The young runner’s eyes widened slightly and he relayed the message to his producer, as he beckoned them through the doors. The wall immediately in front of them was completely covered in flat screens showing different courts and different players, with the same verdant turf wallpapering every shot. The screens were angled inwards at the top and the bottom, giving the impression that they were inside a giant goldfish bowl. Three women were working in swivel chairs in front of a huge illuminated mixing desk. They wore the same headsets as the runner and seemed so engrossed in their pictures that they didn’t notice the invasion. The runner tapped one of them on the shoulder and she turned round and slipped one earphone off.

‘Hey, Bethan,’ he said, smiling nervously. ‘These guys need your help.’

She was a thin woman with tight lips that looked as if they’d forgotten how to smile. She looked at the runner like she might rip his skin from his body.

‘Half of Africa needs my help, according to Save the Children, but I’m a bit fucking busy at the moment.’ Her cold eyes moved from the runner to the group of strangers in her gallery and she said, ‘No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Foster said. ‘Come on, Kirsten, we’ll head back to the hotel.’

Even in the strange light, Foster could see colour draining from Bethan’s face as Keller stepped out from the shadows. Good, let her squirm. His codeine hit was wearing off and the left side of his body was beginning to throb again and he was starting to feel irritable.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Bethan muttered, mostly to herself. ‘What do you need?’

‘Whatever pictures you’ve got, from the end of the match,’ Foster said. ‘Every camera. Every angle. I’m looking for someone in the crowd.’

‘And you want this when?’ Bethan said in a disbelieving tone. ‘Now?’

Foster explained the deal, the same way he’d explained it to the runner, and Bethan rolled her eyes and started punching time-codes into her computer. The runner breathed a sigh of relief and led Keller out into the studio, with Tom Abbot following close behind.

Soon the screens in front of Foster were alive again, and Bethan was scrolling through images until they found what he was looking for. There were two cameras that had caught the scene. The first was useless, showing nothing but a brief glimpse of the guy’s baseball cap in the middle of the scrum. The other angle was better, filmed from the far side of the court, over Keller’s shoulder. It was a wide shot, with Keller small in the middle of the screen. The excited faces of the people in the crowd were smaller still.

‘Can you zoom in?’ Foster asked.

Bethan pressed buttons and the frame tightened around Keller. But the closer they got, the grainier the quality of the shot became.