Holmes waits. He left the girl outside, made her swear not to approach Mies, but it doesn't seem to be a problem. 'Miss Mies', it would seem, is not her favourite person. She is afraid, and vindictive, and useful to him that way so he made no attempt to comfort her.

For the second time, he finds himself alone, looking around the apartment. Different to the other, but still recognizably hers. The perfume is the same. The silk dressing gown trailing over the threshold of the bedroom. The food in the fridge gives her away. Green apples, KitKats, steak, vodka. But something's wrong. Compared to anywhere else he's ever found her, something is missing.

Ashtrays. It strikes him looking at the coffee table that Mies collects and uses vintage ashtrays, and there are none here. No trademark acrid smog either.

Maya Darcy doesn't smoke. Danielle Mies does, but Maya Darcy doesn't. Because Maya Darcy is sleeping with a doctor.

Does she let him think he helped her quit? Does he smell the Mies traces in her hair and think she's cheated? Does he tell her off for it? Is that all just part of the game? And would he ever, if he lived until the end of time, suspect that the woman he knows is a character played by an actress without love, without compunction, without even the understanding that what she's doing is not just wrong or immoral but vicious.

She could die for it. Would she understand then? Would there be a sudden flash as the scales fall from her eyes? Probably not. Either way, he wouldn't mind – if she sees the light it's all the better for her. If she doesn't he still gets to feel justified.

Mies left the flat with lipstick on. When she comes back, she's wearing only the traces. There's no need to see anything else. The simple fact infuriates him.

This time she's not expecting him. Comes in breathing a song, something she's heard from a passing car, swaying her hips. She see him and her breath catches, hand diving dart-fast into the drawer of the telephone table, but he has her knife.

"How'd you get in?"

"Insert key in lock, turn key, open door..."

"That was almost a joke. You've got me worried." She turns her head, cautious, looking at the bookshelves from the corner of her eye.

"Your gun's out of action too." He watches her pass the back of her hand across her mouth. Dragging off her last man in case she needs to use it again. He sees the loose, airy way she moves as she starts towards him, face rearranging like puzzle pieces. "Don't," he says. "Please don't." One long exhalation and she's cold and base again. Falls into the armchair opposite the one he put himself in. Trendy purple patchwork; very Maya Darcy. "I want you to tell me why," he says. "And it will do you no good to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

She tosses her head. Whatever the expression on her face, it's genuine, but he doesn't understand it. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"Because John Watson is one of the finest human beings I have ever had the privilege to know and you are little more than a viper, now why? He doesn't know anything."

"Yeah, I figured that out about four days in..."

"What other worth could he possibly have to you?"

"Nothing!" she cries, "He knows nothing, he's too nice, he's boring and he's a bloody awful lover. " She doesn't quite smille, breathes out something like a laugh that dies on her lips. "But I told you I'd missed you, didn't I? Y'know, I only went there today because you didn't show up last night. Where were you?" She's changing the subject. He understands that. But the old subject is poisonous and the new one is very sensitive. He still can't turn his head to the left without difficulty. He looks over, exasperated with the pretence. "Yes, I can see your face. I'm asking you how it happened."

"Danielle, please."

"What?" She looks over, blank. It comes to her slowly. "Wait, you think I had something to do with that?"

"You and Morgan, you went in together."

"Morgan played?"

The trouble with liars is they're so used to covering up their deception they can't disguise honesty. She really doesn't know. And it occurs to him suddenly that until the early hours of this morning she had a few hundred carats to protect and has been here, waiting for him. Why give him a second chance and then prevent him from taking advantage? It doesn't make sense. And Mies, so far, is the only one he's met who hasn't been very well informed of every possible factor.

"She's afraid of you. Won't speak to you. You're out of the loop..."

'Out of the loop' gets her. She sits forward, leaning over her knees. "Who won't talk to me? What does she know?"

He should leave. Walk away and send the police for her. Certainly he should tell her absolutely nothing. Her work here is done and she's not involved anymore and at any rate, she doesn't deserve to know. Rather than spend another second in her hateful presence, he should leave. Tell her nothing. Leave. Mies is out, one way or the other. Out.

Out.

Oh, it's perfect. Beautiful. To hell with leaving, he'll keep her. Keep her and use her. Teach her her own treachery and mercilessness.

"There's a... girl, of sorts. A guide."

"If I said the word 'angel'..."

"Yes. Then you know her."

"Haven't seen her since Jim died. And she knows who's running the show, then? Who brought her in?"

And this time Holmes, being a liar himself and unable to mask his honesty, is the one who leans forward, towards her. "You are. The four of you. You, Morgan, Milverton and... Moran, I assume."

"Yeah, but no. I mean, you're right about Seb but... the four of us couldn't organize a piss-up at the Priory. For one, we'd kill each other and for a second, well, why would we run a game on you? No offence, but you were Jim's little hobby. And I was the only one with a... personal interest."

"Then where are the orders coming from?"

She has her suspicions, but won't voice them. She doesn't need to. And he could point out the obvious flaw in her theory, that her key suspect is dead and buried, but then again, so is he. Mies won't say it because she doesn't dare believe it yet, but she wants to. More than anything she wants to. Waiting to be certain is killing her, like an agnostic who prays for a sign. Just the fact that she can sit here and speak to him like he isn't the enemy tells him everything he needs to know.

Firstly, the game has changed considerable. Secondly, if he wants to hurt her, if he wants to give her everything and tear it all away again, this is how he does it.

"Listen to me," he begins, "I'm still in the game and you're still in the organization." Mies is already nodding, more than willing. He's about to close the sale when they are interrupted.

"Flores!" wails a familiar voice, out in the street. "Flores para los muertos!"

Mies gets to her feet and goes to the window. Leans out over the ledge and laughs, looks down brightly smiling on the faithful one, with light and something like affection. Holmes hasn't seen that on her face in long years, and wonders what the girl could be so afraid of. "Angel!" Mies calls down, with motherly glee. "Angel, why didn't you come and see me?"

"Flores," is all she gets in reply. "Flores para los muertos!"

Holmes gets up, goes to see. The window is small and he leans over Mies' shoulder to see. Ignores the scent of her hair and looks down at the girl. She has slung a black lace shawl around her head and shoulders and is skating back and forth. Sullenly, she picks flowers from a ratty, withered bouquet and fires them at the ground. Doesn't look up. "Flores para los muertos!"

Mies' eyes flick up to the building opposite, just a second ahead of Holmes'. She cries, "Watch!" and shoves him sideways, pinning him to the floor. A shot rings out. Almost in slow motion, past her, he watches a bullet cut the air where he was just standing, whistle across the room and shatter a mirror.

"What was that?" He's wondering why she hasn't had the decency to roll off him yet before he realizes his arm is wrapped quite tightly around her waist.

"Moran," she breathes, heart twittering like a mouse's. "He's early."