Author's Notes: Wow. Where to start. I've never been to Paris, I've never attempted a story as long as this, and I'm not Miles Edgeworth. So many people have been helpful in the course of writing this that it would be churlish not to acknowledge them because I would never have started or finished it without their help. God help us all if I ever try to write an original trial.On Livejournal, thanks to anw for his "Man Who Ate Paris" LiveJournal entries which were deeply educational to a Paris virgin.

Thanks also to many other folks on LJ, at work and on various Internet fora who helped me out with information about the finer points of London tailors, Paris geography, the serious business of law, boutique hotels, restaurants, cafes and the Latin Quarter – as well as providing translation assistance to a non-French speaker. My friends are made of awesome.

On the writing front, Cathryn is the most awesome brainstorming partner in the world and Musouka, Tellezara and Shiva are betas from heaven. They have all put up with my rambling emails, crises of faith and erratic writing.

And lastly of course thanks to my own personal Edgeworth, without whom etc.

All main characters belong to Capcom, not me. George the tailor, La Sainte-Chapelle, The St James Hotel and many other locations are real. The rest is speculation. And lastly, thank you for reading!

Part One: A Stranger To Myself (London, February)

"I'm a danger to myself
And I won't deny it's true
And in the stillness of the night
I feel so troubled through and through"
- TELEVISION PERSONALITIES

Miles Edgeworth had been in London for less than twenty-four hours. Most of that time he had spent lost in the Underground system, thankful to blend unnoticed into a million other faces; to drift unthinking among a stream of passing strangers and half-read theatre adverts. He had no destination in mind – nothing but an instinctual need to keep moving – to distract himself from the thoughts that crowded in if he allowed himself to relax for even a moment. But as rush hour approached, his claustrophobia finally caught up with him and he alighted at Waterloo, emerging onto the street to be chilled by the sudden cold and disoriented by the passing traffic.

For two days, he'd been driven by Damon Gant's words echoing in his head.

"You despise criminals. I can feel it. You and me... we're the same. If you want to take them on alone... you'll figure out what's needed!"

Gant was in jail now - would never be a free man again. Miles knew that. He did that – he and Wright. But it made no difference. That quiet, deceptively plausible voice was still just as clear, its edge of certainty still just as chilling. It had followed him all the way from Los Angeles and it followed him still; laughed at him over the noise of the crowds and made his skin crawl each time he caught sight of his own reflection in the darkened window of an Underground train.

Is this what it feels like to have nothing to live for? Images of Los Angeles crowded his mind – Gumshoe, Wright, Larry, the Skye sisters, the Prosecutor's Office, the District Court – people and places that he knew well two days ago. Now they felt vague and blurred, like someone else's memories that he'd merely read in a book. Now his only reality was the overwhelming desire to run, hide, and lose himself somehow, anywhere.

Gant's words might have been the catalyst, but the urge to leave Los Angeles had been building slowly but inexorably since his own trial at Christmas. The initial flood of elation and relief when he realised that he could not have killed his father had soon passed, and then Miles had been hit by the full impact of the deception and betrayal that Manfred Von Karma had perpetrated.

He could remember that moment so clearly. He could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat every time it came to mind. How could I not have seen it? How? He manipulated my life for fifteen years and all the time… it was all for revenge.

Miles clenched his fists reflexively as he relived that second when it had been revealed that his mentor and guardian had been the true murderer of his father. The pain of that revelation was as keen now, two months later, as it had been that day in court.

Until then he had never consciously doubted his purpose, as a prosecutor or as Manfred Von Karma's chosen successor. Within months of Yanni Yogi's acquittal echoing round the courtroom fifteen years ago, Miles' desire for revenge against the man accused of killing his father and his hate for the attorney that had defended him had been nursed and fuelled by his mentor into an all-consuming obsession.

"Sometimes we have to use half-truths or selective evidence in order to trap the guilty. All suspects, all witnesses, will lie – this is a basic truth, and you must be prepared to think like them to win," he could recall Von Karma's lectures verbatim even now. "Your father's killer would be in jail if the prosecutor had done his job, but he failed. He allowed Robert Hammond and Yanni Yogi to lie and to deceive. You will not fail – your conviction record will be perfect."

