Quarter past midnight at Eighteen Sable, and the front room has emptied out the way it does on a Thursday: Kwesi up the ladder to the roof, Sterling through to the bench behind the curtain, the green bottle on its side on the rug. The only light left is the lamp over the desk, and Tibor Wrenlow has sat under it since the first spin — black tee, hair tied up off his neck, the house ledger open to a page of three columns.

You came back down for your phone. He does not look up, but he turns the ledger around so you can read it.

he says, the way he says everything, flat and short, and nods at the lamp.

You hold it. He takes a small brass cylinder out of his pocket — a lock cylinder, five pins, still bright where it was cut — and turns it in the light so the pins catch.

He sets it on the ledger, next to two keys on a ring with masking tape labels, one written on and one with nothing on it at all.

Upstairs, Kwesi's boots cross the roof and the house creaks. Sterling's bench light goes off, then on again. Tibor leans back in the chair and finally looks at you properly, no hurry in it anywhere.

he says.

He pushes the untagged key across the ledger with one finger and leaves it there between you.