‘Can you believe this bloke?’ Kember muttered.

‘Maybe they do things differently in Karatandu,’ said Bowman. ‘Different culture. Different customs and all that.’

‘Even so, you’d think he would have been invited to enough state functions to know the score by now.’

Bowman sighed. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about, Geordie.’

‘You’re still worried about someone else having a crack at him?’

‘Aren’t you?’

Kember swept an arm across the room. ‘There must be fifty bodyguards here. No one’s going to have a crack at him tonight. Not here.’

‘You said that earlier. Look what happened.’

He grunted. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to party too hard. If he starts breaking moves on the dance floor, we’ll be here until the sun comes up.’

The meal finished, and the staff rolled out a wedding cake with more tiers than a pandemic. The guests cheered the traditional cake cutting before they gathered around the dance floor. A freckled red-headed singer in a silk gown took to the stage and sang a slow folksy ballad for the couple’s first dance.

Bowman paid her no attention. He was observing the guests, the staff, the security details. Watching them closely. The next attack on the principal could come from anywhere. At first he had been convinced that the biggest risk came from the agency: the caterers, the cleaners, the extra help brought in for the party. Someone attempting to penetrate the inner security cordon. But they had been thoroughly vetted weeks before, and after the near-miss at the Abbey the security services had gone through their records again to see if they had missed anything. They had come back clean.

The guests began migrating to the dance floor. The booze was flowing freely now, the band blasting out seventies and eighties covers. Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, George Michael. Seguma remained in his seat beside Lungu, eyeing up some of the talent. Bowman tried to focus on his mission but the cravings were getting worse.

At nine thirty, he slid out from behind the table.

‘Where are you off to?’ Kember asked.

‘Toilets.’

Kember arched an eyebrow. ‘Fuck me, mate. You should see a doctor. That must be your twentieth piss of the day.’

Bowman moved away without replying. He circled around the tables, pushed through the doors on the eastern side of the room and paced down the corridor leading to the foyer. Three women staggered past him, giggling and rubbing their noses. He slipped into the men’s toilets, locked himself in an empty cubicle, crushed his last pill. Snorted it. Then almost immediately started obsessing about where he was going to get his next supply from.