Tiger sat back in the left-hand seat as Sam circled the tiny island of Samson. The weather had cleared, and what little cloud there was had gathered in a thin skein on the distant horizon. The early spring sun had turned the sky a soft shade of forget-me-not blue, and the water beneath them was pure turquoise. The sands of Samson were the colour of white ground pepper, and the whole scene could easily have featured in a Caribbean holiday brochure.

‘Wonderful isn’t it?’ asked Sam.

‘Blissful.’

‘I’ve always wanted to live here,’ she said.

‘Idling?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’d find enough to keep me occupied. Taking pleasure flights probably.’

Tiger chuckled. ‘I think you’d get bored of that.’

‘S’pose so. But it’s nice to dream.’

The Ordnance Survey men said little, and were put down on St Martin’s, the long, bone-shaped island at the northeastern corner of the group. They asked to be picked up in two hours, so Sam lifted up the aircraft and headed southwards toward St Mary’s.

‘Do you dream a lot?’ asked Tiger, idly.

‘A bit.’

‘Not happy with what you’re doing then?’

‘Perfectly happy.’

‘So?’

‘Oh, you know. It’d be nice to have somebody to share it with, that’s all.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you?’ she asked, he thought rather pointedly.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘You share yours then?’ She banked the helicopter to the left of Hugh Town and tilted over towards Agnes, lining up with the white lighthouse.

‘Thirty years now.’

‘God, that’s impressive. One ex of mine said that you only get twenty-one years for killing someone. Not much of an advert for a lasting relationship.’

‘That’s a bit of an old chestnut.’

‘So was he.’ She grinned. ‘I’m in no rush. I can wait.’

Tiger looked out of the window at the white stump of the lighthouse, it’s lantern glinting in the sun as they wheeled around a couple of hundred feet above it. Sam was right, it was blissful out here. A different world. He watched as the foaming water broke over the rocks and sprayed into the air. Out here among the gulls and the seals you could be a million miles from anywhere.

Gary Flynn was deep in thought, poring over papers at his desk and sipping the black coffee at his right hand. With a pen he traced down the sheet of paper line by line, noting times and locations. Before him lay the weekly life of Mr Tan, as collated by the likes of Ben Atkinson whose job it was to tail a suspect and make notes of their every movement. Thanks to the assiduousness of some foot-slogger, Gary even knew what Mr Tan had for lunch at the Savoy Grill and who he ate it with.

There were visits to a Savile Row tailor, to Lobb for handmade shoes, and to Davidoff for cigars.