In those early days, his father's voice had still been clear to him, and despite trying not to call him to mind, sometimes his words would creep back into Miles' memory. "An attorney never lies. He can only use facts and evidence to prove his case, or he's no better than a criminal himself."

At first he had tried to reconcile these two lessons and quiet his conscience. But as soon as the nightmares started, he knew. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd already lied when he stood in the witness box at Yanni Yogi's trial and told the judge that he didn't remember anything, didn't hear anything, didn't do anything. He knew in that instant when he woke in the dark - alone, terrified, screaming out to his father - that Manfred Von Karma was right. Witnesses always lie.

Miles had carried the knowledge with him from that moment, reminded constantly by the dreams that hounded him and kept him from sleep. When he finally became a prosecutor, he'd devoted his life to getting guilty verdicts and destroying the lies of defence attorneys – by any means necessary. And on top of that had been a growing vanity about his own record of perfection. He had basked in Von Karma's praise, worked for the reward of that approving hand on his shoulder and the ever-present smirk that indicated pride in a protégé's success.

But today, he knew with certainty that his mentor's smiles had always been at the conceit and naiveté of Gregory Edgeworth's son, not for Miles Edgeworth's achievements. Today, the thought that his arrogance and self-hatred had blinded him so comprehensively brought with it a pain that was almost physical. In its wake, the urge to keep moving, to stop thinking, returned.

The blue-white lights of the London Eye dominated the skyline, clearly visible above the surrounding buildings. Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, Miles crossed the road and headed towards it, ignoring the rain and taking little note of the passing pedestrians, none of whom spared him a glance.

He knew now that the seeds of self-doubt had been sown in his heart the first time that Phoenix Wright stood against him in court during the Fey trial. First defending Maya Fey and then defending himself, Wright had refused to be tricked or intimidated. The defence attorney's own life had been on the line, but still he did not break down under Miles' onslaught of evidence and carefully coached witness testimony.

Looking at Phoenix Wright's face across the courtroom had brought back images into his mind of his childhood and a father that had steadfastly defended suspects against similar machinations. He wanted to eliminate those memories, to destroy this man who stood there with a reproach in his eyes that was almost tangible and threatened everything that he believed in. But he had failed. His perfect win record was destroyed in one strike of the gavel, and in that moment, he hated Wright for it. If Redd White hadn't confessed on the stand, I would have pressed the judge for a guilty verdict and recommended a death sentence. And given White's connections, I'd have got it.

He'd been shaken, afterwards. The strength of his own feelings towards the end of that trial had shocked him, even then. He'd recognised it as an unprofessional and irrational reaction, but could not deny it. Now, just remembering it frightened him, and he hunched his shoulders against the memory, quickening his pace towards the river, oblivious to his surroundings.

Miles had returned to court a month after the Fey affair, intending to avenge himself on the man he now regarded as his enemy. He clearly recalled standing in the lobby before the trial, almost smirking as he gripped his briefcase; confident that this time, his case was watertight and his witnesses sound. God, I was so sure. But instead, things had taken a different turn.

It had started while Cody Hackins was on the stand. "I don't care if he's a child or a prosecuting attorney! No one should lie in court!" The defence attorney's words and the accusing finger that accompanied them might have passed unnoticed among the objections being flung around by both sides and the sulky pre-teen's responses. But Miles had heard, and it was as if Phoenix Wright had looked directly into his soul as he uttered those words, as if his finger pointed directly at Miles' heart. He remembered the sudden feeling of panic that made him grip his desk until his fingers ached. He knows. He knows what kind of man I am. He knows what I did.

The panic had passed as reason reasserted itself, but the memory of it stayed at the back of his mind for the rest of that day and kept him from bed that night. He didn't dare to sleep because he knew that in the dark, his father would be waiting for him.

The defence attorney's words still lingered in his mind when the trial reconvened. Wright's defence, as usual, rested entirely on his belief in his client and little else, but Miles had found himself sucked in by the sincerity behind those blue eyes and the compelling belief that Wright exuded from every pore.

