‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’ asked Ross.

‘A few times.’

Michael’s answer was half to himself. Ross had no idea how intimately Michael understood such criminal hierarchies. What they had just witnessed had been the reality of his childhood and it brought back unwelcome memories of his father. And of his brother.

‘I’d best be getting back to chambers,’ Michael announced abruptly as he tried to force the memories down. ‘There’s a lot to do to be ready for trial.’

‘Understood. Anything you need from us, I’m on the end of the phone.’

The sound of the BMW’s engine interrupted Ross’s reply. It roared as the car sped south from its parking space. The 20 mph speed limit was broken in barely a second.

‘I’ll probably call tomorrow, I expect.’ Michael spoke again once the sound of the engine had faded. ‘First I need to read the rest of the evidence and see exactly where we are.’

‘I’ll be waiting, then.’

‘Good to know.’ Michael reached out his large hand, grasped Ross’s own and shook it firmly. ‘Speak soon.’

Their observer had never believed in fate. In any guiding force other than his own will. His own determination. That certainty had never been shaken, and it was not shaken now, as his pale eyes took in the unexpected sight of Michael Devlin.

It could be no one else. Devlin was as distinctive now as he had been then. Maybe more so. Older, certainly, with a few extra pounds on his frame. A few more lines on his face. The difference between a man and a boy. But he had kept both his thick blonde hair and his slim, strong build.

He had always wondered if he would see Michael Devlin again. Now he had. But would Michael Devlin ever see him? That was the question.

He had not yet decided. But whatever the answer, Devlin was not his concern today and no unexpected appearance outside of Wandsworth Prison would change that. There were other priorities. Other people much more deserving of his attention.

There was no fate. Only coincidence. He would follow his own path. And today that path led elsewhere.

EIGHT

Sarah Truman felt the first trickle of sweat as it passed the base of her neck.

June in London. It should not be this hot. The city traded in the mild. A little snow in winter. Rain when it was least wanted. Sunshine so weak that the English had invented warm beer instead of cold lager.

The lack of extremes had been a selling point for Sarah. Too many Boston winters made the predictability of the British weather attractive.

But for the past three weeks the climate had been off-message. Day after day of cold mornings leading to extreme dry heat. Today offered no reprieve. It was barely noon and so the heat would only increase as the hours passed.

Sarah looked back longingly at the outside broadcast van in which she had travelled. Remembered fondly the feel of its air conditioning.