Dyer spent until the early part of the afternoon in the Taylorian, reading. His place by the window was good for that, even if he leafed through the pages not really taking them in, and several times had to go back over what he had read. Every so often, he stirred himself to make a note on his laptop or to look at the painting. He looked at the painting a lot. The woman in it reminded him of someone.

The Phoenix had no games or clubs on Tuesdays. School would be over by three-thirty, and he wanted to see Leandro; he was still shaken by the attack. At three o’clock, Dyer packed away his computer and walked back through the main reading room.

No one looked up as he passed. Here, at least, he was ignored.

The librarian behind the counter had purple-framed designer glasses and short peroxide hair.

‘May I renew this?’ Dyer asked.

If he had held a more senior library card, of the sort issued to professors, lecturers and PHD students, as Dyer briefly once was, he could perhaps have taken the book home, but something in his character suited Dyer to have it reserved for him, to read here, in the neutral limbo of the Taylorian, and then to renew the book should he require it for longer. This was the first time he had felt the incentive.

She accepted the book from him to enter the details.

‘I don’t expect there’s a queue,’ he murmured absently. ‘I’m probably the only person to have requested it.’

She squinted at the screen. ‘You are the first person. But that’s not the point. It should be available for other readers. Meanwhile, your status as Mr … Madrugada’s sole reader to date is safe.’

‘How so?’

‘Data protection. I’m not allowed to reveal it – once I finish logging in these details,’ speaking in slow motion, ‘thanks to. the Bodleian’s. new. Solo security system.’

She handed the book back. ‘You can have it out for one more week. And just so you know, you can renew it yourself online.’

As he turned to go, she asked in a sharp, authoritative voice: ‘Is that your coat?’

‘No.’

She stared at him for a moment, the way his hands gripped his shoulder bag as if he had a newborn baby in it.

‘Well, you can’t leave it there.’ That rack was for the staff.

He had been in such a state when he came up the stairs. ‘It’s not mine,’ he insisted, feeling caught out. ‘I was just borrowing it.’

She gave him a salty look and pointed to an umbrella stand in the passageway outside. ‘You can leave it there.’

The black Audi had been parked outside the headmaster’s house since lunchtime, apparently, and still Mr Crotty – or ‘Crotch’ as the boys and girls called him – had not emerged.