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favours.’
    Paz steals a glance at me.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘His fingers were blue, Paz. The lack of oxygen will have ruined his brain, and the Zopiclone will have ruined his liver. If he lives, he’ll never wrestle again. He’ll probably never speak again.’
    The ambulance hits a pothole, and Paz swerves to avoid doing the same.
    ‘That’s a pity,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a stack of questions I’d like to ask him.’
    It takes fifteen minutes to reach the hospital, and another three to negotiate the swarm of white minibuses and the badly parked cars. Paz flashes her badge and we’re waved through the security checkpoint in time to see Meyer being pulled from the back of the ambulance. They’re still working on him as they wheel him into the building. Inside, we wait five minutes until a man in a smart shirt with rolled-up sleeves finds us in the waiting area.
    ‘Dr Pereyra,’ he says as he approaches.
    ‘Detectives Carvalho and Paz,’ I tell him. ‘Is he going to pull through?’
    Pereyra shows me the palms of his hands and rounds his shoulders, as if the weight of the world is on his back.
    ‘Maybe. He’s responding to treatment, but some of his organs may have shut down completely. And there’s a strong possibility of brain damage.’
    Once Pereyra has gone, Paz grabs two polystyrene cups of coffee from an ancient vending machine. We sit down and get our heads together over a chipped Formica coffee table. We talk quietly, the way anxious relatives discuss the best and worst scenarios while they wait for news to reach them.
    ‘Here’s what we know,’ Paz says. ‘Two nights ago, Gilmore phones Meyer. Gilmore disappears. Last night he reappears, attempts to throw a javelin at the President and you shoot him.’
    I wince at the memory.
    ‘This morning Meyer watches the news reports about Gilmore at breakfast, and we find him in his room having swallowed enough sedatives to knock out an elephant. Coincidence?’
    I shake my head.
    ‘No chance.’ I take a sip of my coffee and scald my top lip.
    ‘Why set the machine so hot?’ I complain. Paz watches me over the rim of her cup as she blows to cool her own drink. ‘One thing’s for sure: Lucas Meyer knows something. He spoke to Gilmore before the attack, and he tried to kill himself after.’
    ‘Meyer’s not going to be talking any time soon,’ Paz says.
    ‘True. But it means there’s something worth knowing. We just need to find out what it is.’
    A receptionist calls out to us across the lobby. Paz and I turn to see a nervous-looking woman holding two fingers in the air.
    ‘Excuse me?’ she says, beckoning us towards her. We walk closer and she lowers her voice. She puts the hand that was in the air over the mouthpiece of her telephone. ‘Are you the police?’
    I nod.
    ‘Here about Lucas Meyer?’
    I nod again and show her my badge.
    ‘Someone on the phone is asking for him,’ she almost whispers. ‘What should I say?’
    I take the phone from her and hold it to my ear. No background noise. No clues.
    ‘Hello?’ I say.
    The voice on the line says, ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘You first.’
    There’s a pause.
    ‘My name is Dr Rahim Jaffari. I am Lucas Meyer’s psychologist. I insist on speaking with him. Are you a doctor?’
    He sounds suave and sophisticated. His Middle Eastern accent is rich and complex in tone.
    ‘No. I’m Detective Rafael Carvalho. Can we talk?’
    Paz watches me intently, trying to guess what I am hearing on the line.
    ‘Talk about what?’
    ‘Lucas has swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills.’
    ‘Okay,’ Jaffari says. ‘Well, I didn’t prescribe them.’
    ‘I’m not suggesting you did. But if he’s your client, maybe you can tell me something about his state of mind?’
    ‘I never discuss my clients.’
    His tone is uncompromising.
    ‘I’d hate to have to arrest you.’
    Jaffari laughs.
    ‘You’re a very persuasive man, Detective Carvalho.’
    ‘This is not a game,’ I tell him. ‘Your client