The custody centre. Cara Grunshaw. Suddenly I was awake again. ‘No. Let’s go.’

We continued past the front of the theatre. I could imagine Tirian Kirke onstage, describing Dr Farqhuar’s office. Would the line about the books have got a laugh? I noticed my name in lights. Another letter had fused. I’d been reduced to ANONY. One more short circuit and I’d be completely anon. Which, given the reviews, was probably what I deserved.

Hawthorne flagged down a taxi and once again we were on our way.

13

A Run of Bad Luck

I’ve never much liked Euston.

I got to know the area well during the sixteen years I worked on Foyle’s War. I did a lot of the research at the British Library, just about the only modern building in the entire square mile with any sense of architectural style. I still don’t understand how you can have a road that’s only a twenty-minute walk from the centre of town, yet remains so inherently cheap and tacky. Or why there’s been a traffic jam from one end to the other for the past twenty years. The shops are useless and you’d be mad to eat in any of the restaurants. Half the people you meet are tourists with backpacks. I should have known better when I heard that this was where Ahmet had his office. Theatreland it most certainly was not.

I brought Hawthorne to the front entrance, taking him down a flight of stairs concealed behind a row of dustbins to the basement of a tired grey house that had been sliced into flats. Light was streaming out of the windows below pavement level, but the glass was so dusty we couldn’t see in. I rang the bell. It was ten to eight in the evening, but so dark that it could have been midnight. The April weather was showing no signs of improvement. It wasn’t raining, but there was a thick fog that was doing the same job. Nobody came, so I rang the bell a second time. The door swung open to reveal Maureen Bates, dressed in a tweed skirt and mauve jersey with her glasses resting on her chest. She looked far from happy as she stood there, purposefully blocking the way in.

‘I think Mr Yurdakul is expecting us,’ Hawthorne said.

‘I’m aware of that. Yes. But I have to tell you that this really isn’t a good time.’ Did she think we’d just turn round and leave?

‘It’s never a good time when someone has been killed,’ Hawthorne assured her.

‘I don’t see how Mr Yurdakul can help you.’

‘You’ll find out when you let us in.’

With a pout of resignation, she turned and led us through the tiny hallway and into the office, where Ahmet was just finishing a conversation with a dark-haired man who looked uncomfortable in the armchair into which he had folded himself. As we arrived, he stood up and I saw that he was about six foot five, towering over the producer, twitchy and apologetic. I recognised him as the same person Ahmet had been talking to at the cast party. He had looked nervous then too. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, which was both unpleasant and, in modern times, rare. Ahmet was smoking. There was a packet of his L&M cigarettes in front of him, along with the onyx ashtray filled with at least half a packet’s worth of butts.