Time to get on with some work.

Blustery March weather had buffeted his car on the drive in, and now he realised that this wind direction meant a particularly noisy backdrop from the Heathrow runways. For years he been able to block the airport out, but it just took a few days away from the office to lose that mental defence, to remind him what a hellish location this was to earn a living. He felt like putting his hands over his ears. Perhaps his eyes too.

Everything was getting too much for him. His mother’s funeral, finally, was taking place in two days’ time. He had badgered the coroner’s office daily to release the body, citing the Hindu requirement for a quick cremation. But the coroner would not sign it off until the police were satisfied they had all the forensic information they needed.

A funeral.

A deferred wedding.

Sonali and her mother, badgering him every day.

And the bloody auditors, now definitely coming later this week.

He didn’t know how he would cope. It was only Morag’s love and support that made him feel strong enough to come in and face the day. He could see her through the glass door in the next office, in his mother’s seat, working away on the phone. A real grafter.

She glanced at him, and he could see her speaking to Philippa. The PA came towards him and knocked on his door.

‘Johnny Lam is here to see you.’

‘What? He’s not on my schedule.’

‘Nor mine,’ she said with a smile. ‘But he wants to see you urgently. I’ll set up Mrs Roy’s office with coffee and chocolate digestives.’

Two minutes later Harry was sitting across the table from the main competitor to Empire of Spice Plc.

‘Good to see you, Harry. I’d like to say that you’re looking well, but you’re not. You look terrible.’

‘Well, you know what we’ve been through,’ Harry said.

Lam was a dapper individual with square spectacles, a goatee beard and an almost constant smile. Years living in London had erased his Chinese accent and replaced it with an almost cockney twang. He was dressed, flamboyantly as always, in a pea green jacket with dark trousers, and sported a chunky gold chain around his neck. He was accompanied by his money expert, Dominic Furnell, tall and thin with such narrow shoulders that he looked hunched. Furnell was dressed in black bar an orange tie, and carried a large legal-sized briefcase.

Lam’s Hong Kong & International Cuisine was listed on the Hong Kong market and boasted twice the sales of EoS. Its products, from coconut milk to noodles and Chinese cook-in sauces, could be found in every British supermarket. Lam was a very private individual but he was, by common consent, a billionaire.

‘Come on, Harry, you’ve got to get back into the groove. Things are happening that you can’t ignore. You can’t sit mooching around like this.’ Lam looked around the office, his easy grin unmoved. Harry watched his quick dark eyes taking in details: the bulging in-tray, the printouts untidily stacked on the floor, the open filing cabinets. The full shambles.