He couldn't ignore the doubt that nagged at him, and it was as if watching himself from a distance when he asked for Dee Vasquez to testify again, willing the woman to give Wright an opening that would allow him to prove his case. He'd felt torn in half. It was as if Gregory Edgeworth and Manfred Von Karma were fighting for his soul in that moment just as they had when he was a child. All thought about his win record and his personal pride had vanished.

And in the end? He'd lost. Again. But this time, he didn't hate. He feared. Uncertainty and doubt were emotions that he could barely remember or put a name to. They were not feelings that he had ever learned to confront - they simply did not exist, in his world. In his world, defendants were always guilty, witnesses always lied, and defence attorneys were all illusionists using sleight of hand to divert attention from the criminals.

He'd anticipated the summons from Von Karma the moment the trial was over – was grateful for it, even, when a clerk pushed the note into his hand in the Court Lobby.

"Come in."

Von Karma had his back to the door. He was standing at the window, hands clasped neatly behind him, silver hair tied back in a turquoise ribbon. He seemed almost ghostly in the reflected gleam from the fluorescent lights. Miles could not guess if his mentor was looking at something, in the twilight, or if he just wanted to make him wait.

"Sit down, Miles." Quietly.

"I need to get back to my office to finish up this paperwork…"

"Sit down, Miles." Von Karma's tone changed only slightly, and he didn't look round.

Miles sat down, in one of the upholstered blue leather chairs that seemed far too large and far too ornate for a state prosecutor's office. He gripped the files in his left hand tighter to his chest, placing his right on the lion's head that crested the carved, wooden arm.

Von Karma turned, crossed his arms, and regarded Miles coolly. His face was completely impassive, unreadable.

"Explain to me what I just saw."

Miles looked away, hand tightening on the chair arm; feeling the carved wooden teeth of the lion on his fingertips as they curled into its open mouth.

"Powers is innocent. Justice was served."

Silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Miles could see Von Karma shift slightly, move towards his desk.

"Is that all?"

Miles said nothing.

"Could the defence have proved that point? Unassisted?"

Silence.

"Well?" He moved again, deliberately standing in front of Miles, commanding his attention just by his presence. Miles looked back, but kept his eyes low.

"I… don't know."

"It is not your job to make the defence's case for them, Miles. If they cannot prove their client is innocent, then how can we be sure that there is no guilt in the matter?"

"The Vasquez woman confessed."

"Ah, yes. A mob whore already proven to have lied both under oath and to the police." Von Karma's tone was condescending - almost mocking, now. Miles felt his face flush, slightly.

"Is there something between you and this… Phoenix Wright?" The abrupt change of subject caught Miles off-guard and he looked up, surprised. Their eyes met.

"When you started work here I warned you about your personal life and your… inclinations."

"Personal life? I have no personal life, Manfred." His voice was slightly bitter, and a smile twisted the corner of his mouth. His fingers tensed painfully on the carved wooden chair and he could tell from the slight eye movement that Von Karma had noted the reaction, although his face remained a mask. "Wright is merely an attorney. We were friends as children, but he means nothing to me now."

There was a long pause. Von Karma's finger tapped against his upper arm, in perfectly measured beats.

"Friends make you weak, Miles. Remember that. Fawles and White… well – what can one do if people insist on killing themselves or confessing impetuously on the stand. But this? Today? Would you have sacrificed your conviction record for anyone else? If this - Wright - is a weakness for you, you must learn to overcome it. I will only allow one mistake."

Before Miles could make a comment, Von Karma closed the gap between them, pale eyes suddenly intense. He rested his hand lightly but firmly on Miles' wrist, and Miles relaxed automatically under the touch. "I'm concerned about you, Miles. You've been working too hard. Dedication is a virtue, but not when it affects the quality of your work… or your judgement. Go home."

"I have cases to deal with."

"Have them sent over to me."

"I… will be fine. But… thank you."

"It wasn't a suggestion, Miles. Go home. Remember why you're here. Remember who you are."

Von Karma stepped away, moved towards his desk again, as Miles rose from the chair. He could feel the older man's eyes on his back as he walked towards the door. Just as his hand closed on the doorknob, that quiet voice broke the silence again.

