‘She’s taking anger-management classes …’ Paul said to the swollen-thumbed doorman, and chuckled at his own witticism.

The dull bass throbbing they had heard outside the club exploded into an ear-splitting blast of dance music as they swung open the doors from the hall into the main dance area itself. Strobe lighting and lasers pulsed with the music. There were hundreds of clubbers on the dance floor, which was sunk lower than the walkways that circled it. The seething mass of bodies was not as impenetrable as it would be later in the week. Still, it was a daunting task to find one person in this throng.

Anna turned to Paul and shrugged the too-big shoulders of her leather jacket.

‘What’s the first thing you do when you come into a club?’

‘Get a drink?’

Paul nodded, scanning the periphery of the dance floor. There was a wide, sweeping bar slightly elevated at the far side. They split up and made their separate ways on either side of the dance floor, each scanning it for any sign of MacSwain. They arrived simultaneously at opposite ends of the horseshoe bar. There is an art to sweeping a space for a suspect without drawing attention to yourself: Paul didn’t have it. Nature and northern-German genetics had conspired to make him look as if his natural attire should be a SchuPo uniform. Here, surrounded by trendily and often scantily attired clubbers, Paul knew his best bet was to shrink as far back as possible into the undergrowth the environment provided. He squeezed his way to the bar and ordered a beer.

From his vantage point, Paul could see Anna. She was a master at this. She managed to make it appear that her attention was focused on the music and the dance floor, while glancing only occasionally and disinterestedly at the bar. She was coming towards Paul when she spotted MacSwain. The first thing that struck Anna was his looks; she had never seen MacSwain close up before and had used an identity photograph Fabel had secured from immigration as a reference. He had a broad, strong face with a heavily caged jaw and broad, pronounced cheekbones. His eyes were a glittering emerald.

MacSwain was engaged in a conversation with two blondes at the bar, who seemed to hang on his every word, laugh on cue and gaze hypnotised into the green jewel eyes. Anna was aware she had been staring at him a little too long and turned her back to the group. She let her eyes drift slowly across the dance floor until they came to rest on Paul. A subtle movement of her eyes signalled MacSwain’s position and Paul nodded acknowledgement. Casually, she turned back to check MacSwain was still there. He was. And his green, penetrating gaze was fixed on her. Anna felt an internal flutter of shock but sealed it tight inside, making sure nothing showed in her face. She looked away from MacSwain, everywhere and anywhere other than at Paul, which would give MacSwain a signpost to his other observer. Her heart thudded in her chest, yet she maintained an outer cool.