Harry Scattergood went through his plan one more time. Alan Kinnaird repeated it line by line. They were in the hotel where the latter was due to be arrested shortly in the guise of Charles Mifflin. The event had to be choreographed so that it looked convincing. If the Runners simply raided the hotel and seized the man they believed to be the killer, it would be too easy. There had at least to be an attempt at escape and Scattergood had worked out exactly the route to take. Once they’d had a verbal rehearsal, the two of them walked through it, inch by inch. Scattergood’s task was to leave the hotel and tell those surrounding it in which room they could surprise the assassin. By the time Yeomans and Hale got there, Kinnaird would have taken to his heels. The chase would then be on.

Pleased with their final practice, Scattergood slapped his friend on the back.

‘Well done, Alan!’

‘What if I get clear?’

‘You won’t – there are far too many of them.’

‘Do you want me to fight back?’

‘Have you ever heard of a killer giving in easily?’

‘No, Harry. I haven’t.’

‘Then remember one last thing. My name is Giles Clearwater. If you call me “Harry” in front of them, then our whole plan will fall apart. I’ll probably end up in the same cell as you and we wouldn’t have a sniff of that reward money.’

‘I’ll do as you say, Mr Clearwater.’

‘That’s better.’

Kinnaird bit his lip. ‘Something still worries me.’

‘I’ve told you before. There’s no chance that the Runners will catch the real killer. We’re completely safe.’

‘But if they did arrest him, they’d know I was a fraud.’

‘It simply can’t happen.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me,’ said Scattergood, brimming with confidence. ‘The assassin thinks the way I think. When you commit a serious crime, you disappear quickly.’

He had read the letter dozens of times and become increasingly agitated. What he was holding was his own death warrant. It had been sent to the man who’d hired him in the first place, and it contained a curt command. Now that he’d served his purpose, the assassin had to be killed. At the end of the letter was a scrawled signature impossible to decipher. Though he pored over it for hours, he couldn’t decide exactly what it was. Instead, he came up with four versions of what it might be. Of the quartet, one name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember why.