‘Don’t waste your time, Tony. Half of that shit’s made up. And the other half is no better than speculation. We just guard him. So, what about this new private secretary? Another younger version of his wife?’

‘Bloke.’

Mickey raised an eyebrow.

‘Christ. The times, they really are a changing.’

‘Yeah. What’s more, he’s an army major. Got time with the Regiment too, from what I gather.’

Mickey pursed his lips appreciatively.

‘That’ll make a change. He’ll probably have more range time than both of us put together.’

‘Yeah. He’s asked for a meeting later on today.’ Tony consulted his notes. ‘At 17.00, in his office. And I got the impression that he wouldn’t take lateness all that well. Right, we’d better be away, if we’re going to get into London before rush hour.’

Mickey walked him out to his car. Watched the Jag pull out onto the road before speaking.

‘Wade?’

‘Skip.’

Wade was solid enough, in Mickey’s opinion. Not quite as polished as he would be in another two or three years, inevitably. But trustworthy and keen was a good combination in Mickey’s opinion.

‘You can man the office, and get the kettle on.’ He raised a pair of binoculars. ‘I’m going eyeballs.’

Walking up the stairs to the first floor, he knew Wade would be grinning knowingly. One of Mickey’s known foibles, the urge to scope out the environment around the principal. Wherever the principal happened to be. Like he took the job seriously or something. He walked down the landing to the window above the house’s front door. Pulled up a chair and sat down. Raising the optics to begin a slow, methodical scan of the ground in front of the house. Nothing to be seen, although that didn’t mean there weren’t long lenses in play. Just as he was about to get up and go to another window, a voice spoke without warning close behind him.

‘I’ve done much the same. There’s nothing out there. Nothing visible from here, that is.’

Mickey restrained the urge to kick the chair backwards and go for the Glock at his waist. Just. Spoke without turning to look at the man behind him.

‘Major…?’

‘Cavendish. James Cavendish.’

The accent cultured, but the voice hard. Used to issuing orders. Probably under the sort of pressure that most of the coffee drinkers at LX could never imagine.

‘Let me guess. Scots Guards?’

‘Grenadiers, actually.’

Confident in himself too, no doubt about that. Probably not a man who’d be troubled if accused of his undoubted upper-class white male privilege. Secure in his social status.