She found herself in a thoroughfare between No. 1 Court and the outer courts and started walking towards the practice courts. Almost immediately the open space did the job. She walked fast, so as not to be recognised. The further out she got, the quieter it became until the walkways were almost deserted and the wide-open sky was all hers. Her breathing became less ragged, and eventually she slowed up until she found a court wall covered in thick ivy. She turned and leaned back, sinking into the leaves like a duvet. After a few seconds she took a breath and looked down. She saw her bare feet, which made her smile.

She was still smiling when she saw the second pair of feet walk up right next to her and stop. Men’s feet. A big guy. She realised instantly what a dumb idea it had been to leave without telling Foster. On impulse, she smashed the palm of her right hand against the watch on her left wrist and fired her panic alarm.

CHAPTER 17

FOSTER HAD TAKEN his time heading towards the coffee concession, testing a gut feeling that someone was following him. There was no logic to it, just a sensation – born of years of training and service – that somebody was umbilically attached to him, weaving the same path as him through the crowds.

It was the guy with the baseball cap. The one who had filmed him on the practice courts. Foster caught a first glimpse of the man’s distorted reflection in the mirrored doors to Centre Court. He slowed his pace, reeling him in like a fish. He steered away from the cafés, where crowds were still milling, and into the shallower waters, past Court 4, then Court 8. He stole glances in windows and doors and watched the guy closing in until he was breathing down his neck. They walked past Court 12, out into the quiet of the outer courts.

Foster turned into the public toilets near the exit onto Somerset Road. He took two paces inside and then turned on his heel and barrelled back out at full speed, straight at the stalker. He struck the guy as he reached the door, taking him completely by surprise. This turned out to be a big problem, because the guy was not carrying nearly as much weight as Foster had expected. Foster hit him too well. Too hard. Too cleanly. The guy’s legs ripped out from under him and he cartwheeled through the air like a table footballer spinning on his bar. Foster had expected to use the guy as a cushion as they hit the concrete floor. In the event, he went straight through him, landing hard on the walkway and smashing all of his weight onto his scarred, damaged left arm.