Ross’s superior was being driven slowly crazy by a series of anonymous missives claiming knowledge of a secret network of FBI restrooms situated in strategic locations around the United States. The latest communication received by Holt had included a packet of Dr Singha’s Mustard Bath (single size) from the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin; a desk calendar from the Museum of Bad Art in Somerville, Massachusetts; and a framed wreath made from human hair, stolen from Leila’s Hair Museum in Independence, Missouri, and repurposed by replacing the photo of a deceased nineteenth-century woman at its heart with a picture of Conrad Holt himself. This final artifact had particularly enraged the FBI man, who was sensitive about his hairline. Each item came with a key attached, and a typed note complaining that the key in question did not fit the lock to the restroom. As with a number of the most recent letters to Holt, the envelope used was stamped Greetings from the Great Lost Bear, Portland, Maine. Remember: Good Bears Eat Their Honey! Holt was now of the opinion that the bar in question should be raided and its owners taken into custody. If they were not actively involved in his persecution, they were facilitating it by permitting the use of one of their rubber stamps.

‘Holt,’ said Angel, his face assuming an expression of wounded innocence that would not have shamed the Archangel Gabriel himself. ‘I gotta say, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘You boys sail close to the wind, I’ll give you that,’ said Harris. ‘It was good talking to you. I wish you good luck in your endeavors.’

They watched him leave.

‘Another legat?’ said Angel.

‘No, a spook,’ said Louis. ‘He says he’s retired, but that’s like claiming to be an ex-alcoholic.’

‘Did he help?’

‘Some,’ said Louis. ‘He gave us a lead, and a bead on our first target.’

‘Here?’

‘Paris.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘I leave for Paris in the morning. You don’t.’

‘So what am I doing?’

‘You’re going to London,’ said Louis. ‘You’re about to arrange a kidnapping.’

Louis, Angel, and Hendricksen ate that evening at Mama Makan, an Indonesian restaurant on the Spinozastraat recommended by Hendricksen. When they were done, Hendricksen took them to the house in which De Jaager and the others had died. There was no indication that anything untoward had occurred there, beyond a strip of red-and-white tape and a police notice in Dutch that Louis did not require a translation to comprehend.

‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ said Hendricksen. ‘There’s nothing to see, except blood.’

‘Then I’ll look at blood,’ said Louis. ‘What about an alarm?’

‘Deactivated since the killings.’