‘Leave the guy alone,’ said a male voice on Jameson’s left. Jameson looked up at two large businessmen just a few feet away. Further down the road a woman was speaking to a police officer and pointing in his direction. The smaller of the two businessmen stepped forward and spoke again. ‘He clearly doesn’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Stay out of it,’ Jameson said to him, holding eye contact for longer than was polite. He turned back to Rose-Butler. ‘I know you people are masters of disguise and all that shit, but I know who and what you are.’

Rose-Butler sniggered. ‘Look, Sir, I’m not who you think I am.’

‘Are you laughing? Do you think this is funny?’

‘Just calm down, mate,’ said the businessman.

‘I told you to stay out of it,’ Jameson said without looking over. He tightened his grip around Rose-Butler’s throat. ‘I’m only going to ask you one more time. Where is Sarah?’

‘Let go of the gentleman, please,’ said a policeman as he walked into Jameson’s eyeline. ‘Sir?’

‘Fine.’ Jameson released Rose-Butler’s neck. He didn’t want to get arrested.

The policeman hooked his thumbs into the arm holes of his body armour. ‘Would you please tell me what’s going on here?’

Rose-Butler beat Jameson to a response. ‘This gentleman appears to have a problem with my kind.’ He held out his hand to the police officer. ‘Stuart Lord, QC.’ The officer didn’t move.

‘He’s no QC,’ said Jameson. ‘He’s a low-life, shelf-stacking psychopath playing games with people’s lives.’

‘Let’s keep this calm, please,’ said the officer.

‘His name is Stuart Rose-Butler. He left the scene of an accident two months ago, walking away from his heavily pregnant partner to play a sick psychopathic game. He’s on your missing-persons list.’

‘I’m not who this gentleman thinks I am. I tried to explain, but he became very aggressive.’ Rose-Butler managed to look both annoyed and concerned simultaneously.

‘Marcus?’

Jameson turned to see Bloom approaching them.

‘And your name, Sir?’ the officer said to Jameson. He took out his pocketbook and a pen.

‘Marcus?’ Bloom said again. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said to Rose-Butler and the police officer. ‘My colleague has been under a lot of strain.’

Jameson looked at her with astonishment. ‘What are you doing?’

‘This is not Stuart, Marcus.’

Jameson turned back to look at him again. His hair was short and neat, his clothes tailored and expensive, and his five-grand Breitling watch poked out from beneath his shirt sleeve, but this was definitely Rose-Butler. Jameson had an uncanny ability to recognize faces; he could remember people he hadn’t seen for decades. In his MI6 tests, he’d been flagged by the examiners as a ‘super recognizer’.

‘Your name, Sir?’ the policeman insisted.

‘Marcus Jameson.’