Sarah picked up a file and handed it to Gary. ‘You would have been if you’d turned up early enough. We were just about to send out a search party. Read that…’

Gary opened the file and read the first page in silence. ‘So we’ve got him?’

‘Yup.’

‘And it is transplants?’

‘Yup. We managed to get some intelligence on one of the firms he’s been dealing with–after a long process of elimination.’

‘So it’s not a protection racket?’

‘Nope.’

‘Yes!’ He punched the air. ‘So we’re setting the trap?’

‘As we speak. And you’re a Harley Street specialist.’

‘I am? I thought we were sending Ben Atkinson in when we got this far?’

‘Ben called in sick this morning. He’s gone down with the flu and we don’t want to cancel the appointment.’

‘Which is when?’

‘Mr Tan’s expecting you at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon at the lounge in the Savoy ‘

‘Bloody hell! Couldn’t we have made it any later? I’ve not done any prep.’

‘Well, we could have made it next week, so that you had time to thoroughly acquaint yourself with the manner of a Harley Street specialist,’ said Sarah with a hint of sarcasm, ‘but we thought that Mr T. might have got bored waiting and pushed off back to Beijing.’

‘Bugger!’ muttered Gary under his breath.

Sarah handed him a passport and a wallet. ‘Documentation.’

Gary opened the passport and read out loud, ‘Dr Andrew Wilson. Ha!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘They could have chosen a better name.’

‘What’s wrong with Andrew Wilson?’

‘Oh, it’s just that it’s Tiger’s real name. Perhaps that’s an omen.’

‘A good one?’

‘I hope so.’ He closed the passport and looked through the wallet, muttering as he did so. ‘What am I meant to do, then? Go up to Mr Tan and say, “Got any organs for sale guv?”’

Sarah frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know the form. Proof of identity and a case full of cash. It’s all been arranged.’

‘But I know bugger all about surgery.’

Sarah gave him a withering look. ‘Mr Tan’s not going to ask you to demonstrate your skills with a scalpel, is he? Not in the lounge of the Savoy. All he’s interested in is your credentials and your money.’

‘But do I look like a surgeon?’

‘No. I’d put you down more as an ear, nose and throat man.’ Sarah nodded in the direction of the hat rack. ‘There you are.’

Gary walked over and took down the suit carrier. He laid it on his desk and unzipped it, then looked at the label above the inside pocket. ‘Henry Poole. Bloody hell. Savile Row. How do you know it’ll fit?’

‘Luckily you and Ben are the same build.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes. Almost identical,’ said Sarah, archly.

‘I won’t ask you how you know that,’ grumbled Gary.