"They all lie, Miles. You know that."

He hesitated, but didn't look back; just stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Von Karma was right, then. He did know that – better than anyone.

The two months that had followed were a blur to him - a constant round of trials, testimony and sleepless nights, fuelled by a desperate drive to regain his sense of purpose, to drown out the doubts that assailed him whenever he stopped to consider his actions. The recurring nightmares of his father's death had increased in frequency, and only his work had kept him focussed and sane. He'd accepted his failure in the eyes of his mentor and pushed himself even harder to redeem it, to regain his approval. It simply never occurred to him to do anything else.

He shivered. February in London was cold and wet, but right now Miles was more aware of the coldness he felt inside than that soaking through his overcoat. He'd reached the river and now stood there motionless, arms folded, barely noticing the slow drizzle that slicked his grey hair flat against his face and glistened on his eyelashes. The lights of the Eye and the strings of bulbs that illuminated this stretch of the embankment reflected back up at him from the surface of the Thames, and he watched their movement in the ripples with numb detachment.

It was at the end of December that the carefully constructed lie that was Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth had finally been shattered. He had been on trial for his own life, and not a single defence attorney in the city would take his case. It was a tacit act of revenge against his reputation and his tactics in court. When he'd heard that Von Karma was to prosecute the case, he knew he was truly alone again, just as he had been fifteen years ago.

When Phoenix Wright and Maya Fey arrived at the Detention Centre on Christmas Day, it had been like a bad joke. Under any other circumstances, he might even have laughed. The case amounted to career suicide, and still Wright had stepped forward, despite everything, offering to defend him. He had no evidence, no testimony – just that stupid look of sincerity in his eyes that Miles had seen before.

It would have been so easy to appoint the defence attorney and watch him fail, as Miles expected he would, ending up disgraced and possibly worse if Von Karma had his way. It would have been the perfect revenge for their previous encounters.

But that moment during Will Powers' trial when he'd thought Wright knew the secrets of his heart came back to him – how he'd felt - the fear and the panic. Facing the possibility of having to confide in Wright as his lawyer, to tell him all, he was consumed with shame. Of all people, he could not bring himself to confess to this man, who claimed him as his inspiration. How could he admit why he'd changed and how much – that he had killed his own father and hidden it for so long?

But Wright had refused to take no for an answer, responded to rudeness only with humour. His constant but irrational assertion of belief in Miles; his dogged pursuit of evidence and testimony had worn the prosecutor down. And in the end, he'd faced up to his fear, confessed everything - every shameful detail, every painful memory. Even after that, Wright stood fast, proving that what Miles had believed to be true for all those years was, after all, just a nightmare.

Not once, but twice in that case, Wright saved his life. Miles had not known then how to deal with the fact that someone else had that kind of confidence in him when he lacked it himself.

Even now, I don't… can't understand it.

The day after the trial and Von Karma's arrest, he'd had to face his own past, and self-doubt had begun to grow. Memories rushed back from where he'd buried them, year after year. The only legacy his father had been able to leave him was that of honesty, integrity and justice, and he'd thrown it all away. Doubts about guilty verdicts he'd gained in the past crept into his mind. He had been sick to the stomach at his own gullibility and weakness, his confidence in his own intelligence and instincts all but destroyed as he realised the ease with which he'd been manipulated. And more shameful still, there was a lingering resentment at the back of his mind against Wright, as irrational as that was. The defence attorney, meanwhile, had been oblivious, offering friendship and reconciliation with those earnest blue eyes.

He uncrossed his arms and thrust his hands into his pockets, casting his gaze over the London skyline. If he'd been a different man, perhaps he would have taken that outstretched hand without a second thought. But he wasn't.

Miles had gone back to work and tried to lose himself in it, to fill his hours with distractions. But no amount of paperwork and procedure could erase the growing conviction that he had completely and utterly screwed up his life and his career. The thought haunted him day and night as he went about his work, attempting to continue on as normal beneath a veneer of professionalism.

