steps and there was a small square landing with two doors leading off. The first one opened into Gryffe’s bedroom. A large, rectangular room, basic and tidy. A double bed, a tall walnut wardrobe, a matching dressing table with circular mirror against the window. On a single bedside table there was a brown-shaded lamp and a book by Ernest Hemingway with a marker about halfway through. The thin beam of Kale’s pencil torch picked them all out and then snapped off. He moved through to the second, smaller room. It was empty except for a single unmade bed pushed against one wall. The wallpaper was faded and old-fashioned, brittle at the seams where it was beginning to lift away from the wall. The room smelled fusty and unused. The whole house felt and smelled unlived-in.

Downstairs, at the end of the hall, there was a small, stone-floored kitchen. A faint odour of stale cooking. The gas stove was black and caked with grease. A porcelain sink and washtub with a wooden draining board was cracked. In a wall cupboard he found a half-empty bottle of milk, a packet of cereal, tea, coffee, sugar, cups, saucers and three plates. A wooden door leading to the back yard was bolted shut. Kale guessed that Gryffe must eat out a lot.

He moved into the back room and then through the interior set of French windows into Gryffe’s study. Everything in the house seemed functional, designed for convenience rather than comfort. Again Kale checked his watch. It was nine now. He pulled out the drawer that Gryffe had opened an hour earlier and found a .32 Colt automatic eight-shot handgun nestling in the dark. An old-fashioned gun. He lifted it out and felt its weight in his hand. He sniffed the barrel. It had not been fired recently. Gently, with a dexterous familiarity, he sprang the magazine out and counted the bullets through the small holes in the side of it. It was fully loaded. He snapped the magazine back in place and slipped the gun carefully into his right-hand coat pocket, allowing himself a tiny smile. Sometimes fortune favoured the bad. He had a plan.