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The keys were warm from sitting in a steel box in the sun, and nobody came down to meet them.

Marise Saintil has sold her mother’s company for fourteen point two million dollars and has not told her brother. She takes him to Panama for Carnaval to tell him properly. The apartment is on the twenty-ninth floor, the code arrives by message from an account with no name on it, and the whole week there is not one human being between her family and the door.

On the last night her brother goes to bed at a quarter to four. At ten past four an anaesthetist stands in the corridor and says four words, and Marise tells her to let him sleep.

What follows is not a hunt for a villain. It is a woman with a wall of index cards working out that her brother was moved into that room eleven days before he flew, by an account that has moved four hundred and six guests one way and never once moved anybody back.