He turned to the young man, who was instinctively backing away from Knox. ‘It’s okay, Jimmy. This fellow’s a Brit. Nothing for you to worry about. Jimmy Furlock, meet…?’

‘Richard Knox,’ Knox said, nodding at Furlock and then turning back to Northcott. ‘And I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I was wondering if you had a few moments to talk.’

Northcott’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and he glanced at Furlock again. He looked a little less anxious, but he was also starting to shiver.

‘Why not,’ Northcott said to Knox, still grinning. ‘But let’s find somewhere a bit warmer.’

He pointed past Knox at a large Lincoln Continental that was idling at the kerbside where Knox had been moments before.

Twenty minutes later Knox, Northcott and Furlock were in the drawing room of Northcott’s house. It sat high up on a private, fence-ringed bluff overlooking the Haro Strait, and was surprisingly modest—two storeys in the North American style that blended huge panels of smooth glass with consciously rough blocks of wood and stone.

‘That rock over there is Sidney Island, which is in Canada,’ Northcott said, pointing through the large windows that faced the strait. ‘And that one on the right is San Juan, which is in America. The Sunday sailors can never keep it right in their heads and are always accidentally crossing the border. More coffee, Richard?’

‘Thank you,’ Knox replied, offering up his cup.

Northcott shared Knox’s appreciation for rich beans, served short and strong.

‘So,’ Northcott said. ‘Who have I upset now?’

‘Would you prefer to discuss this in private?’ Knox asked, subtly tilting his head towards Furlock, who was sitting hunched at the end of a leather chesterfield across from Knox’s high-backed chair, eyes still wide and scared. His cup sat untouched on the low coffee table in front of him.

‘No need,’ Northcott replied. ‘We’re all friends here, aren’t we?’

Knox nodded as he took a sip of his coffee. ‘Some questions have been asked about your recent flights, and your passengers,’ he said.

Furlock’s eyes grew even wider and he pushed himself further into the corner of the sofa.

‘I was wondering when people were going to notice. But I thought it would be someone a little more local.’ Northcott gave Furlock a reassuring look. ‘Tell me, Richard, did you fight in the war?’

‘I did,’ he replied. ‘In France.’

‘I didn’t,’ Northcott said. ‘I wasn’t allowed. I was deemed too valuable. It was more important for me to make outfits for people like you to die in than get my own hands dirty. But I did my part, and it was a righteous war, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ Knox replied, wary of the direction Northcott was suddenly steering the conversation.

‘Of course you do. We won. Righteousness is our prerogative.’ Northcott took a deep gulp of his coffee. ‘And what do you think about Vietnam?’