‘Tell me three things you know about the kind of person you are, that you think may be relevant or could help us.’

Harry thought about it. ‘I’m pretty good at getting what I want. I tend to fight for the underdog.’

‘And?’

He smiled at the psychologist. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that I’m good at keeping secrets.’

49

Bloom dropped her overnight bag in the office then crossed the road into Russell Square park. She ordered a green tea from the cafe and took it outside to sit in the sunshine at the table nearest the park perimeter. The text message she had received yesterday had simply read, Meet me tomorrow. Usual place. 10 a.m.

She had left Jameson and Karene in Southampton earlier that morning. They had agreed it was wise for her to return to London and carry on investigating Harry’s past and links to Julian away from the safe house. She re-read an email she’d received that morning from Lucas. He had found a picture of the blonde woman from Julian’s noticeboard posted on Julian’s Facebook feed just under a month ago. It was one of those ‘share your memories’ posts. The picture was taken two years earlier at a social gathering in a garden, possibly the one in front of Julian’s house. Bloom opened the attached image and looked at it for a second time. The woman in question was in the foreground with a large glass of red wine raised to the camera. Her smile creased her eyes and she seemed genuinely happy. In the background others stood chatting. Bloom couldn’t see Julian. He must have been behind the camera. The other men and three women were untagged so there were no names. Lucas was going to look into it. He had confirmed, however, that the woman at the front was Isobel Roux, the wife of a businessman who lived in nearby Rennes.

Bloom thought about it. A week before Julian was murdered he had posted this picture on his Facebook feed. If Isobel had seen the picture and liked it, perhaps her husband had finally uncovered the truth or discovered she had gone back on a promise to end things with her lover. That could mean that Julian’s death was nothing to do with the bomb at the ball. But Bloom couldn’t dismiss the migrants postcard.

And she had a fairly good idea who had put it there.

50

Harry woke at ten thirty. His head ached and his shoulders felt stiff and sore when he sat up. He wasn’t sure if that was down to tension or the way he had slept. He took the towel from the radiator and went for a shower. He then found the small, wheeled suitcase Karene had brought him and got dressed. He headed to the kitchen and found Marcus Jameson working on his laptop at the table.

‘Morning,’ said Harry.