It was easy to take the scene for granted, but I knew it could all change in an instant. I mentally replaced the Union Jacks with Hammer and Sickles and the black Rovers with Ziks: one squeeze of a trigger and that could be the next state visit this place saw. So where could she be? The wards were very low-ceilinged, but there were three floors, so it wasn’t possible to see into them all. Especially the corners . . . Manning was babbling something next to me, and I interrupted to ask him if he had heard from Pritchard yet.

‘Yes, he arrived with Smale a few hours ago.’

‘Smale? What’s that little prick doing here?’

Manning looked offended. ‘I thought he was rather a nice chap, actually. He’s over there.’ He pointed to a group of whey-faced men in suits standing by an armoured car at the other end of the courtyard. One of them seemed vaguely familiar, and I asked Manning who he was.

‘Sandy Montcrieff,’ he said. ‘You met him at the Yacht Club, remember?’

I remembered: the ghostly figure in the nightshirt. Ex-BBC Mirror man.

‘What’s he doing here?’ I asked. ‘And Smale?’

‘They’re both with the PM’s advance party. Making sure of security with Henry.’

‘And where’s he?’

‘Oh, Christ knows. Last time I saw him he was about to head off to check the wards. Lord knows why he’s so anxious: I’d have thought he’d have been used to this sort of thing, what with his connections.’

I stopped walking. ‘What connections?’ It sounded odd coming from Geoffrey: he was also a spook.

Manning turned to me, his piggy little eyes looking a little forlorn. ‘Well, you know . . .’

‘No, I don’t know. Tell me: it could be important.’

‘Ah,’ said Manning. ‘Did I not mention that Henry is Marjorie’s brother?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You didn’t.’ It explained how the old fool was still working, though. ‘So Henry is an aristocrat, is that it?’

‘Well, yes - but not just any old Scottish aristocracy, old boy! They’re second cousins to the Queen. I just thought with the number of state functions Henry’s been to, he must be used to—’

I didn’t hear the rest. I had already started running in the direction of the wards.

XXIII

XXIII

‘Hello, Henry,’ I said. The sweat was pouring off my right hand, the one clutching the pistol.

Pritchard turned and smiled at me. Actually smiled.

‘Paul,’ he said. ‘I wondered when you might turn up.’ He looked back at the window. As I had suspected, it was one of the corner rooms. ‘Game’s up, is it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘“No sudden movements?”’

‘That’s the drill.’