But Merton wasn’t Kim. So Will told him a story about Captain Yoxall instead, and Merton asked a couple of questions about another story which Will could assure him wasn’t exaggerated. They spoke for a few minutes longer, and parted on excellent terms, considering how the conversation had started.

Will went to the door with him as a courtesy, and also so he could lock up after. There was a man lurking outside with a soft hat pulled down over his face, and he had no desire to deal with any more journalists.

Chapter Eight

His first order of business was to phone Kim, and pray he answered. He got Peacock, who put him through after a brief delay.

“Will?” Kim demanded. “Great minds again, I was just about to call.”

“I’ve got news. Big news.”

“So do I. Can you come over?”

“Back way all right?”

“No, the bastards have cottoned on to it. There’s photographers at both ends— Hold on.” Muffled voices, which was odd because Will wasn’t sure who he’d be talking to, then Kim came back on the line. “Right. Wear a flat cap and that ghastly old mac over something decent, bring a box of books or what-have-you, and turn up at the front at, let’s say twenty past two on the dot. Don’t be early or late, and you should be able to slip in unseen. You’ll know how.”

He hung up. Will stared at the receiver, wondering what the hell Kim had to be so chirpy about, because that had sounded for all the world like suppressed excitement in his voice. Then he stopped wondering and went to get ready. He had his orders.

He took the tram and walked up Holborn at a leisurely pace towards Gerrard Mansions, a brown paper parcel of books under his arm. He’d come disguised as a deliveryman before, but round the back. He wondered what Kim was up to now.

It didn’t take long to see the diversion. There was a commotion outside the building, a scrum of half a dozen men with cameras and more with notebooks, all clustered around and shouting. It didn’t sound hostile, though: more like excitement. He got closer, saw a flash of colour, an elegant turn of a head—

It was Phoebe. Phoebe Stephens-Prince herself, standing like the mannequin she’d been and posing for the Press in a dress of startling brevity. And next to her, spectacular in red and wearing something that Will had to assume was a hat because it was on her head, was Maisie Jones.