“We don’t have time. Send it through.”

Kudus sent through the name and address: Ian Latham, 11 Chesterfield Grove, Bellfields. This time she went alone.

28

Bellfields was a suburb to the north of Guildford, a cluster of residential streets bordered by the river Wey and the A3. It was close to the school at which Latham taught. His home address was a freshly bricked house on a private estate, quiet on a Saturday morning. Taylor rang the bell and a woman answered the door, balancing a baby on her hip. Taylor hadn’t prepared for this possibility and froze.

“Yes?”

The woman was East Asian, in her late thirties, tired. She wore a dressing gown. A man appeared behind her. He saw Taylor, saw her study his face, and something triggered an alarm bell. He met her stare and very subtly shook his head once.

Taylor thought fast.

“I’m looking for Naomi,” she said. The woman frowned.

“Not here, I’m afraid.” She turned to the man. “Is there a Naomi on the street?”

Latham stepped forward so he could see the street outside while also shielding his partner and child. He matched the description Lau had given, only older. His fair hair was thin now. He had silver bags under his eyes and a thin blue vein at the side of his head. He checked for backup, then smiled at Taylor.

“Perhaps try the house opposite. Number thirty-nine.”

“Thank you. Sorry to disturb you.”

The door closed. A van passed at the end of the street, very slowly. By the time she’d got to the corner it had gone. She checked the other cars as she walked back, listening for the tick of hot engines, looking for the silhouettes of individuals waiting. No one. But her skin prickled.

What now? Taylor kicked herself. She could have thought of some way of speaking to Latham alone. She wasn’t prepared to give up just yet. She spent ten minutes circling the block, smoking a cigarette as she contemplated options, alternative ways of drawing Latham out. When she finally got back in her car, the glove box was open.

She hadn’t used it today. As Taylor leaned over to see if anything had been taken, she felt the cold metal of a blade at her throat.

“Drive.”

She looked in the mirror. Ian Latham met her stare.

“Now,” he said.

“I need to speak to you about Ascension Island.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing you need.”

“I’ll drive. Take the knife away.”

He sat back. It was a chef’s knife, Taylor saw, razor sharp, gripped tight. She started the car, drove to the end of the road, where he told her to take a right and keep going.

“Try anything and I’ll put it in the back of your skull.”

“I need to talk to you, Ian.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Kathryn. I’m head of the South Atlantic desk.”