“He did exist,” Martin said.

“No one’s doubting his existence, Mr. Canning,” Sutherland said, like a pedantic philosopher. Martin missed Superintendent Camp-bell’s amiable “Martin,” as if they were old acquaintances. “He was involved in a road-rage incident,” Sutherland continued. He smiled and paused rather pointedly before saying, “The same one you claim you yourself were.”

“I was,” Martin said. “I made a statement.”

“The incident was logged just after midday yesterday. The vic-tim-your Paul Bradley-was treated at the Royal Infirmary for a minor head injury, he signed the register of the Four Clans. Hun-dreds of people saw him during the course of yesterday, his exis-tence is not in doubt. The problem is-” Another well-timed pause for a smile. It stretched the edges of his face, the Cheshire Cat would have struggled in a contest with Chief Inspector Sutherland. “The problem, Mr. Canning, is that no one remembers you.”

“The police took a statement from me at the hospital.”

“But after that?”

“I was with Paul Bradley.”

There was a knock on the door, and a constable came in and put a piece of paper on the desk in front of the silent sergeant. She read what was on the paper, her sphinxlike features revealing nothing, and then passed the paper over to Sutherland.

“The mysterious Mr. Bradley,” Sutherland murmured.

“He’s real,” Martin protested. “His name’s in the hotel register.”

“Yours isn’t, though, is it?” He waved the piece of paper at Martin. “We asked the Met to check the address that Paul Bradley gave, and it turns out it’s a row of lockups. The mysterious Mr. Bradley doesn’t seem to exist after all.”

The previously silent female detective leaned forward suddenly and said to Martin, earnestly, as if she wanted to help him, as if she were a therapist or a counselor, “Were you and Richard Mott lovers, Martin? Did you have a tiff?”

“A tiff?”

“An argument that got out of hand, escalated into violence? Was he jealous that you had gone to a hotel with another man?”

“It wasn’t like that. It was nothing like that!” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He wished people would stop asking him questions.

“Or, let me run this by you,” Inspector Sutherland suggested amiably, “you were involved in a gay lovers’ threesome that went horribly wrong.”

Richard Mott’s parents had traveled up from Milton Keynes to identify their son. Richard had a whole repertoire of jokes in his routine about his parents, about their politics, their religion, their bad taste. None of the things he said about them onstage seemed pertinent to the heartbroken, bewildered couple grieving in the police mortuary. The identity of the corpse had become a vexed issue for the police. Reluctant to expose the Motts to the full horror of what had happened to their son, they had muddled matters more by showing them the flatlined Rolex that Richard had taken from Martin. They had cried with relief because it “definitely wasn’t Richard’s.”

They showed the watch to Martin, and he said yes, it belonged to him (there was a crack across the glass, he tried to imagine how that might have happened), and Mr. Mott shouted, “There you are, you see!” pointing at Martin as if this were proof that he was the dead man rather than their son. Richard Mott seemed to have appropriated everything that belonged to Martin, including his identity.

“We could wait for dental records,” Sutherland murmured to Martin, “but that would take some time, and the whole thing has become so… confused.” Martin knew he was being asked to step up and didn’t really see how he could not. Be a man. Do as you would unto others. The meek shall inherit the earth. He wanted Sutherland to think well of him, so after a considerable briefing-“You have to prepare yourself for a shock” and “The injuries are very unpleasant”-he was taken into the small room that smelled not only of antiseptic but also of something sweet and unpleasant, and there, beneath a white sheet, were the battered remains of Richard Mott. Neither better nor worse than he had imagined. Simply different, and in some way artificial, as if Richard Mott had been made up for a film. Martin thought of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video, but it was definitely Richard. There was no doubt at all about that. Martin waited to be over-come by the horror of it, wondered if he would faint or vomit, but none of these things happened, he just found himself feeling grateful that it was Richard Mott lying there and not himself. Worse things had, after all, happened to him than viewing Richard Mott’s corpse.

“There but for fortune,” Sutherland said.

“I don’t understand,” Martin puzzled, “who identified me as Richard Mott? Who identified Richard Mott as me?” It depended on which way you looked at it, he supposed.

“I believe it was your brother, Mr. Canning,” Sutherland said.

“My brother?” His own brother had identified him wrongly? Somehow that said everything about what was wrong with their relationship.

Sutherland tapped his wrist, Martin wondered if it was a Ma-sonic gesture of some kind, but he said, “The watch, we showed him your watch, Martin. It was an informal ID, we would have got to the truth eventually.”

“I’d better phone him,” Martin said.

“Probably.”

It had proved to be an odd kind of conversation (“I’m not dead, Chris, the police made a mistake”) that hadn’t gone well. Christopher was still driving home. “I’m just passing Haddington,” he said as if his geographical location were relevant. “Wait a minute, I’m not on the hands-free.” This was followed by the noise of fum-bling, a curse that seemed to indicate the phone had been dropped, scrabbling, and, finally, “Wouldn’t want to get pulled over by a fucking policeman.” Martin wondered if Sutherland, sitting across a desk from him, heard this slur.

Christopher proceeded to run through a range of emotions- disbelief, shock, disappointment, and finally an irritable “For fuck’s sake, Martin,” as if Martin had committed some kind of de-ranged prank. Martin supposed his brother had spent the previous couple of hours of bereavement getting used to the idea of being in possession of Martin’s copyright for the next seventy years, to say nothing of the Merchiston house.

Thank goodness they hadn’t phoned his mother down in East-bourne. He tried to imagine how his mother would have responded to the news of his death. He expected she would have been underwhelmed.

The anonymous civilian came back on the phone, and Clare rolled her eyes at the news that they were still having trouble finding him a room for the night.

“You would think,” she said, a sentence that apparently didn’t need completing. Martin sighed and said, “I think I know a place that will have vacancies.”

“This woman I’m looking for,” he enunciated each word slowly and clearly, “this woman is dead.” Jackson made a slashing move-ment across his throat. The girl shrank away from him. He wasn’t very good at miming. He could have done with Julia’s help, no one played charades with as much enthusiasm as Julia, except per-haps for Marlee. How did you portray dead? He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the Housekeeper was standing in front of him, regarding him quizzically. “He says he’s courier,” the girl at the computer said sarcastically. “Does he?” the Housekeeper said. “I’m looking for someone,” Jackson said stoutly, “a girl who’s

It’s all been a bit of a cock-up, hasn’t it?” Clare said cheerfully to Martin. “It made the papers, you know.Your death.”

“My death,” Martin echoed. His death had been pronounced. A murder is announced. It was like a witch doctor laying a curse on him, dooming him to invisibility or death. Isn’t that what happened? The witch doctor told you that you were going to die, so you did, by the power of suggestion rather than any actual ability on his part to hex, but the means were moot when the result was certain.