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tried to take his own life. If you know why, you need to tell me.’
    He adjusts his tone to something more conciliatory.
    ‘It’s not a game to me, either,’ he says. ‘But you have to understand that I provide very private assistance to very public people. What they tell me is confidential.’
    I clear my throat.
    ‘There’s a good chance Lucas Meyer is going to die.’
    There’s a pause as the psychologist assesses his position.
    ‘Okay, I’ll talk to you,’ he says after a minute. ‘But not over the phone.’

CHAPTER 9
    BY THE TIME we arrive at the Belmond Copacabana Palace, Rahim Jaffari is already taking lunch on the terrace next to a shimmering pool. The hotel is a white Art Deco block, with the name wrought in huge copper letters above the sixth-floor windows.
    ‘Dr Jaffari?’
    Jaffari smiles and invites me to sit. He’s a good-looking man in his mid-fifties. He has olive skin that retains a youthful quality and striking white hair that is fashionably cut.
    ‘Detective Carvalho,’ he says. ‘Thank you for coming.’
    I introduce Paz, and Jaffari nods politely. His smile vanishes as we sit, and I figure he wants to get down to business. The table, which overlooks the Guanabara Bay, is covered with a crisp white cotton tablecloth and furnished with fine china plates. A prim waitress stands nearby, wearing a crisp white shirt and a patterned sarong. Jaffari beckons her over and asks her to bring a fresh pot of coffee.
    ‘Can you imagine competing in this heat?’ he asks, watching the waitress swish off in her sarong. I say nothing. I don’t know exactly what Jaffari can tell me, but I haven’t come here to talk about theweather. Jaffari is comfortable with the silence, and for a while we both stare out towards the horizon, our eyes narrowed slightly against the breeze coming in off the water. After a moment, the coffee arrives.
    ‘What is it that you could not tell me over the phone?’ I ask Jaffari as he pours.
    ‘It’s difficult.’
    ‘I figured as much. You didn’t want to talk to me at all, earlier.’
    I sip the coffee. It tastes a world better than the stuff from the vending machine in the hospital. Jaffari sighs and takes a moment to rearrange the cutlery until it is perfectly symmetrical.
    ‘Lucas Meyer is my client,’ he says slowly. ‘I owe him my confidentiality.’
    I look back from the sea and stare at him.
    ‘This is not the time for secrets. I’ve got one athlete in hospital and another in the morgue.’
    ‘It wasn’t me who shot him,’ Jaffari says bluntly, and for a second I think I see a smile play on the corners of his lips.
    Paz puts her cup down a little harder than she intended and the spoon rattles on the china saucer.
    ‘You have to understand that my clients only come to me in secret,’ Jaffari continues. ‘Publically I won’t admit to even knowing my patients, let alone revealing what we’ve worked on together. If I speak to you, my reputation will be ruined.’
    I resist the urge to tell him that two lives have been ruined in the past twenty-four hours, and that I don’t give a damn about his career.
    ‘Dr Jaffari, I assure you this is a privileged conversation. But I am investigating the death of Tim Gilmore and the attempted suicide of your client, and I need to know what you can tell me.’
    The breeze whips up one corner of the white tablecloth and topples a wine glass towards the floor. On impulse, my hand springs forward and catches it. I smooth down the tablecloth and put the glass back on top. I’m two weeks away from retirement, but there’s nothing wrong with my reflexes.
    ‘Last year I had a call from a guy called Aiden Nel,’ Jaffari says. I look up, remembering the man with the sandpaper-handshake who met us backstage at the Carioca Arena. ‘Meyer’s coach. He was worried about one of his athletes. He tells me Meyer is struggling with the pressure, ahead of the Olympics.’
    ‘It’s the biggest moment of an athlete’s life. It’s