Hepton swivelled his legs off the bed and stood up. Parfit was breathing heavily, already deep in slumber. Hepton went to the door and eased it open, slipping out into the corridor. He closed the door again, making sure not to dislodge the Do Not Disturb sign swinging from the brass knob. Then he walked silently, purposefully along the corridor and down the stairs into the main lobby. The Bellevue was no smaller than the Achilles, but made a show of being inherently more intimate. The reception clerk recognised him and made an obsequious bow from behind his desk. Hepton gave a casual wave and went to the revolving door, entering it and pushing softly. The door tumbled round until it discharged him onto the pavement and into the smells of the city: exhaust fumes and damp trees.

The same doorman as before was standing in front of the Achilles, and opened the door for Hepton as he climbed the steps. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

‘Good morning,’ Hepton returned, entering the hotel.

He walked purposefully to the stairs before remembering that Devereux was on the second floor. So he crossed to the lifts instead. One was already waiting, and he stepped in. What was Devereux’s room number again? He had forgotten, but remembered the room itself, along towards the end of the corridor, past the ice dispenser and the shoeshine machine. The lift cranked its way upwards, jolted to a stop and opened. Hepton stepped into the dimly lit corridor and turned right. Past the ice machine … the drinks dispenser … the polisher …

Yes, this was it: 227. A couple came out of the room opposite, talking about the breakfast they were about to eat. They glanced back at Hepton, who stood hesitating outside Devereux’s door, then went on their way.

Hepton was about to knock on the door when he saw that it wasn’t properly closed. There was the slightest of gaps, but he couldn’t see into the room. Suddenly a sickening sensation hit him in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back into the corridor, brought up his foot and kicked open the door with the heel of his shoe. The room was dark, a crack of daylight coming through the closed drapes. And there was a funny sweet smell, like the gas he’d been given once as a child in the dentist’s chair. He found the light switch and flipped it. Devereux was in bed, naked. Another figure, fully dressed, was crouched over him, holding a hypodermic syringe into his upper arm. The face had jerked upwards to look at Hepton.

One side of it was scarred by long white water blisters, edged with redness.

It was Harry.

‘Oh Christ …’ Hepton whispered, the hair prickling on his neck.