She half turned back. “Yes, Richard. We wanted him to know who you are. Why do you think you were chosen for the job? Now, do carry on.”

And then she really was away, out of the lobby and heading for the restricted areas, where Richard Pynne had once wandered freely but which were now closed to him, and thus looked like any other gated paradise.

After a minute or so, he made his way back to the press liaison room.

They’d left the café when an influx of tourists threatened their privacy, onto the street’s morning sunshine, then round a corner and into a wine bar. It wasn’t open for business, but Benny shouted a greeting to a man polishing the woodwork of the curved counter, and pointed to one of the booths against the far wall.

“Quiet business meet, Yol.”

This seemed to be okay with Yol, or perhaps just so commonplace it wasn’t worth taking issue with.

They settled themselves on a banquette.

“What kind of name is Yol?” John wanted to know, but Benny just stared at him, so he didn’t pursue it.

Daisy appeared to be used to such encounters, or at any rate unfazed by them. She had hair that was probably normal really, but was currently feathered with strands of purple, or it might be indigo. Startling, either way. She looked a quarter John’s age, and yet was old enough to have a career, which was also startling. It was a wonder his eyebrows weren’t constantly raised these days: a perpetual state of mild shock. Hair apart, she looked the way all young people looked now, which was a lot healthier than young people had looked back when he was one. Maybe they had better role models. That or better drugs.

“You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” he asked her.

She seemed pleased he’d heard of her, though he hadn’t really. It was just that he was starting to twig: Benny had got hold of some information. His usual recourse would have been to sell it back to whoever he’d stolen it from, but that evidently wasn’t the profitable option here.

Daisy looked at Benny. “Fetch us some coffees, would you?”

“They’re not serving yet.”

“Or you could step over the road.”

He cottoned on. “Be five minutes.”

When he’d left, John said, “I didn’t think people were called Daisy any more.”

“It’s making a comeback. Are you really a spy?”

“I’m a civil servant.”

“That’s a spy answer. Why did you come looking for Benny?”

“It’s my job. Making sure he’s all right.”

“Why would he need someone doing that?”

“Injured in the line of duty,” John said.

“His limp.”

He nodded. “What kind of journalist are you?”

“How many kinds are there?”

“They’re mostly columnists these days, aren’t they?”

She said, “I’m the proper kind.”

“For an actual newspaper? Or just one of those websites?”

“You’re not a fan of the modern world?”

“It’s not a fan of me.”