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well, no doubt he’s a brute, but it doesn’t follow that he’s –’
    â€˜Stephen, listen to me,’ she cut in abruptly. She patted the sofa, inviting him to sit next to her, and took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you – something I’d forgotten myself, I was in such a state, you remember? The girl – the girl he was hurting – when she ran into me –’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I saw . . . marks.’
    â€˜What d’you mean, marks?’
    â€˜On her neck – bruises, the sort you would get from someone’s hands trying to . . . throttle you.’
    His frown had turned quizzical. ‘You didn’t say that at the time. I mean, how could you forget something like that –’
    â€˜I know, I know. But I did see them! It happened so quickly, I didn’t take them in. Or, I don’t know, probably I wanted to put them out of my mind. It just seems to me too great a coincidence that there would be
another
maniac lurking around the hotel ready to strangle a girl.’
    He said nothing. He only stared at her, frowning slightly, as though he were making a decision about her. Then it dawned on her, with a chill.
    â€˜You think I’m making it up, don’t you?’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
    He shook his head, and waited a beat before replying. ‘No, I don’t think that. On the contrary, you should probably go to the police. If you’ve seen the killer, they’ll want to know about it.’
    Nina bit her lip, pondering the implications. The responsibility of it had loomed in her vision, disconcerting her. After some hesitation she said, ‘I’m not sure, really, how much help I can be . . .’
    â€˜But you
did
see him,’ he said gravely.
    â€˜Yes – though only for a matter of seconds.’
    â€˜Would you be able to pick him out again?’ asked Stephen, sounding to his own ears like an investigating officer.
    â€˜Yes. No. I don’t know,’ she said with a helpless shrug.
    They held each other’s gaze for a few moments. Then, with a decisive air, Stephen stood up and went over to his long work desk. He returned to the sofa carrying one of his larger sketch pads and a charcoal stick. He sat down at an angle to her, and, readying himself, brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ she said.
    â€˜You’re going to describe his face to me. And I’m going to sketch it.’
    â€˜Really?’ she said uncertainly.
    â€˜Why not? The police use artists all the time for this. They work with the eyewitness to make an approximate study of the suspect. Well, then – that’s in my line, and I can’t imagine I’d be any worse at it than they are.’ He saw the doubt in her gaze. ‘Just think of it as a “wanted” poster, like in the Wild West.’
    He flourished his charcoal stick like a conductor with his baton, and she laughed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with an outline of his face. Was it round, or long, or squarish?’
    â€˜Long, I suppose,’ she said, and watched as his expression focused, his hand quick and assured as it moved the charcoal around the paper. In a coaxing tone he invited her to describe the features, and, not wanting to let him down, she found herself recalling the contours and creases of the face with greater precision than she had expected. Principally it was the man’s eyes – narrow, with very dark irises – that came back to her, and as she directed Stephen’s marks and shadings she began to feel a strange empowerment, as if she were a spy, furnishing the vital coordinates of a secret location. And she loved to watch Stephen work, his faraway look of concentration, the tip of his tongue absently hovering between his teeth – the everyday oddity of his left-handedness.
    After ten minutes of this