‘And have you or Claire seen any remorse or guilt from Lana for the way she’s treated Jane?’

‘This is crazy, Augusta. Come on. You’re exaggerating. Surely.’

‘Has Lana Reid ever struck you as having superficial charm, or a higher than average sense of self-worth, or shallow emotions, or—’

‘I know, I know. A lack of empathy. I get it. She hits a lot of the indicators.’

Bloom waited, allowing the idea to ferment in her partner’s mind. Then she said, ‘Happy First Birthday.’

Jameson sat back in his chair.

‘It’s obvious, really,’ she said.

Jameson started to shake his head, then faltered, frowned and met her gaze.

‘There are two phrases commonly found on cards for one-year-olds. Happy First Birthday, and—’

‘You Are One,’ said Jameson.

‘You are one,’ repeated Bloom. ‘You are one what? One of us? One of them? I’m thinking these people have been profiled and selected for something. And with an estimated one per cent of the population possessing psychopathic tendencies, if I’m right, there’ll be more of them playing.’

Jameson walked straight past Russell Square tube station and into the Marquis Cornwallis pub. He needed a drink. Bloom’s hypothesis was unnerving. She wasn’t one for outlandish theories, and she rarely committed herself to an idea unless she’d thought it through. But this felt oddly knee-jerk. Like something he would throw out as a joke. Like something she’d scoff at. A whole bunch of psychopaths playing a game? Together? And for what purpose? To what end? Jameson thought of the terror plots he’d worked on in MI6 and shuddered. Those had been normal people radicalized to do crazy things. What might someone without a conscience be willing to do?

The Cornwallis was light and airy despite its dark wooden floors, Victorian fireplaces and chunky wooden tables. The window seats were inhabited by large groups of smartly dressed drinkers. Jameson saw Steph at the bar. He raised a hand and waved. Steph worked in the British Medical Association offices around the corner and could often be found here on a week night. She was petite and perky with curly red hair and a dirty laugh. They’d had a few flings – nothing serious, just fun, which had suited him fine. After spending his twenties and early thirties hiding his profession from every woman he dated, he’d become a fan of informal, no-strings relationships. He hoped Steph might take the edge off his day.

‘What’s occurring?’ said Steph in a terrible Welsh accent.

Jameson smiled. He liked that she tried. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said. ‘I’ve had a shitty day.’

‘Sounds like a blast. Count me in.’ Steph held up two fingers to the barman. ‘Peroni, please.’ She turned to Jameson. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘Nope.’