The conversation stopped abruptly. It didn’t matter. They’d arrived at the Gardner’s Palace, a squat, three-storey building that looked chipped out of a single block of sandstone, bright red, brighter even than the dust that scarred the landscape. It was perfunctory, the black tar on the roof painted white to reflect back some of the vicious heat, the wooden shutters guarding each window, protecting it further.

The pair of patched armchairs in the narrow reception area welcomed them. It wasn’t the Ritz but good enough for the rare occasions they needed to keep someone around.

The owner, Ollie Orlander, greeted them, his stomach bubbling over his trousers like an overheated pot of misshapen pasta. Ollie was more than happy to take their strays. The government always paid its bills and he could lease out his most expensive room, the misnomer known as the Presidential Suite, at full price.

Ollie eyed up his new guest to make sure that he understood who owned the place. An unnecessary attempt at intimidation and part of the reason Ollie got very few repeat visitors. In Chandler’s experience, guests favoured a hearty welcome rather than obvious suspicion.

Ollie’s beady eyes turned to Chandler. ‘He’s not going to cause any damage is he?’

‘He’s not a criminal,’ said Chandler.

‘Then what’s he doing with you?’

‘He provided us with some information. We need to put him up for the night.’

‘The usual suite?’

Chandler nodded wearily. ‘The usual suite will do.’

‘Very good, sir.’ A lopsided smile passed over the rotund face. He waddled off to ready a few things as Chandler led Gabriel upstairs.

‘Don’t expect too much,’ warned Chandler.

‘If it’s got a warm bath and a soft bed that’s good enough for me.’

Chandler studied his face. Some of the nervousness had returned, eyes that darted around as if expecting Heath to appear from behind every corner.

‘I’ll stick an officer outside.’

‘I don’t need one, Sergeant.’

They reached the door of the Presidential Suite.

‘I insist,’ said Chandler. He was not about to let Gabriel become a victim of his own bravery.

5

Constable Jim Fall arrived, book of crosswords in tow, extricating his lanky frame from the police car in stages; right leg, then left, then his arms gripped the roof before hauling his torso into the late afternoon. How he had survived down the cramped mineshafts Chandler still didn’t know. Though they had joined only a couple of years apart, Jim had refused to rise above the rank of constable, happy with the minimal level of responsibility it brought. He was reliable to a tee.

‘What’s the job?’ asked Jim, elongating the last vowel while scratching his unruly bush of greying hair.

‘Watch the hotel. Make sure that our guest is okay.’

‘He likely to run?’

‘I’m not sure.’