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his witness statement when we get back to the precinct – assuming the Policia Militar took one, as I requested.
    Nel shakes his huge head slowly.
    ‘Lucas doesn’t have a roomie. He’s the kind of guy who needs a bit of space. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
    He looks uncomfortable, as if he’s betraying a confidence.
    ‘Not really. Could you be more specific?’
    ‘He has a temper. Life’s a bit easier if we give him a place of his own.’
    Paz’s phone rings and she steps away from us to take the call. Behind her, the tiny blonde is making her way back across the room. Maybe Nel knows that I caught him staring before, because this time I get the impression he’s making a point of keeping his eyes on me.
    ‘Has Lucas ever gone missing before?’ I ask.
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Does the name Tim Gilmore mean anything to you?’
    ‘He’s the Australian guy, isn’t he?’
    I nod.
    ‘The one who got shot.’
    I nod again.
    ‘Ever run into him?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Did Lucas?’
    ‘Not as far as I know.’
    I check my ancient Casio. It’s almost 11 a.m. I decide we’ll head over to Meyer’s apartment, once Paz finishes on the phone.
    ‘One more thing,’ I ask Nel, mostly to kill the time while I’m waiting for Paz to finish up. ‘Did you notice what he was watching on the TV this morning?’
    He rolls his shoulders and scrunches his face in thought.
    ‘Same as the rest of us,’ Nel says slowly. ‘He was watching the news reports. The reports about Tim Gilmore.’

CHAPTER 7
    IT TAKES US ten minutes to walk the purpose-built route to Lucas Meyer’s place. The sun is high in the sky and I’m sweating as we hurry towards the high-rise blocks.
    ‘Who called you?’
    ‘Vivo Movel,’ Paz says. ‘The mystery number in Tim Gilmore’s apartment is an unregistered mobile. Untraceable.’
    I’m disappointed, but not surprised.
    Meyer’s apartment block is pretty much identical to the one we visited yesterday morning. Inside, we find the building supervisor. He looks leathery, with curled nails and yellow teeth. He’s wearing a smart shirt, but his hands are gnarled and scarred, and I wonder what he did for a living before the Olympics rolled into town.
    ‘We need to get into Lucas Meyer’s room,’ I tell him. ‘He’s not opening up.’
    I’m expecting the supervisor to have a weighty bunch of keys, but instead he pulls out a single plastic card.
    ‘Access all areas,’ he says with a toothy grin.
    The world has changed, and I can feel my retirement looming.
    We take the lift to the thirteenth floor, and the doors open onto a corridor just like the one Tim Gilmore was living on. Lucas Meyer’s front door is identical, too. I don’t like the feeling of déjà vu.
    ‘Television,’ the supervisor says, as we hear the burbling noise from behind Meyer’s door. Pleased at his own helpfulness, he exposes his yellow teeth again. Paz bangs hard on the door and, when there’s no response, she kicks at it hard enough to bring Meyer’s neighbour out into the corridor. A tall, bleary-eyed man in his mid-twenties leans around his door and asks us what’s going on.
    ‘Police business,’ Paz says. ‘Go back inside.’
    The neighbour is twelve inches taller than Paz, but Paz is in full flow. Her eyes are a mix of adrenalin and authority, and the athlete does exactly what he’s told.
    We wait. I hear no movement behind Meyer’s door, and nobody opens it up. I turn to the supervisor, who pre-empts my request and leans in to swipe his card. I catch a smell of rot on his breath, and suddenly his teeth remind me of the seeds from an overripe melon. I have a primal urge to keep him at arm’s length.
    ‘Stay here,’ I tell him, as Paz and I sweep inside. There’s a short, dark corridor from the front door to the lounge, tight enough that we need to walk in single file. An alcove on the left leads to a kitchenette. There’s nothing on the stove, and a single mug is draining near the sink. I pull open the