Priest sat looking pensively at the vapour rising from his cup of Earl Grey tea as it swirled into wraith-like shapes before disappearing into nothing. Much like the thoughts circulating in his head, never quite forming completely, rendered useless by their ephemeral existence.

There had been something about the way Tomas had leant across the table in the Royal Courts of Justice cafe when he was describing Rowlinson’s visit and the question about the timing of the conference the day before the trial.

‘We weren’t all there, were we, Charlie? Not all of the time, at least.’

That’s certainly true. I wasn’t there for all of the time.

Priest had absented himself for part of the conference, claiming he had to take a phone call but in truth he had felt a wave of disassociation sweep over him and needed a blast of fresh air to ground him. How long had he been gone? An hour? Longer?

Rowlinson isn’t going to be impressed.

He added another heap of sugar to the tea.

At five to ten, Cafe Olivero on Chancery Lane was packed full of men and women, mostly on their own, cradling tall glasses of frothy lattes and burying their heads in laptop screens. Arty folk, thought Priest. Long coats and stripy scarves, even though it wasn’t cold. People who might describe themselves as ‘bohemian’ in a lonely hearts column.

Do they still have lonely hearts columns?

The door opened and Priest looked up. He caught a flash of red hair through the crowd and put his hand up to wave. A couple of students pointing excitedly at a stack of papers made way for Priest’s visitor to half stumble through the small space and join him at the table.

‘I come in here all the time!’ Georgie exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know you did, too.’

‘I don’t,’ Priest replied, looking over her shoulder. Georgie had left the door open, much to the annoyance of those sitting close by. A hefty woman wearing a denim jacket made a fuss of closing it.

‘It’s not even cold,’ she complained.

‘They want the smell of the coffee to be kept in.’

‘Oh. Who are we meeting?’

The door opened again. A tall figure stood at the entrance, scanning the cafe. He wore a long, grey overcoat. He was maybe sixty, with emaciated features and sunken cheeks, heavy eyes and the air of an undertaker about him.

‘That man, there.’

Georgie looked round as the figure glided effortlessly across the room. Whereas Georgie’s trek to the table had been more of a haphazard negotiation, the crowd seemed to part automatically for this man to take a seat next to her.

‘Georgie, this is Jack Oldham. Jack, meet Georgie Someday, my associate.’

Jack offered his hand, which Georgie took. ‘Charmed,’ he said, looking her in the eye.

‘You’re the Chairman of the Trustees of the Elias Foundation,’ Georgie said, confused.