He ate unhurriedly, a man on his own timetable. John tried to match his carefree manner, addressing his coffee with what he hoped was insouciance, and thus slopping some onto his jacket. He fumbled for a napkin and dealt with the damage. By the time he’d finished, Benny Manors, instead of studying his paper, was staring at John, not bothering to hide his disdain. “That is one cack-handed approach to a cup of coffee.”

“It just sort of splashed out.”

“I’m trying to remember your name, and failing. But I know who you are.”

“John. John Bachelor.”

“Are you following me, John Bachelor?”

“I was here first.”

“This morning, maybe.” He also picked up a napkin, and dabbed his lips with it. “How worried should I be?”

John, nodding towards the paper, said, “About the Ashes? Very.”

“I remember last time, I flattened you. You going for the double?”

“I just want to talk.”

He seemed no older, John thought. Sure, it was only a couple of years, but they’d been the sort of years that can wreak damage—look what they’d done to the country, not to mention John himself—and Benny had weathered them like months in spring. He was wearing a cream linen jacket over a white shirt and blue chinos, and might have been about to head off to a relaxed office, a creative consultancy or whatever. With a bouncy castle in the lobby, roller skates in the corridors. As he hadn’t seen him come in, John hadn’t clocked how Benny was walking, whether the limp was better. But he didn’t appear to be using a stick.

“So,” Benny repeated softly. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably. But not about me.”

“So how come you’re the one who’s here?”

“Maybe it’s your lucky day.”

Benny Manors said, “You don’t look like anyone’s idea of a lucky day.” He glanced down at his plate, and speared half a sausage with his fork. “They called you a milkman, right?”

“Yes, well. There’s a lot of jargon.”

“But you were never important. Messenger boy type of thing. Despite your advancing years.”

“Yes, well,” John said again. He was going to have to work on his conversational stopgaps. “Reason I’m here, a couple of real spooks are looking for you, and they’re doing it off the books. What that’s about is anybody’s guess, but it’s unlikely to be because they had a sudden hankering to buy you scrambled eggs.”

Benny gave an unamused smile. “Good job I can afford my own, then.”

His phone rang.

Without taking his eyes off John, he answered it. The voice on the other end was a tinny whistle, but John could make out a name, almost: It’s Daisy. Davy? No, Daisy.

Benny said, “Five minutes,” and disconnected.

“Best guess,” John said, “is that you’re back to your old game. And that you’ve got hold of information you think is worth something.”

“I’m trying to eat my breakfast.”