Then he'd been assigned Lana Skye's case and it rapidly became obvious that his loyalty to Police Chief Gant had been called into question in the wake of his own trial. He'd become a liability so Gant made it his business to drag Miles' name through the dirt and make his position at the Prosecutor's Office untenable - first by implicating him in the murder and later by calling his judgement into question. Ironically, he reflected now, regardless of Gant's motives, it was probably no more than he deserved.

Gant had cornered him outside his office, the evening after the first day in court. "It's time we had a little talk, Worthy." The leather-clad hand that gripped his right arm was powerful and large. Miles was not a small man, but in comparison to Gant, even Gumshoe looked like a weakling. He'd tried to shrug the man off, disgusted in equal parts by the uninvited physical contact and the man himself, but Gant's grip had only tightened as he strode down the corridor, pulling Miles with him. They'd stopped by the elevators, and as Gant's gloved hand hit the call button, his smile widened. "You don't like elevators, do you, Worthy? Bring back bad memories, do they, boy?"

The doors slid open as he spoke and Gant stepped forward. Miles didn't know where he got the strength from, but as he realised Gant's intention, his left hand slammed against the wall and he pushed backwards, finally releasing himself from the man's grasp. His heart was pounding and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears, but Gant just laughed. "I wonder if anyone would find it strange, if you were found dead one morning, trapped in this elevator with a gun, hm? Ho ho!" He clapped his hands with amusement at his own joke, and then levelled his gaze on Miles once more, all traces of humour banished. "Listen to me, Worthy - you're finished. Wrighto won't save you this time." As the doors closed and Gant's face was obscured, Miles sagged against the wall, trying to control his breathing, embarrassed by his own vulnerability.

After that, he'd known for sure that he would not survive the case - either literally or figuratively, dependant on Gant's whim - but he'd seen out the trial regardless. Somehow, having Phoenix Wright facing him from across the courtroom had given him the resolution he needed to continue. He wished he could claim that he'd done it simply because it was right, just like his father would have done. But a large part of it grew out of resentment for the situation that Gant had placed him in, and that part he owed to Von Karma, who had taught him that revenge was an act of honour. Wright and Lana Skye had tried to prove otherwise, but in his heart, he knew that it was not solely justice he'd been seeking, but also retribution.

"What happened in this trial can either make or break you as a prosecutor."

A grim smile crossed Miles' lips as he recalled those words. Indeed. But I don't think you really imagined that it would be the latter, did you, Wright?

Increasingly, he was finding it difficult to distinguish his own thoughts from those that his mentor had dripped into his head over the years. Before his trial, it would never have occurred to him to try, and now that it did, he found that he couldn't. The line between Miles Edgeworth and Manfred Von Karma was so blurred that he had begun to second-guess and question every decision. He couldn't do his job anymore - that had become clear to him on the last day of the trial during his single-minded pursuit of Gant. He'd done it once, and now it would be even easier to do it again. Gant's words on that day had been true, and he knew it. If he continued on, one day he would make the same choices, the same decisions, and end up as corrupt and evil as that man. It was a path he could not escape if he stayed in the Prosecutor's Office.

He'd known when he told Phoenix Wright that they would talk later that it was a lie. Even as he spoke the words, he could feel the edges of the stiff, folded paper in his pocket. Later that day he would leave the note in a manila envelope on his desk. He knew it would only be found when someone finally wondered why he had not returned to work after the weekend. His cowardice had known no bounds.

He looked down at the fast-flowing river once more, easily accessible over the low parapet. There was no one else within sight on the embankment. It would be so easy to jump. If I really wanted to.

Immediately after leaving the office that Friday, he'd put his plan into action. He left Pess with the lady that always fostered him when Miles took business trips abroad. He told her that he didn't know when he would be back or whether he would send for Pess later – she had not been curious. She loved Pess almost as much as he did himself and he trusted that she would be discreet. Pess had watched him go with his calm, slightly inquisitive eyes, while Miles fought to keep a smile on his face and pretend that this time was like all the others and that he would be back in a week.

