But by far the most substantial dossier was on Thompson-Bola’s mother, Abigail. The harmless-looking woman in glasses and headdress was apparently something of a firebrand. She had a decades-long history of anti-colonial protest - and was, according to the file, a hardened Communist. She had been one of the first African women allowed behind the Iron Curtain, where she had met Mao. If there had been any doubts in my mind about the family’s knowledge of the drop, this put paid to them, and she was now my prime suspect for the contact.

Manning returned with my breakfast: an unripe banana and a bottle of Fanta.

‘I checked on the flight’s progress,’ he said. ‘No news.’

The hour had passed - the delay was now edging up to two. I decided enough was enough, and told Manning to set up a meeting with Pritchard for the afternoon - I had a few errands to run.

‘Are any of your safe houses near the Afrospot?’ I asked. But he wasn’t even listening to me - he was focusing on something over my right shoulder. I asked him if he had heard, and his eyes flicked over to meet mine. He pointed across to the customs official taking down the barrier in front of passport control.

‘They’ve landed,’ he said.

Pritchard came through ten minutes later, striding confidently past his fellow passengers. In his dark suit and tie, white shirt and dark glasses, he looked like an upmarket funeral director. He caught sight of us and walked over.

‘Hello, Henry,’ said Manning, beaming. ‘Welcome to Lagos.’ It was evidently his line for airports.

‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ said Pritchard. ‘How’s Marjorie?’ They shook hands and exchanged a few more pleasantries. Then Pritchard turned to me, and gave me the kind of look I saved for dead rats.

‘Paul,’ he said, dipping his head.

‘Henry,’ I nodded back.

Manning lifted Pritchard’s bag and we walked back outside and hailed a taxi.

The return journey was conducted in silence, save for Manning’s barked instructions at the driver. Pritchard sat next to me, staring sullenly at the landscape. It made sense that he didn’t want to talk shop with others present, but what was he thinking in the meantime? I ate my banana and tried to clear my mind.

About forty-five minutes later we reached a large square, in the centre of which a street market was setting up. Manning paid the driver and led us through the aisles, past traders laying out their wares. One stall was apparently a grocer’s, but although the fruit and vegetables were abundant, they were rotten and already covered in flies. A handful of Westerners were wandering around, waving their money and cameras, and I realized that this was probably where the photograph of Slavin had been taken.