The observations caused Michael to doubt his own reaction. Perhaps Duffy did just see him as a kindred spirit?

Whatever the reality, it did not make the subject any more welcome.

‘The past’s the past, Will,’ Michael finally offered. ‘You can’t judge people on where they’ve come from. Any more than they should judge you. And besides, there’s plenty of people in Jenny’s place we’d love to poach to Eight Essex. They’re a strong bunch.’

Duffy nodded. He took a deep drink of his wine before speaking again.

‘You’re probably right,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Usually are, I hear. But don’t think I won’t be sending you a case anyway.’

‘Well, if I can’t talk you out of it . . .’ Michael laughed, happy that the conversation was moving in a more comfortable direction. ‘Now listen—’

He didn’t finish his sentence.

Interrupted by a chime from his iPhone, he instinctively glanced down and read the breaking news headline displayed. An annoying habit caused by his inability to switch off the news notifications, it was usually no more than a flicker of the eye. But not this time. This time the words on screen brought the conversation to an end.

‘Jesus.’

Michael was speaking to no one in particular.

‘What is it?’ Draper asked, an instant before her own iPhone’s screen came to life. Its message was identical to the one Michael had received.

Michael did not answer the question. Instead they both turned their eyes towards the silent television screen that took up much of the room’s left wall. It was displaying live footage beamed directly from London’s Heathrow Airport, obviously the subject of the muted commentary from a young reporter, familiar to them both, who was positioned front and centre.

But neither Michael nor Draper needed to hear Sarah Truman’s report. The news alert had said it all: ‘Death at Thirty-Five Thousand Feet: Pan-Atlantic Airlines Flight PA16 from London Heathrow to New York JFK crashes into the Atlantic Ocean two hours into flight. All 534 lives lost.’

FIVE

Nizar Mansour picked up his heavy, outdated Nokia handset and activated its darkened screen.

He had no idea how many times he had done this in the last hour. Ten? No. Twenty at least. Maybe more. And each time the result had been the same.

The screen showed no alerts.

No missed calls. No messages. Nothing.

Mansour placed the phone on the table ahead of him and watched its screen fade back to black. An appropriate colour. For five days, his mood – his life – had been darker than he could remember. Only one thing could change that. One call.

As every minute passed, that call became more and more unlikely.

Mansour forced his eyes from the handset and the thought from his mind. Obsessively counting the seconds only made things worse, he realised. He needed a distraction, and that was exactly what the long bar at the far side of the room offered.

His unsteady legs at first struggled to support him as he climbed to his feet. It was by now a familiar sensation; the anxiety that had eaten away at his gut for almost a week made his usual calm demeanour a distant memory. If he had expected the almost two pints of imported Belgian lager he had sunk in the past hour to counter that effect, he had been very mistaken.