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near the door. She looked at the woman. Mary. She still had no feelings for her.
    “Jump to 7 p.m.”
    The computer did so. Each camera showed an empty room.
    “Back to 6:30. Show the time on-screen.”
    It showed the secretary again, seated at her desk. Saskia waited and then, as the timer clicked over to 6:34, there was a knocking sound. The secretary stood. She walked to the door and opened it. The cameras moved jerkily, tight on Mary’s head, so she could see Mary in great detail, but little else. Mary was expectant, then puzzled, then afraid. Pan out, Saskia willed.
    The computer did.
    As the murderer entered the room, two of the four cameras zoomed out, targeted his head, and zoomed in. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora. Because each camera was high on the wall, the hat masked everything but his hairless chin. Saskia thumped her desk.
    It was difficult to see precisely what happened next. In little more than two seconds, the murderer grabbed Mary and stabbed her behind the ear. Saskia listened for clues and admired the murderer’s skill. She saw the secretary’s surprise and then her sleepiness. Both figures sank to the floor. The murderer laid her almost tenderly.
    The murderer wiped his blade on Mary’s collar. Without ceremony, he began the process of hauling her towards the kitchen. Mary was a big girl and he struggled.
    “Computer, stop it there. Go back to the full-length shot of the bloke who walked in.”
    “I do not understand. Speak more slowly, please.”
    “Back five seconds. Back five seconds. Forward two seconds. Back three frames. OK, print that on paper.”
    A hot piece of paper slid from the desk. Saskia flapped it. It had some motion blur, but showed the murderer mid-stride. His height was average. He wore a long raincoat. He wore gloves. He didn’t have a beard. He had narrow shoulders. That was it. She fed the paper into her shredder, but the feeder jammed and spat the paper back out.
    “Computer, can you clean up that image? Sharpen it?”
    “Yes.”
    Nothing happened.
    “Do it.”
    The image sharpened. “Print that again.”
    Once more, a hot piece of paper slid into her hand. The man’s clothing was unremarkable. Perhaps an expert could tell her something, but they looked perfectly ordinary. Next, she scrutinized the hat. The image processing had revealed a band of blue and gold around the rim. And, yes, a little badge. A golden eagle.
    Bingo, as Simon would say.
    Saskia pressed her ID against the glass and pointed at the door. An assistant, exquisitely dressed, smiled under his pencil-thin moustache. He was hanging a feather boa in the shop window. He unlocked the door. Saskia shook the rain from her umbrella and asked for the manager. The assistant asked, “Have I seen you somewhere before?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Excuse me. I’ll get Jean-François.”
    The assistant vanished.
    The sign above the door claimed that the shop had been established in the nineteenth century. Saskia looked around suspiciously. It was the kind of place that did not need to display its wares. Customers knew what they came for: the satisfaction of exclusivity and price.
    A little man emerged from the backroom. He wore dungarees and delicate, expensive shoes. His hands hung limply from his wrists. A pair of pince-nez sat on the bridge of his nose, so far down that they seemed quite useless for anything but the appreciation of his beautiful shoes. His head was hairless but for large pork-chop sideburns. He held out his hand and she took it. Saskia looked down. He was holding a handkerchief.
    “I apologise, miss,” he said, in French. “I suffer from a delicate constitution.”
    “I need your help,” Saskia said.
    The man spread his hands in supplication, as though she had offered him something so expensive he could not possibly accept. “Everybody needs my help, madam.”
    “What do you mean?” she asked. “Has someone else asked for your help?”
    He smiled. “You are a detective, yes?”
    “Yes.”