He knew he was prone to hermit-like behaviour. He’d been told it often enough during his regular psychological assessments while at MI6. The ‘shadow’ side of his outgoing, optimistic personality was a loner in denial. He’d been told to watch out for signs he was retreating from reality and, on leaving the service, he’d done just that. He’d focused on keeping himself busy, putting effort into his social life, and he’d found a new purpose working as a private investigator with Dr Augusta Bloom. They had joined forces after he’d heard her speaking on the primary motives behind criminal exploits, and he’d joked that no one was better placed to investigate mysteries than an ex-spy and a criminal psychologist. Using his skills to help people had been satisfying. Until it all fell apart.

He’d spent the first few weeks after Bloom betrayed him hiding in his flat in London. But when it became clear that his sister, Claire, wasn’t going to leave him alone, he changed tack. His trips looked like something productive – travelling, exercising – but he knew, deep down, it wasn’t constructive at all. He was still alone, still hiding. The problem was he couldn’t trust his own judgement any more. It had all started earlier in the year when he’d convinced Bloom to help a teenage girl find her wayward mother. In doing so, he’d inadvertently embroiled them in the scheming mind games of a psychopath who had ultimately tried to kill him. So how could he trust his own judgement any more?

Jameson’s phone rang, interrupting the peace of the Welsh valley with Queen’s ‘Bicycle Race’. He checked the screen. He didn’t recognize the number.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Marcus Jameson?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Uh-huh,’ he replied throatily, swallowing a mouthful of banana loaf. ‘Who’s this?’

‘My name is Karene Harper and I need your help. Did you hear about the bomb at Devonport Naval Base?’

‘Sure,’ Jameson replied. ‘It was all over the news.’

‘Well, I was there. My partner – Captain Harry Peterson – was injured in the blast.’

Jameson placed his cake on top of its paper bag. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘But he never arrived at hospital.’

‘What? How do you mean?’

‘He was taken away in an ambulance but never arrived anywhere.’

‘But that explosion was two days ago. Have you checked all the hospitals?’

‘Of course I have.’ Her tone was clipped and irritated. ‘The police say he likely discharged himself, but he hasn’t been in touch with me or with his children.’ After a beat of silence, she said, ‘You’re thinking he’s probably dead?’

Jameson hadn’t been entirely sure how to phrase that statement and realized his silence may have been abrupt. ‘There can be a lot of chaos around these explosions,’ he continued. ‘It’s not always easy to identify …’