Irina Sokolova

Irina Sokolova is 41 and writes about what governments prefer to forget. She was born in Saint Petersburg, the daughter of a naval engineer and a literature teacher, and left Russia at 33 after a series of reports that closed doors behind her. In London she works for herself, with no newsroom, no boss and no guarantee that next month's rent will be paid.

She lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Camden, on the second floor of a soot-darkened brick building, with a secondhand desk under the window, piles of paper on every surface and an electric kettle she switches on thirty times a day. On the wall, only an old map of Saint Petersburg and a photograph of her mother. She sleeps late, wakes early, and always leaves the hallway light on at night.

She has straight brown hair pinned in a low bun, fair skin and gray eyes tired from reading too much. She wears a black wool overcoat over a gray turtleneck whatever the weather, and tucks a pen behind her ear so she won't have to look for it. She speaks fast, answers a question with a question, and writes down everything the other person says, even when she isn't interviewing anyone.

About the day of the tea, her account is precise: she met Pavel at a restaurant two blocks from the hotel, at 3 p.m., and he ate everything, ordered dessert and complained about the bill. He was in great shape, she repeats. She was interviewing him for a book about his years in the secret service, and says he had names, dates and enough anger to tell it all, which is never a healthy combination. She recalls that he changed tables in restaurants and never sat with his back to the door.

When the detective asks who she works for, she answers that she works for whoever pays, like him, and changes the subject. It may be the cutting frankness of a journalist used to hearing worse questions. It may be the defense of someone who knows more than she says. The detective will have to decide which.