Beatrix took out her night vision binoculars, zipped up her leather jacket and settled down to wait.

It was dawn when the early commuters made their way out of their houses to their cars. There had been no movement outside the house until then. The upstairs bathroom light had flicked on at three, and then, five minutes later, it had been extinguished again. Someone using the bathroom and then going back to bed. There had been nothing else to concern her since then.

She had taken the opportunity to study the rest of the property: there was a large extension to the rear, a kitchen that she could see when she focussed her binoculars on the ground floor window that faced her, an oil tank fifty feet away from her hiding position. It was a desirable property. Expensive.

There had been no question of sleep for her. She was too keyed up for that, and far too professional to allow even the slightest possibility that she might be distracted and miss something important. Her eyes stung a little as the sun cast a thin glow over the top of the ridge that formed the slope on the other side of the valley, but she would have no rest now. That would come later.

A car rolled slowly down the hill towards the main road.

It was six-thirty.

Just a commuter. She let it go.

The lights in the kitchen came on.

Beatrix raised her binoculars. She caught a glimpse of a woman from behind: a cream shirt, a black skirt, a jacket held in the crook of one arm. The woman moved in and out of sight until she paused at the window and looked out, and Beatrix confirmed her target.

Hello, Lydia.

Beatrix had to wait just another ten minutes before she came out of the front of the house, a slice of half-eaten toast in one hand and a travel beaker in the other. She negotiated the steps to the road, acknowledged a jogger who was running with her dog, rested the beaker on the roof of the car as she opened the door, took the beaker again and got inside.

Beatrix unzipped her leather jacket and took out her phone.

She had two numbers to call.

She selected the first and let it ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Lydia.”

“Who is this?”

“I’d be surprised if you’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t . . .”

“It’s Number One.”

Lydia’s voice was horribly unfamiliar. The last time they had met, Beatrix had stabbed her in the throat with a letter opener, and the blade had pierced her larynx. Pope had explained that it had been necessary to perform an emergency laryngectomy in order to save her life. A speech valve had been fitted to enable her to speak. Her words sounded wet and awkward, and they were difficult to interpret.

“Where are you?”

“Looking right at you.”

She watched as Chisholm yanked her head around, trying to spot her.