‘So have we any idea where they get the money from?’ Sarah Perry was leaning forward on a small sofa in a corner of the office at MI5.

‘Not yet, no,’ said Gary. ‘I mean, this could just be some bit of diplomatic PR.’ He pointed at the newspaper picture of Mr Tan. ‘You know, doing his bit for Anglo-Chinese relations. I can’t think it’s from restaurant tips.’

‘What do we know about Red Dragon?’ asked Sarah.

‘They opened their first restaurant in Canterbury in 2001. The following year it was Bath, then Cheltenham, then around half a dozen others every year. They now have twenty-eight of them across the south. I’ve run a check and the business seems to be above board–no dodgy accounts or anything like that.’

She raised her head. ‘Have you ever eaten in one?’

‘No. But this one’s just round the corner from me,’ he said, tapping the paper.

‘Could we risk it?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Going there for a meal. It might be useful to get the feel of the place.’

Gary beamed at her. ‘Are you asking me out to dinner?’

‘Yes, but not in the way you think. This is purely a business arrangement, and we’ll claim it on expenses.’

‘Oh, shame. I’d have paid for you if it had been a date.’

‘No. I won’t put you to that trouble.’ She looked at him archly. ‘You’re old enough to be my…’

‘Careful!’ he warned.

‘Brother,’ she said.

‘Thank you. I’m only just fifty and you’re only just still in your thirties.’

Sarah looked indignant. ‘Do you mind!’

‘Well, you are. Eleven years. Perfect age gap.’

‘Says who?’

‘Me.’

‘Yes, well, that’s a matter of opinion.’

‘So when’s our date then?’

‘If you start calling it that there won’t be one. Tomorrow night? I can manage that. I can’t tonight because Max is taking me to see some art-house movie at the National.’

‘His choice or yours?’

‘Oh, his. I’m not into all that Japanese stuff. Give me Katherine Hepburn any day.’

She got up and walked to the hat stand to collect her coat.

Gary watched her. When did he not? She really was the perfect girl–long, dark hair that shone like ebony, a personality to keep him on his mettle, a dazzling smile, a figure to die for and legs that just went on and on. The black, tight sweater, the black mini-skirt, the patterned black tights and the long black boots. He shook his head, as if to order his mind, then briefly mused on the fact that he could so easily have been stuck in some macho working relationship with a beer-guzzling, cigarette-smoking guy with halitosis and BO.

He watched as she reached up on tiptoe for her scarf, then cleared his throat. ‘Right.’

She turned, putting on her coat. ‘So if we go straight from here tomorrow evening then?’