‘Help has arrived,’ the man said. He took two paces back from the door and pointed his gun at it. Hepton knew instinctively what was expected of him now. He released his grip on the handle, stepped back and gave the wood a mighty kick. The door flew open and the man crouched lower, still levelling the gun … But apart from Devereux’s corpse, the room appeared empty. More than that, it felt empty. Hepton studied the scene. He couldn’t imagine Harry hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe. The windows were double-glazed, impossible to open, so there was no escape route there. Which left only the bathroom. He looked at his new-found accomplice, who nodded in understanding. Together they walked to the bathroom door, the man pausing only quickly, expertly to check for any sign of a pulse in Devereux’s wrist. There was none.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and Hepton glanced into the white-tiled room. A thick splash-proof curtain had been drawn across the shower. He pushed open the door and pointed to the curtain. The man aimed his pistol again, and Hepton yanked the curtain aside. The cubicle was empty. Hepton exhaled noisily and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where they stayed.

‘Look,’ he said. The man looked up too, and saw that the ceiling was a false one, with one small section pushed aside to reveal a dark gap.

‘You think she has escaped?’ the man asked in a whisper.

Hepton considered. No, the ceiling would not support a body’s weight, and besides, where could it lead? Nowhere. He dashed back into the room and looked around. The wardrobe door was open now. Inside, the suits and shirts had been pushed along on their railing to allow a body to squeeze into the space. He placed his head in the wardrobe. He could smell soap: Harry’s soap. He ran to the door and looked down the corridor, but there was no sign of her.

‘Give me your gun,’ he ordered. The man seemed startled. ‘Give it to me.’ He snatched the weapon from the man’s hand and ran out of the room. He headed down the corridor towards the main staircase, and took the steps two at a time. There were guests in the reception area, buying newspapers, talking to the desk clerk, about to walk off breakfast. They stared at Hepton as he made for the glass doors, pushed through them and stood on the top step. The traffic below was snarled, becoming angry. The day was hazy. Still no Harry.

A moment or two later, he heard some foreign words behind him and turned to see the man barking something at the hotel’s doorman. Then he walked towards Hepton, smiling, his hand held out palm upwards.

‘My gun, please.’ Hepton handed the pistol back, and the man slipped it into his pocket.

‘That was Russian you were speaking,’ Hepton said. The man ignored him.