But I didn’t have anything to hide, so I told them again to go ahead.

They had three areas of concern. The first: Did I know the woman who had killed herself on the train? Had I ever seen her before?

I said, ‘No.’ Short and sweet, quiet but firm.

They didn’t follow up with supplementaries. Which told me roughly who they were and exactly what they were doing. They were somebody’s B team, sent north to dead-end an open investigation. They were walling it off, burying it, drawing a line under something somebody had been only half suspicious about to begin with. They wanted a negative answer to every question, so that the file could be closed and the matter put to bed. They wanted a positive absence of loose ends, and they didn’t want to draw attention to the issue by making it a big drama. They wanted to get back on the road with the whole thing forgotten.

The second question was: Did I know a woman called Lila Hoth?

I said, ‘No,’ because I didn’t. Not then.

The third question was more of a sustained dialogue. The lead agent opened it. The main man. He was a little older and a little smaller than the other two. Maybe a little smarter, too. He said, ‘You approached the woman on the train.’

I didn’t reply. I was there to answer questions, not to comment on statements.

The guy asked, ‘How close did you get?’

‘Six feet,’ I said. ‘Give or take.’

‘Close enough to touch her?’

‘No.’

‘If you had extended your arm, and she had extended hers, could you have touched hands?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘It’s a maybe. I know how long my arms are. I don’t know how long hers were.’

‘Did she pass anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you accept anything from her?’

‘Did you take anything from her after she was dead?

‘No.’

‘Did anyone else?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Did you see anything fall from her hand, or her bag, or her clothing?’

‘No.’

‘Did she tell you anything?’

‘Nothing of substance.’

‘Did she speak to anyone else?’

‘No.’

The guy asked, ‘Would you mind turning out your pockets?’

I shrugged. I had nothing to hide. I went through each pocket in turn and dumped the contents on the battered table. A folded wad of cash money and a few coins. My old passport. My ATM card. My clip-together toothbrush. The Metrocard that had gotten mc into the subway in the first place. And Theresa Lee’s business card.

The guy stirred through my stuff with a single extended finger and nodded to one of his underlings, who stepped up close to pat me down. He did a semi-expert job and found nothing more and shook his head.

The main guy said, ‘Thank you, Mr Reacher.’

And then they left, all three of them, as quickly as they had come in. I was a little surprised, but happy enough. I put my stuff back in my pockets and waited for them to clear the corridor and then I wandered out. The place was quiet. I saw Theresa Lee doing nothing at a desk and her partner Docherty walking a guy across the squad room to a cubicle at the back. The guy was a worn-out mid-sized forty-something. He had on a creased grey T-shirt and a pair of red sweat pants. He had left home without combing his hair. That was clear. It was grey and sticking up all over the place. Theresa Lee saw me looking and said, ‘Family member.’

‘The woman’s?’

Lee nodded. ‘She had contact details in her wallet. That’s her brother. He’s a cop himself. Small town in New Jersey. He drove straight over.’

‘Poor guy.’

‘I know. We didn’t ask him to make the formal ID. She’s too messed up. We told him that a closed casket is the way to go. He got the message.’

‘So are you sure it’s her?’

Lee nodded again. ‘Fingerprints.’

‘Who was she?’

‘I’m not allowed to say.’

‘Am I done here?’

‘The feds finished with you?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Then beat it. You’re done.’

I made it to the top of the stairs and she called after me. She said, ‘I didn’t mean it about tipping her over the edge.’

‘Yes, you did,’ I said. ‘And you might have been right.’

I stepped out into the dawn cool and turned left on 35th Street and headed east. You’re done. But I wasn’t. Right there on the corner were four more guys waiting to talk to me. Similar types as before, but not federal agents. Their suits were too expensive.

THE WORLD IS THE SAME JUNGLE ALL OVER, BUT NEW YORK is its purest distillation. What is useful elsewhere is vital in the big city. You see four guys bunched on a corner waiting for you, you either run like hell in the opposite direction without hesitation, or you keep on walking without slowing down or speeding up or breaking stride. You look ahead with studied neutrality, you check their faces, you look away, like you’re saying is that all you got?

Truth is, it’s smarter to run. The best fight is the one you don’t have. But I have never claimed to be smart. Just obstinate, and occasionally bad-tempered. Some guys kick cats. I keep walking.

The suits were all midnight blue and looked like they came from the kind of store that has a foreign person’s name above the door. The men inside the suits looked capable. Like NCOs. Wise to the ways of the world, proud of their ability to get the job done. They were certainly ex-military, or ex-law enforcement, or ex-both. They were the kind of guys who had taken a step up in salary and a step away from rules and regulations, and regarded both moves as equally valuable.

They separated into two pairs when I was still four paces away. Left me room to pass if I wanted to, but the front guy on the left used both palms a little and patted the air, in a kind of dual-purpose please stop and we’re no threat gesture. I spent the next step deciding. You can’t let yourself get caught in the middle of four guys. Either you stop early or you barge on through. At that point my options were still open. Easy to stop, easy to keep going. If they closed ranks while I was still moving, they would go down like ninepins. I weigh 250 and was moving at four miles an hour. They didn’t, and weren’t.

Two steps out, the lead guy said, ‘Can we talk?’

I stopped walking. Said, ‘About what?’

‘You’re the witness, right?’

‘But who are you?’

The guy answered by peeling back the flap of his suit coat, slow and unthreatening, showing me nothing except a red satin lining and a shirt. No gun, no holster, no belt. He put his right fingers into his left inside pocket and came out with a business card. Leaned forward and handed it to me. It was a cheap product. The first line said: Sure and Certain, Inc. The second line said: Protection, Investigation, Intervention. The third line had a telephone number, with a 212 area code. Manhattan.

‘Kinko’s is a wonderful place,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it? Maybe I’ll get nine cards that say John Smith, King of the World.’

‘The card is legit,’ the guy said. ‘And we’re legit.’

‘Who are you working for?’

‘We can’t say.’

‘Then I can’t help you.’

‘Better that you talk to us than our principal. We can keep things civilized.’

‘Now I’m really scared.’

‘Just a couple of questions. That’s all. Help us out. We’re just working stiffs, trying to get paid. Like you.’

‘I’m not a working stiff. I’m a gentleman of leisure.’

‘Then look down on us from your lofty perch and take pity.’

‘What questions?’

‘Did she give anything to you?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. Did you take anything from her?’

‘And? What’s the next question?’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She said plenty. She was talking all the way from Bleecker to Grand Central.’