Will nodded, rather than replying in his too-distinctive accent—once he was named that would be mentioned, and he didn’t want to be remembered. For much the same reason, he didn’t ask the policeman what his sodding problem was, or whether this was a free country. It wasn’t, not if you were poor. Standing on Whitechapel High Street with his bag and flat cap and worn old mac, he wasn’t Mr. Darling, bookshop proprietor: he was a worker, probably an itinerant, likely undesirable, and certainly nobody to be respected.

So he swallowed the insult, folded his paper, and walked, heading back out of the East End towards Aldgate, feeling the average incomes around him rise with every step west. It didn’t take him long to find a telephone.

It was snatched up at the first ring. “Secretan.”

“Kim.” Will sagged against the phone box side, suddenly overwhelmed with relief. “Thank God. Did you get my message?”

“Where are you?”

“Aldgate.”

“Get to Finsbury Square in an hour exactly and I’ll pick you up.” His voice was clipped. “I’ll be in the motor. Don’t be early and for Christ’s sake don’t get caught.”

He hung up. Will stared at the receiver. He hadn’t expected a long chat, and clearly Kim was being efficient, but he could have done with a bit of human contact right then.

Which Kim would probably have known, so either he was really pissed off or there was trouble at his end too.

The next hour passed very slowly indeed. Will kept moving, because he now felt a lot too self-conscious to stop and read the paper on a bench. He just walked, looping through Bank and the City Road and Old Street, not wanting to get too far from his destination and keeping an eye on the clocks as he passed. There were plenty of men in suits leaving their offices, not so many working men like himself, and the numbers would start melting away pretty soon. He tugged his cap down a bit further and tried to look busy.

He ended up in Finsbury Square with just a couple of minutes to spare. It was a big open square with a fair bit of traffic yet. He started to walk around it, and had to restrain himself from waving and yelling in sheer relief when he saw the gleaming Daimler ahead.

Kim was cruising smoothly around the square; Will turned to head the other way, walking briskly, and met his eyes as he came around on a second circuit. Kim pulled over; Will jumped in, and slid down in the seat.

“God,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Were you followed? Seen?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Kim said. “Christ bloody Jesus, Will. Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, he says.” Kim took a deep breath. “What happened?”