“Hold on a second.”

Charlie waved the phone in front of Simon’s face. He swatted it away as if it were an insect, then did a double take and grabbed it. “Hello? Hello? . . . Yes. Thanks for getting back to me.”

Gemma Dobson’s voice was loud enough to be audible across the table, but only as a noise—no identifiable words, which was frustrating. “Pen,” Simon mouthed. Charlie fished in her handbag, pulled one out and handed it to him, then went back in for a scrap of paper. She knew there were lots in there, but they’d all gone into hiding; everything Charlie’s fingers touched was hard and three-dimensional. She couldn’t imagine what all these objects were that she carried around with her every day, and when she peered in, she could make out very little. This was the worst bag she’d ever owned. It was far too big—like a network of pitch-black subterranean caves with a smart leather exterior and a shoulder strap. By the time she’d found a suitable receipt for Simon to scribble on, it was too late: he’d already started to make notes on his nondisposable cloth napkin.

He’d written, “October 26, 2011, 10:30 A.M., Rose Lounge, Sofitel St. James Hotel, London.” Then, underneath, “November 11, 2011.” Charlie watched, waiting for him to write down a time to go with the second date, but the pen hovered in midair.

“Really?” he asked Gemma Dobson. “You’re sure? Not eleven or eleven thirty? . . . Right . . . No, I’m not doubting you. Thank you. You’ve been helpful.” Simon tried to stuff his phone into his inside jacket pocket and missed. It fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up. “I knew it,” he said to Charlie. “Six ones. Not one hundred and eleven thousand one hundred and eleven, but November 11, 2011. Paula Riddiough and Damon Blundy met twice, according to her assistant. The second time was on eleven eleven eleven. So that’s Blundy’s computer password explained: Riddy111111.”

“I see,” said Charlie. “Must have been a significant meeting for him, are you thinking? If he used it as his password?”

“Yeah, and Blundy knew it was going to be significant.”

“You mean he picked that as his password before November 11, 2011—when the date was arranged but before it had happened?”

Simon smiled. “No. I don’t know how long it’s been his password.”

“Then—”

“How do I know Blundy knew his three-elevens appointment with Riddiough was going to matter to him before it had happened?”

Charlie waited. Tried not to mind being toyed with.

“Guess what time they arranged to meet?” said Simon.

Not eleven or eleven thirty? he’d said to Gemma Dobson. There was only one way in which the time could possibly be significant . . . “If you’re asking me to pull something else out of thin air that’s probably going to be wrong . . . my guess is eleven minutes past eleven,” said Charlie.