He'd arranged his affairs on the Saturday, leaving his apartment in the care of an agent. Then he'd driven his distinctive red sports car to the airport and bought a ticket for the first available flight to London. He knew the car would be reported and he knew Gumshoe would try to track him down, but he'd deal with that later.

All he'd taken with him was a change of clothes, toiletries, and his personal papers - including his German passport, in the name of Miles Von Karma. Manfred had given him the passport while he was at college and living in Germany. He had no idea where it had come from or how Von Karma had acquired it, since there had never been a formal adoption. He supposed that the man must have pulled some very important strings. Miles had never mentioned the passport to anyone else, but he had kept it in case it proved useful.

When he boarded the plane, he had no plans other than to get away, to find space to decide what to do next. The note he had left would be true whatever he decided. There was nothing for him in Los Angeles anymore. The career that he had devoted his life to was based on a lie, and outside that career was a void. He would kill the Miles Edgeworth that he had become, one way or another. He had to. He knew now that however it had to end, there was no going back on the journey he had started when he first stood opposite Phoenix Wright in court.

It had already been dusk when he landed at Heathrow and took the Underground into the city. It was a couple of years since he had last been in London, but he had spent time there during his year at Cambridge University and on numerous business trips, so he knew it well. He knew that it would be easy to get to mainland Europe with his German passport should he wish to, and from there, he could disappear from view. But where to? He frowned. Miles spoke two languages fluently and three more to a reasonable degree. All he had to do was decide the best course of action, but the effort of trying to consider his future, alone, seemed like an impossible burden after so many wrong choices in the past.

His weary reverie was interrupted by a group of tourists who pushed past him suddenly, huddling under a large golf umbrella and giggling over a sodden A-Z as they hurried to get out of the rain. "Pardon, Monsieur!" called out one of the men, with a cheerful and apologetic smile.

He watched after them for a while until they disappeared from view, and was suddenly aware of how cold it was and how wet he had become in the light but persistent rain. Shivering, he realised that his hands and feet were numb, and his wool overcoat now looked more silver than black as it glistened with moisture under the amber glow of the lamps. With a last thoughtful look across the Thames, Miles turned and walked back towards Waterloo Station.

He took the Jubilee Line straight back to his lodgings. No one gave him a second glance, and Miles found it a relief to be anonymous; just one more tourist fleeing the rain in the Underground tunnels, counting the stations on the map above the door until he reached his stop.

He had checked into a small hotel near St James' Palace that he always favoured when in London – it was exclusive and discreet as well as being convenient for several Underground lines. Fortunately, the reception staff had recognised him from previous trips, and at this time of the year, they had rooms to spare at the weekend. No one questioned his request to pay cash or commented on his casual appearance – the glances he received, at least the ones he saw, were invariably of studied courtesy. Sometimes, Miles reflected dryly, it paid dividends to have a reputation as a stuck-up jerk.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, he wondered, not for the first time since yesterday, if his disappearance had yet been noticed and if so, how it had been greeted back in Los Angeles. Miles had no doubt that the press would have a field day. There would probably be relief in the Prosecutor's Office as the news would distract people from the accusations of evidence tampering and provide a convenient scapegoat. He knew that the note would be very conveniently leaked, and that the supposed suicide of the Demon Prosecutor would be tabloid fare in Los Angeles for months to come. He had no doubt that even if he had chosen to stay, his life and those of his father and mentor would have been raked over repeatedly through the duration of any official inquiry. At least, this way, he wouldn't have to see it, or deal with the whispers, the cameras, the suspicion, and the pity.

He was sure that Gumshoe would already be looking for him if the note had been found. And Wright… He hesitated for a second before taking the next step and his hand unconsciously tightened on the banister. It was difficult to picture how the defence attorney might receive the news. Miles was in no doubt that he would take it as a personal betrayal. Over the past couple of months, Wright had made it obvious that he wanted to be reconciled, and it had not escaped Miles' attention that his name had been absent from the court dockets since December.

He had to admit that despite his misgivings, he had begun to think of Wright as… if not quite a friend, certainly as someone whose judgement could be trusted. But underlying that had been the conviction that he was not a man that deserved Wright's friendship; that perhaps he was not the man that Wright thought he was at all.

