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poker face after al .
    “What about the evidence?”
    I raise my hands. My bandaged hand could be a white flag. I know al the arguments. I helped put the case together. Al of the evidence pointed to Howard, including the fibers, bloodstains and his lack of an alibi. The jury did its job and justice prevailed; justice pol ed on one day in the hearts of twelve people.
    The law ruled a line through Mickey's name and put a ful stop after Howard's. Logic agrees but my heart can't accept it. I simply cannot conceive of a world that Mickey isn't a part of.
    Joe glances at the photograph again. “Do you remember putting this in your wal et?”
    “No.”
    “Can you think why?”
    I shake my head but in the back of my mind I wonder if perhaps I wanted to be able to recognize her. “What else was I carrying?” Joe reads from a list. “A shoulder holster, a wal et, keys and a pocketknife . . . You used your belt as a tourniquet to slow the bleeding.”
    “I don't remember.”
    “Don't worry. We're going to go back. We're going to fol ow the clues you left behind—receipts, invoices, appointments, diaries. We'l retrace your steps.”
    “And I'l remember.”
    “Or learn to remember.”
    He turns toward the window and glances at the sky as though planning a picnic. “Do you fancy a day out?”
    “I don't think I'm al owed.”
    He takes a letter from his jacket pocket. “Don't worry—I booked ahead.”
    Joe waits while I dress, struggling with the buttons on my shirt because of my bandaged hand.
    “Do you want some help?”
    “No.” I say it too harshly. “I have to learn.”
    Keebal watches me as I cross the foyer, giving me a look like I'm dating his sister. I resist the urge to salute him.
    Outside, I raise my face to the sunshine and take a deep breath. Planting the points of my crutches careful y, I move across the parking lot and see a familiar figure waiting in an unmarked police car. Detective Constable Alisha Kaur Barba (everyone cal s her Ali) is studying a textbook for her sergeant's exam. Anybody who commits half that stuff to memory deserves to make Chief Constable.
    Smiling at me nervously, she opens the car door. Indian women have such wonderful skin and dark wet eyes. She's wearing tailored trousers and a white blouse that highlights the smal gold medal ion around her neck.
    Ali used to be the youngest member of the Serious Crime Group. We worked on the Mickey Carlyle case together, and she had the makings of a great detective until Campbel refused to promote her.
    Nowadays she works with the DPG (Diplomatic Protection Group), looking after ambassadors and diplomats, and protecting witnesses. Perhaps that's why she's here now—
    to protect me.
    As we drive out of the parking lot, she glances at me in the mirror, waiting for some sign of recognition.
    “So tel me about yourself, Detective Constable.”
    A furrow forms just above her nose. “My name is Alisha Barba. I'm in the Diplomatic Protection Group.”
    “Have we met before?”
    “Ah—wel —yes, Sir, you used to be my boss.”
    “Fancy that! That's one of the three great things about having amnesia: apart from being able to hide my own Easter eggs, I get to meet new people every day.” After a long pause, Ali asks, “What's the third thing, Sir?”
    “I get to hide my own Easter eggs.”
    She starts to laugh and I flick her on the ear. “Of course I remember you. Ali Baba, the catcher of thieves.” She grins at me sheepishly.
    Beneath her short jacket I notice a shoulder holster. She's carrying a gun—an MP5 A2 carbine, with a solid stock. It's strange seeing her carrying a firearm because so few officers in the Met are authorized to have one.
    Driving south past Victoria through Whitehal , we skirt parks and gardens that are dotted with office workers eating lunch on the grass—healthy girls with skirts ful of autumn sunshine and fresh air and men dozing with their jackets under their heads. Turning along Victoria Embankment, I glimpse