The driver pulled the car away from the kerb, and started driving across Vauxhall Bridge for the short journey up to St Pancras station. I could get used to this, thought Porter. The food, the cars, the money. Shame I’m almost certainly going to die in the next few days.

He glanced over at Big Ben. It was already twenty to eight. Only a little more than twelve hours since he had stepped into the headquarters of the Firm, and less than twenty-four hours since Sandy had found him by the edge of the river. It seemed a lifetime ago already. His world had spun on a coin, and he couldn’t be certain how long it was going to take him to get used to it.

‘Step on it,’ he told the driver. ‘I have to be there by eight.’

There was some traffic up past Trafalgar Square: the Katie Dartmouth vigil was gathering strength, and from the windows of the car Porter could see several hundred people carrying banners, and singing Bruce Springsteen’s retooled version of the Pete Seeger Vietnam classic ‘Bring ’Em Home’.

The driver put the blue siren on top of the Jag, and managed to push his way through the stationary cars, and cut through Russell Square to take them through to the Euston Road. He pulled up sharply outside the station, with just a few minutes to spare. Porter climbed out, walking quickly through the evening crowds. He was sure Layla had some policemen following him, but decided to ignore them. He just needed to see Sandy once more.

His eyes scanned the departure board. The Nottingham train was leaving from Platform 5.

In three minutes.

Porter ran towards the platform and the waiting train. Walking swiftly along the platform, he scanned the passengers as he went. His eyes flickered across them as they took their seats, hooking their iPods into their ears, and opening up their books and newspapers. But he couldn’t see her anywhere.

Where the hell was she?

He looked along the platform. There were people streaming towards the train, trying to decide which carriage to climb aboard. Porter pushed his way back through the throng, muscling his way past the suitcases.

‘Sandy,’ he shouted.

Porter could see her running towards the platform. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her coat was wrapped tightly around her. She was carrying a small leather holdall, and there was a magazine tucked under her arm.

‘Dad,’ she shouted back.

He swept her up in her arms, lifting her clean off the ground. She gasped as the strength of his embrace squeezed the air out of her chest, then kissed him on the cheek. I might not look like a million dollars, but I at least look like a couple of hundred, he thought. A lot better than I did last night anyway.

‘How’d it go?’ he asked, putting her back down.

Sandy shrugged and pulled a face. ‘I hate interviews,’ she says. ‘I never know what to say.’