"I think you changed too much, Edgeworth."

Miles did not trust himself sufficiently to declare himself a friend to anyone, least of all the man that had saved his life. And so he had lied in the defendant's lobby that day, after the trial.

At the door of his room, he pulled out his wallet and flipped out the keycard, realising that he could barely feel his fingers. Once inside, he removed his wet coat and hung it on the back of a door to dry. The rain had soaked through the seams of the shoulders to his shirt, and his hair clung wetly to his face. Stripping off the garment, he scowled. If I keep this up, that note will end up coming true sooner than I anticipated.

Taking yesterday's open bottle of Chablis out of the refrigerator and grabbing a glass from the bureau, he flopped into an oversized leather armchair with a sigh. Pulling up his legs, he willed the feeling back into his cold feet and hands; sipping the wine and savouring the warmth of the alcohol on his lips. On the table next to him were his cellphone and his old leather address book, and he frowned at them before looking away.

Even if he were only to stay in Europe for a short time, he had to find employment - that much was obvious. He had a reasonable amount of money in his European bank account, but it wouldn't last forever and finding employment was easier said than done. He didn't trust himself to do any work that would involve standing up in court, but having devoted himself to the study of law since childhood, his options were limited. He also needed to find something quietly and with the minimum of fuss, somewhere where he would not be known or stand out in a crowd. The last thing he wanted right now was for the media to come knocking at his door.

Again his eyes flicked to the table beside him, and finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the address book and flipped through it. Locating the section that contained up-to-date entries for people he had been at University with in England, he looked through the list of names and numbers. He'd been putting this moment off since yesterday in the hope that an alternative solution would present itself, but it was against his nature to procrastinate, even over the worst of choices.

Von Karma had always taught him to use any means necessary to achieve a guilty verdict; that those who failed in the search for perfection sacrificed their honour and deserved only to be exploited. But now, knowingly following any path that might have met the approval of his mentor chilled him to the bone. On the other hand, what other option did he have, at this stage?

He poured himself another glass of wine and then drank it far too quickly. It was an entirely foolish thing to do, but somehow he hoped it would make his decision easier. He sat there for a while longer and finished the bottle, with his cellphone and address book on his lap. Finally, with an air of resignation, he chose a number and dialled it, then closed his eyes and twisted the ribbon page marker of the address book tightly between his fingers.

Within two hours, Miles had secured a position in a small contract law office in Paris starting in ten days – no questions asked. It was almost perfect. The Von Karma family maintained a small apartment there, and his French was certainly good enough to get by in a business environment.

Even better, he hadn't needed to make any direct threats – he'd just made conversation. He reflected on the weakness of a politician who could be so easily persuaded merely by hearing a name from their past at the end of the telephone.

Is this how Redd White went about controlling Los Angeles? Is this how Gant and Von Karma called in favours when they needed to get a conviction?

Miles was surprised how easy he'd found it, even through the fog of mild intoxication. He was chilled by the sense of power he'd felt just for those few seconds, knowing that he could ruin a career, a family, with just a few carefully chosen words about a shared indiscretion.

"Worthy… you and me... we're the same…"

Gant's voice mocked him, and suddenly he felt sick to the stomach. He only just made it into the bathroom before he vomited. He ran the tap for a while and splashed cold water on his face. Then, gripping the sides of the sink, his knuckles as white as the porcelain, he looked at himself in the mirror. If he'd thought that it was impossible to loathe himself any more than he had yesterday when he left Los Angeles, he'd been mistaken.

I don't even know who I am anymore.

Miles awoke just after six from a fitful sleep. He was curled on the sofa, still shirtless, and he shivered a little as he became aware of the February chill in the morning air and on his skin. Sitting up, he stretched cramped muscles and rubbed his eyes. Last night's empty wine bottle was still on the table and he looked at it with some disgust as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. He felt tired and grubby.

