He didn’t much like Christopher Slater, if the truth be told; after all, business was rarely advisable with friends. If he liked the guy, it wouldn’t work; he’d feel too wretchedly guilty about the deceit. Philip Tooting was more his cup of tea. At least he possessed a sense of humour similar to his own, unlike the aristocratic brat or the dour civil servants’ lackey. Evenings at the club were always more pleasurable when Philip was involved. He’d made noises recently that they needed to tidy up their affairs somewhat, until the business at Ravensword had died down. Benjamin had laughed at him, convinced of their infallibility, but Philip had been deadly serious.

‘Some care is needed when paying for services,’ he’d said cryptically. He always spoke like this, in code, and it made Benjamin chuckle, knowing that Philip fancied himself in the secret services. It was a common occurrence: people finding out that you were in the army and assuming they could have joined too, as if it was some kind of stint as a lollipop lady. No one gave a thought about the shit you went through to reach a rank of substance. The weeks of sleeping in a wet bivouac in Scotland, the months away from loved ones, the brutal marches with fifty kilos on your back, not to mention the sight of war. He didn’t know anyone who’d served their country who, by his age, had healthy knees and ankles, and his back killed him all day long. His mind was as broken as his limbs. He would deserve his pension when it finally came, though it was a pittance. And that was why he’d sought other employment.

He stubbed out his fag and went back inside, aware that he smelled strongly of tobacco. His wife hated it, and wouldn’t kiss him until he’d brushed his teeth, but he didn’t much miss her affection, since he’d started paying for it elsewhere. A woman put her hand to her mouth as he walked past. Cheeky bitch, he thought. Entitled women: they were everywhere. Next thing, they’d be on the front line, whingeing about long hours and sleeping arrangements.

The world was going mad.

He looked at his watch. It was only two o’clock, but he had little to do. He’d become stale and bored in his job; it was time for a transfer. He’d avoided one for long enough, and he knew that any time soon he’d be relocated again. His desk telephone rang. It was some Brigadier upstairs, wanting to know who he knew in the Ayios Nikolaos garrison in Cyprus: the intelligence wing of Dhekelia Garrison. A detective wanted to speak to a local by the name of Alexandros Skarparis.