A white Bentley pulled into the car park of the police station and manoeuvred into the slot next to Shah’s Land Rover. A tall, thin grey-haired man stepped out, wearing a lightweight, cream-coloured linen suit. He retrieved a briefcase and a Panama hat from the rear seat before locking up and greeting his client.

Shah’s lawyer had arrived.

‘Hello, hello, everyone. You must be Ms Balwyn. I understand you will be acting as my junior, today. Sitting in on conference. Very good, very good. You can take notes. I imagine I’ll do all the talking, but if there is something you desperately need to ask of our city’s finest, feel free to whisper in my shell-like and we’ll see what we can shake loose from Mr Plod.’

‘Oh, okay then,’ said Jules.

‘Excellent. Home Counties girl, I judge, by your lovely accent. Better and better. Piers Downing, by the way . . .’ He launched a hand across to seal the deal. ‘Wouldn’t do to have our little charade come a cropper because you didn’t know me from Arthur or Martha, would it? And hello, Mr Shah. Hello, hello. Dreadful business, all this. I can only hope Plod has some news for us about these villains who blew themselves up on your lawn, but probably not. Your man Birendra brought me up to speed with this morning’s shenanigans. I understand they touched on your interests somewhat tangentially. Doubtless that’s why we are all here sweltering in this wretched bloody heat. Shall we away?’

‘So you’re not from around here then, Mr Downing?’ Jules asked, stating the obvious, as they made their way up the concrete steps of the station.

The entrance was sheltered by massive sails of shadecloth, artfully arranged to provide maximum cover during the hottest part of the day. Julianne felt the temperature ease off just a few degrees as they passed underneath them. The heat was still pulsing, however. At least until they pushed through a revolving door and the ubiquitous, super-chilled air-con washed over her in a merciful release.

‘No, not from these parts, no,’ said Downing on the other side. ‘Falkland Islands, actually, if you can believe it. Long way from home and all, but everyone is these days. Especially in this benighted city. Took my degree back in old Blighty and practised in the City for twelve years. I was out here for a holiday in ’03 – well, a working holiday, tax write-offs and all that. Didn’t fancy heading back home after everything turned to custard, either to the Falklands or to London, as you can imagine. Prospects in both places a bit too bleak for me, thank you. And you, Ms Balwyn – made it back home at all?’