The garden was beautiful-rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, holding a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.

"It's General Ferguson, you idiot." Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure, with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although, in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.

"What's up?" Ferguson asked.

"We've had an intruder," Kurbsky said. "Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He was closer to the garage than me and made the security lights come on."

"What happened?"

"He pulled a flick-knife and sprung the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet, and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell, and got over the wall."

"Were the ladies alarmed?"

"Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails."

"The wallet, were the contents interesting?"

"Not particularly. Fifty-four pounds, a Social Security card, and a credit card, all in the name of Matthew Cochran."

"Did he live in Kilburn?"

"No. Close, though. Camden Town. Sixty Lower Church Street."