He had known this all along, of course, but had pushed it to the back of his own mind because, despite all that Gareth had done to surprise and disappoint him, he could not believe that that would ever have been his intention. But she was right: intentions, reasons, motives, excuses, justifications were often the pawns of circumstance. Consistency in human affairs should never be taken for granted. Anyone was capable of anything, he remembered saying, though he wasn’t quite sure whether he believed it. The other reason he had not thought about what Gareth might do was that the consequences were too awful to contemplate.

Sonia got up and stood by the window with him, arms folded. ‘You know who I mean by Tessa Mountfield?’

‘No. Unless you mean the journalist? I don’t know her.’ She was a freelance journalist well known for a series of television interviews with corporate whistle-blowers who claimed, with varying justification, to have been victims of malfeasance, impropriety or injustice.

‘That’s the lady. She’s here, in Brussels, seen at the block of flats that Gareth’s mistress lives in. The team recognised her getting out of a taxi as they were following Timber Wolf away from the building.’

‘Doesn’t mean she’s going to see Gareth.’

‘Except that we now know her mobile is on his private mobile’s contact list.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since before he disappeared.’

‘He never said anything about knowing her.’ Staff were supposed to declare contact with journalists. ‘Could be coincidence. Coincidences do happen.’

‘Save that one for the inquiry.’

‘If we intervene now – if I go and see him – it risks blowing what we’re doing, the whole thing.’

‘And if he’s spilling the beans to her and we don’t?’

Chapter Thirteen

Charles paused outside the door of flat 26, listening for voices. The black paintwork was smart, the silvered bell-button polished. He had escaped challenge by the concierge downstairs by taking advantage of an altercation with a delivery driver who the concierge insisted should move his van from outside the front door. Hearing nothing within, he pressed the bell.

There was no response, no footsteps, no opening or closing of doors. He waited and pressed again. This time he heard a loo flush, then a door close, then steps, then silence. There was a flicker of movement behind the peephole, then more steps. Finally, the door was opened by Gareth Horley.

‘Come in, Charles.’ He smiled. He looked relaxed and youthful in jeans, trainers and a blue Guernsey, much as when they had run cases together. He was ageing well, physically. The difference was that this time he was pointing a pistol at Charles’s stomach. ‘I’ve been half-expecting you.’

Charles didn’t move. ‘What’s that for?’

‘Just a precaution, sensible in my new circumstances. Don’t worry, I’m not about to do anything silly.’ He stepped back, holding the door open and lowering the pistol.