He lay quiet in my arms until his breathing was back to normal. Then he said, ‘There is one misapprehension you may harbour that I would like to correct. I am not one of those sensitive overeducated aristocrats who writhe around in a frenzy of guilt because they have been responsible for bringing a sociopath to his or her well-deserved end.’

‘I suspect they occur only in fiction,’ I said, trying to match his precise, detached tone.

‘Oh, quite. There’s no one so bloody-minded and selfish as your overeducated aristocrat. No doubt you’ve noticed that.’

‘John – ’

‘I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again.’

Before long he drifted off to sleep. I didn’t.

We said goodbye at the airport next morning. Schmidt and I were leaving first; John’s plane took off an hour later. He was wearing a sling, for the effect, he claimed; but that unimportant overlooked bullet hole wasn’t healing the way it should and I thought that morning he had a touch of fever. I told myself not to worry. Jen would nag him till he saw a doctor.

The sling matched the black armband on his left sleeve. The suit hung a little loosely, but it was beautifully tailored and he was the picture of an English gent manfully suppressing personal sorrow. For the benefit of the photographers he bowed over my hand and allowed Schmidt to slap him on the back. ‘Three friends, brought together by chance and bonded in tragedy.’ I read some of the newspaper stories later. They were very mushy, especially the tabloid versions.

I had sworn I wouldn’t look back, but of course I did. He raised his hand and smiled, and then turned away.

‘Do not weep, mein Kind,’ Schmidt said. ‘You will see him soon again.’

‘I’m not weeping.’ I wasn’t. Two tears do not constitute weeping. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t see him again.

II

A couple of weeks later Schmidt and I were walking along the Isar. In the rain. It was Schmidt’s idea. He thinks walking in the rain is romantic. I did not share his opinion, and I remembered those bright hot days in Egypt with a nostalgia I had never expected to feel. The river was grey as steel under a steely sky. Fallen leaves formed soggy masses that squelched under our feet. My hair hung in lank dank locks that dripped onto my nose and down my neck. I had meant to have it cut. Why hadn’t I? I knew why.

‘This was a stupid idea,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m cold and wet and I want to go back to work.’