‘That’s unless I need to pull rank at any point in the future, in which case you’ll do as you’re told.’

They both laughed, because it was an honest joke.

‘How’s your arm?’ Abbot asked.

‘Still attached.’

Under the tailored fit of Foster’s suit, vicious scars traced the lines that the surgeons had cut in order to attach titanium plates to his radius and ulna, and his humerus and clavicle; which was lot of words for a lot of pain and the end of his police career. It was the end of something much more, too. It was the end of Elaina.

‘I heard you left the Met,’ Foster said, letting the unwelcome memories dissipate. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’m at the Paris embassy,’ Abbot said. ‘There’s a girl who’s been here for a few days. She’s a tennis player.’ Abbot paused. Inside the office the clocks ticked and Foster’s eyes moved back to the window. Outside the pink-and-orange sky was turning a watery blue. ‘Her name’s Kirsten Keller.’

Foster, like 90 per cent of the world’s population, recognised the name at once. ‘The American? What’s she doing at the British Embassy?’

‘Using the facilities.’

‘Using the facilities?’ Foster asked. ‘You make it sound like she’s been taking the world’s longest bathroom break.’

Abbot laughed. ‘We’ve got a grass tennis court on the back lawn.’

‘Of course you have,’ Foster smiled.

‘It’s the only one in Paris,’ Abbot continued. ‘She’s been training ahead of Wimbledon.’

On the line, Foster could hear the clicking of heels on a marble floor. High ceilings, by the sound of the echo. Abbot was on the move.

‘We’re hosting her as a favour to the US Ambassador,’ Abbot said. ‘She had a strange turn at the end of the French Open, and the press have been on her back ever since.’

‘Okay,’ Foster said.

‘That’s not the whole story, though.’

Of course it wasn’t. Foster knew there were plenty of protection officers in Paris who could keep the press off Keller’s back. There was something more, or else Abbot wouldn’t be on the phone to him.

‘Will you meet her?’ Abbot said.

Kirsten Keller was Foster’s usual type of client: professional, high-profile, rich. He glanced at his diary. His steel magnate was back on a plane to Mumbai and there was nothing that couldn’t be moved. Besides, he was intrigued to know what Abbot was holding back.

‘Sure, I’ll meet her.’

‘Can you come here? She’s mid-training.’

‘Sure,’ Foster said. ‘I’d like to see your tennis court.’

Tom Abbot laughed and then the line went dead.

CHAPTER 2