Hunter’s attic is disappointing—or rather, it contains wonders for a searching child, but not for a revolutionary on borrowed time. It’s got things in it, but they’re rather few and far between, and the pigeons have made a mess of them. There’s a nasty old chair, a tea chest full of china and glass oddments. Some papers make her hopeful, but they’re just for packing, and they contain and protect a grimly self-important ottoman with the stuffing coming out of what looks like a dog-bitten corner. There are some family albums, but they don’t show the same family, and Neith suspects they may be found images kept as a piece: black-and-white pictures of black and white people, London in years gone by. There’s a pretty girl who might be Annabel Bekele and a young man who might be Colson. Perhaps this is where that story came from. Perhaps it’s even true. She flips through, looking for Kyriakos, for enclosures, for anything. When you raid a house, the last floor you clear is the attic, because people are still apes and apes run for the high branches when threatened. It’s one of the small, hilarious perks of policing to watch even hardened criminals who should know better trap themselves on the top floor, then sulk their way in cuffs to the van outside, wondering the while why they didn’t go down one flight and out rather than up to a roof with no escape route.