He opted for a hot shower before ordering tea, and noticed that his hands were shaking as he fumbled with the buttons on his jeans. The last two or three days were starting to take their toll – too little sleep, too little food, too much stress. It occurred to Miles that he couldn't actually remember when he'd last eaten, and the thought made him scowl at his own carelessness. He was well aware of his own tendency to forget even the basic necessities when he was distracted by work or pressure – in fact, sometimes he pushed the boundaries of his endurance intentionally, having found over the years that a certain amount of deprivation made his mind sharper and his reactions faster. But usually, he made a controlled effort to ensure that his eccentricities in that regard never got to the point of negatively affecting him physically or mentally. Today, you will eat breakfast, you bloody fool.

Having to look at himself in the mirror while he shaved didn't make him feel any better – it was hardly a pretty sight. A faint smile crossed his face as he envisioned turning up to his new employment dressed in crumpled jeans and looking like a raving lunatic. I'll be lucky if they let me into the country looking like this, let alone through the doors of a law office.

After changing into his last clean shirt and eating a light breakfast, Miles felt marginally more human. He used the hotel phone to call first his tailor and secondly the housekeeper of the Paris apartment. Then he packed his bag, checked out of the hotel, and walked over to Jermyn Street to order the basics of a new wardrobe.

In the afternoon, he took the train out to North London. George greeted him effusively. If the tailor was surprised to hear from Miles with only a couple of hours notice he gave no indication of it – he was well used to the eccentricities of his clients, and Miles suspected his own were minor compared to some of the people who had crossed George's threshold over the years.

Miles had been having suits made here and sent to Los Angeles for several years now after a friend at University had recommended the establishment to him. It wasn't a traditional location to find a gentleman's tailor in London, but George was Savile Row trained, and he particularly appreciated clients whose tastes tended to the individual. It was safe to say that Miles' tastes fell into that bracket most of the time, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it – he treated the suits he wore both in court and socially as a costume - each carefully designed to project an image of flamboyant confidence. His father had been too old-fashioned to shop in high street stores and 'off-the-peg' wasn't a phrase that he'd ever encountered in the Von Karma house. When he started university at fifteen, he'd been somewhat surprised to find that formal clothes could be acquired by means other than a bespoke tailor - but even after that astounding revelation, Miles was still yet to purchase a suit ready-made.

At George's, pleasure always came before business, so they drank dark, Greek coffee and ate honey-drenched biscuits while conversing about Los Angeles. George was far too polite to ask why his client was in Europe or why he needed new suits so quickly, so the conversation stayed within comfortable limits and Miles felt at ease. He hadn't realised until very recently how much his circle of acquaintance had shrunk during his time in the USA. First the study for his bar exam, then the constant workload from both his own cases and those in which he was acting as Von Karma's assistant left him with virtually no time to himself. He'd barely even kept in touch with his sister, let alone anyone beyond the family, so it was strangely relaxing to pass the time with someone who had been a fixture in his life for so many years.

The fitting lasted into the late afternoon and by the time Miles took his leave, it was already fully dark. After a quick glance at his watch, he took a taxi directly to the Eurostar terminal at St Pancras.

Waiting to board, he sat on one of the red, metal benches and took his cellphone out of his pocket. It was unthinkable that his note had not been found by now. His jaw tightened as he pressed the power button and waited for the network to recover his connection. The phone beeped reproachfully - there were several text and voice messages, all from Gumshoe. He deleted them all, then sat with the phone in his hand, staring at the display. Well? What did I expect? Hordes of well-wishers?

He scrolled through his contacts until he reached the number for his sister. Has Gumshoe called her? The thought of Franziska receiving news of his suicide note and possibly believing that he was already dead made his heart lurch. Despite being unrelated by blood and considerable differences in age and temperament, he and his sister had grown close during their shared childhood in the Von Karma house. His thumb hesitated over her number. He had a sudden desire to speak to her and hear her voice, but they had barely spoken in five years and he reminded himself that she had completely cut off all contact from him in the wake of her father's conviction for murder. I can't believe I've made such a mess of this – of everything. With a sigh, he switched the phone off and fell back into a dull, reverie of waiting.

He used his German passport and spoke in German throughout the journey. No one at customs or passport control in either London or Paris gave him more than a casual glance.

By the time he walked out of Gare du Nord and hailed a cab, he was sure that he was free.