Out in the sunshine he made his confession, trying to make it sound like an administrative oversight, one of those things that happens at work, the way a pad of Post-its might find its way into your briefcase. Everyone’s wound up living in a dead colleague’s flat, surely? That was the tone he was aiming for, all the while reminding himself that he had little alternative. Either he gave himself up, here and now, or someone else gave him up, soon. And at least this way he was bringing something to the table, besides his own misdeeds. At least this way he could spin it as gently as possible. And he could still tell himself he was halfway to getting away with it, until he clocked her expression.

There were rumours she’d turned a man to stone once, with the power of her stare. Except, John now realised, they weren’t rumours, they were interdepartmental memos. He could feel his limbs solidifying. He’d never leave this spot: they’d have to fix a plaque to the pavement explaining who he’d been and warning people not to chain their bikes to him.

“You do realise,” she said at last, “that I could sack you right now for what you’ve just told me.”

“Yes, but . . .”

She waited. He’d sort of hoped she’d come up with a but all by herself.

“But I can make it right. This pair, they’re up to something. I can help you find out what.”

“And in return, I’ll what? Forgive you your sins?”

“Maybe give me another chance.”

“Jesus, John. How many second chances do you need? You’ve had more lives than a cartoon cat.” She glanced at her gym bag, as if contemplating whacking him with it. If he was the cartoon cat she imagined, he’d go a funny shape on impact, before shaking himself back to normal. “Your time’s more than up.”

She meant the allotted twenty seconds, he hoped. But it was possible she was taking a longer view.

Taverner fell quiet. John had an urge to speak, to fill the silence with more apology, but had the sense not to. The hole he’d dug was deep enough. At last she said, “Pynne no longer has Hub privileges, which means he’d have to make a formal application to run a trace. So the reason they came to you is, they want to find Benny without anyone knowing they’re trying to find Benny.”

“Except me.”

“Without anyone important knowing they’re trying to find Benny,” she amended. “Or maybe there’s more to it. Manors, if memory serves, was a two-bit blackmail artiste before some idiot recruited him for an op. He’s been feeding off the Service tit ever since. But if a pair of our own are looking for him, it’s likely because he’s reverted to type and has something on them. Blackmailers don’t change their spots. So he’s currently gone to ground, and they want the nearest thing to a friendly face to bring him into the open. And that would be you.”