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coffee?” he said. “I don’t have any money but I’d like a coffee.”
    The woman laughed. “You want a coffee?”
    “A small one, thank you.”
    “No,” she said, and laughed again.
    He went into a Costa Coffee on the high road. “Someone cleared my coffee,” he said, and pointed to an empty table.
    “Sorry about that, sir.” They made him a fresh one. Belsey sat down and dealt out the contents of Devereux’s wallet. There were a lot of cards for expensive hotels: Mandarin Oriental Geneva; Ritz Carlton Moscow; Florida Marriott. Devereux was a man who collected hotels as if these places were the significant acquaintances of his life. He was a member of a club called Les Ambassadeurs with an address in Mayfair. He used a Barclaycard, black Amex, silver Visa and Diners Club. There was a receipt for a meal at Villa Bianca in Hampstead four days ago; Devereux paid for two glasses of wine, salmon tortellini and a mozzarella salad. There was a loyalty card for a coffee shop on the high street. Finally Belsey pulled out a clump of business cards. On these he was Alexei Devereux, Director, AD Development . The company had a Paris office on Rue de Castiglione, an NYC operation on Fifth Avenue and a London address in EC4.
    Belsey returned to Devereux’s house, blocked caller ID on the kitchen telephone and dialled the London office.
    “AD Development,” a woman answered.
    “Can I speak to Mr. Devereux?” Belsey said.
    “I’m afraid he’s not in the office. Can I take a message?”
    “No,” Belsey said. “Thank you.”
    He hung up and called the Paris number.
    “ Bonjour ,” a woman said. He hung up.
    Every bank has a police liaison team. Belsey called the dedicated CID hotline for Barclays, gave his code, and was put through to the head of external investigation.
    “External,” a man said.
    “Is that Josh Sanders? It’s Detective Constable Belsey, at Hampstead.”
    “Nick, how’s business?”
    “Slow. I’m waiting on a warrant for an account of yours. I was wondering if you could speed things up. Can I read you the number?”
    “Go for it.”
    Belsey read off Devereux’s account number. Sanders typed it in.
    “Mr. A. Devereux?”
    “Yes.”
    “Not one of our most active customers.”
    “When was the account last used?”
    “Four days ago: withdrawal of sixty pounds, Hampstead High Street.”
    “How much does he have?”
    “He’s two hundred overdrawn.”
    “He’s overdrawn?”
    “Went over a week back.”
    Belsey thought about this. “Any debits set up?” he said.
    “None. He’s only had the account a couple of months.”
    “Payments?”
    “There’s a purchase on it last week: Man’s Best Friends.”
    “Man’s Best Friends?”
    “Sounds like a pet shop. Customer present transaction, Golders Green. Would that make sense?”
    “Not much is making sense right now,” Belsey said. “Do you have his PIN number there?”
    “You know I can’t give you that, Nick.”
    “I know, Josh. Just a joke. Thanks for your help.”
    Belsey put the phone down. An idea, humorous at first, had persisted until the humour faded and the core of possibility remained. He wanted a plane ticket. He wondered if Devereux could help him raise the cash for that. He sat down with one of the cards and a sheet of Devereux’s paper and practised Devereux’s signature. It wasn’t easy. Alexei Devereux had an ornate hand. It seemed to belong to another age—the signature a brand might use when selling you overpriced grooming products. After ten minutes Belsey had it good enough to pass. He found car keys on a Porsche fob in the cutlery drawer and after some searching made his way through a small door at the back of the kitchen into the garage.
    A Porsche Cayenne SUV sat alone beneath strip lights, fat and mean as a tank, with blacked windows and glinting hubcaps. It was the only car in a garage big enough for five. Belsey climbed in. You could get comfortable in a Porsche Cayenne. The dashboard carried a DVD