In another life his ploy would have worked. Five years, or even five days, ago she would have let the argument sit on her, weighing her down. However, after all her run-ins with Gibson, she was quicker to realise when people were trying to deflect her away from seeing what they were really up to. And to work out how she could use that to her advantage.

So, as she walked over to the blue and cream MG 1100 she’d borrowed from the embassy, she didn’t plan on driving back there, or to the dishevelled hotel in South Kensington that had been grudgingly booked for her by one of the diplomatic secretaries. But she was happy to let Knox sit in his flat, thinking he’d pushed her across a burning bridge.

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Knox wondered if Bennett would try to follow him to Highgate, or if she’d retreat straight to Grosvenor Square to lick her wounds. He’d wanted to push her, and was stunned at where they’d ended up. Half a decade apart was bound to change both of them, but Knox could barely recognise the person Bennett had turned into. She’d once been driven by her hatred of people who had completely sacrificed their morals for power. Now she was an apologist for them. Worse, she was becoming one of them.

His mix of anger and disappointment was still simmering as he parked in front of Wytchen House, walked up the short path to its porch, and was greeted by an old Irish setter as the front door opened.

‘Hello, Stella,’ he said, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears as she circled his legs. ‘Is your father here?’

‘He’s with James and Jack,’ Sarah answered from the doorway, beckoning them both inside.

‘How was the night?’ Knox asked when they were all in the hallway.

‘Eventful,’ Sarah replied. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’

Knox followed Sarah and Stella into the large Shaker-style kitchen at the back of the house. It was a well-used and much-loved room. Knox had eaten plenty of meals at the large oak table that took up most of the space.

Beyond the kitchen’s French doors an immaculately maintained lawn was surrounded by borders of late-blooming cyclamen, budding hydrangeas and high stone walls crawling with vines. And inside them, Holland sat at the head of the table, watching MI5’s head of research and development bandage Williams’s knuckles.

‘What are you doing here?’ Knox asked White.

‘Playing doctor,’ he replied.

‘Are you okay?’ Knox said, this time to Williams.

‘I am,’ Williams replied, sheepishly. ‘But I really do feel terrible.’

He sounded like the same almost-Williams-of-old Knox had left in the bunker last night.

‘We don’t know what happened,’ Holland said. ‘But at some point in the night Williams took against the bunker door, and the sofa.’