The sky was streaked pink when Emmanuel emerged from the dilapidated mansion. A long-necked ibis pecked at a mango pip discarded on the sidewalk. The wheelchair-bound man was still there; a silent witness to the fall of night across the harbour.

Emmanuel peeled off in the direction of the Buick. He'd picked the car up from opposite his apartment, where he'd parked it a lifetime ago. Hélène had driven him from the chateau to the Dover, smiling every mile of the way. The ibis took flight and circled overhead. Two men in a hurry walked towards the stairs that led to Jolly's home. It was Detective Constable Fletcher and Detective Head Constable Robinson. Emmanuel turned and showed them his back. The Buick was a quarter block away. He'd make a run for it if he had to.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and then faded. Emmanuel sprinted. Robinson and Fletcher would be back on the street the moment Jolly's mother mentioned a visit from a lone police officer. 'He was just here,' she'd say. 'Now, now.'

Emmanuel unlocked the driver's door and slid in. He started the engine, reversed back a foot and made an illegal U-turn. The side mirror reflected the image of the two detectives flying down the stairs of the decrepit mansion. They split and began a search of the street. Emmanuel shifted up to third and saw Fletcher sprint to close the distance between himself and the departing Buick.

Jesse Owens in his prime couldn't have run down an American eight-cylinder engine. The detective diminished to a black bump on the horizon. This will be the pattern, Emmanuel figured. Wherever I go, the police will follow. Five minutes with Jolly's mother and they'd know about the mermaid illustration and to whom it belonged.

He had to find the Flying Dutchman. The mystery man with the sharp car might have been the last person to see Jolly Marks alive.