‘Does it mention George?’

‘Who?’

‘My son. He was with me.’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘Anyway, I understand you may have seen one of the attackers?’

Carr chuckled – it amused him, the way the English upper classes tap-danced around things, using euphemisms and hints and never getting to the fucking point.

‘Justin, you know I saw him. I’m sure you’ve already read my statement to that effect. Why else would you be calling me?’

‘Ha,’ said Nicholls. ‘I haven’t yet seen the statement actually. Though I expect I will fairly shortly. Would you mind giving me a heads-up?’

‘Not much to tell. I saw a guy staring at the girls. Just thought he was a dirty old man at first. They pulled a picture of him off of the CCTV. Mean-looking fucker.’

‘Speaking of the girls, do you know the identities of the women who were taken?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘It’s all over social media.’

‘I don’t use social media.’

‘One of them was the daughter of the Prime Minister.’

It took a lot to shock John Carr, but that certainly knocked him back.

‘I see,’ he said, after a few moments.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘I understand you’re booked on the one o’clock into Heathrow.’

Carr said nothing.

‘Anyway, I wondered… If anything occurs to you, if you remember something you didn’t tell the Spanish police, would you mind giving me a bell?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’ve got my number?’

‘In my head,’ said Carr.

He smiled to himself: it was actually stored in his phone under ‘James Bond’, but he wasn’t going to tell Nicholls that.

‘Great. Thanks. Look, I’d better get off. It’s chaos here, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

Carr certainly could imagine: he had a vision of the MI6 HQ teeming with headless chickens.

Chinless, clueless, headless chickens, at that.

But he just said, ‘Aye.’

The call ended and Carr turned to Alice.

‘Buckle up,’ he said.

‘Who was that?’ she said.

‘Your granny,’ he said.

‘For fuck’s sake, Dad,’ said Alice, shaking her head. ‘Why’s everything got to be secret squirrel with you?’

He chuckled.

‘I’m a leopard, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I cannae change my spots.’

40.

CHARLOTTE MORGAN, MARTHA Percival and their captors had arrived at a compound on the outskirts of Saïdia not long after midnight.

There the first part of the two women’s ordeal had ended, with their removal from the stinking, sweating hiding places under the floors of the two Land Cruisers.

They were half-carried, half-dragged quickly in through the open door of a stone house.

There they were split up, Martha being taken through a further door on the left, Charlotte through a door on the right.

The two men carrying her stood her upright, and then a third – and the man with the dark eyes and the livid red hole in his leg, the man who had filmed the murder of Emily Souster – began the process of stripping off the duct tape.

She was dripping with sweat, and it came easily enough off her wet skin, but it pulled strands of her hair out where it was wrapped around her head.