And there it is: the pale, amphibious face of Lönnrot, coat collar turned up against the evening chill. She sees just a flicker of the smile, and then it’s gone behind a white personnel transport with a thick metal grille across the windscreen. "Rhino van," they used to call them in her mother’s day, because they could roll over anything. The Inspector shouts something incoherent, points, and her officers converge without knowing what they’re looking for. She speaks the name and knows that the Witness is updating them, sees them surround the place. She surges through her own line, the crowd suddenly too slow to move. She sees Lönnrot by a service tunnel doorway and screams again: "There!" and knows four of her uniforms are following, more demanding street-level assistance, knows if they lose Lönnrot now it’ll be too late.