When Woody called The Chinaman back the phone was answered with a guttural ‘Double Happiness Take-Away’.

‘This is Ian Wood,’ he said, suddenly realising he couldn’t remember The Chinaman’s name. He had just written ‘Chinaman’ in his notebook.

‘Double Happiness Take-Away,’ the voice repeated.

Woody cursed under his breath, then he heard another voice and the sound of the phone being transferred.

‘Mr Wood?’ said Nguyen.

‘I have the information you wanted,’ Woody said. He read the notes from his notebook, spelling out the names and repeating the numbers several times until he was sure The Chinaman had got them down correctly.

‘Thank you, Mr Wood. I not bother you again.’ The phone went dead before Woody had the chance to ask The Chinaman for his name. There could be a story in this somewhere. ‘Heartbroken Father Pleads With IRA Killers’. ‘Bomb Mission Of Tragic Dad’. That sort of thing. Good Sunday-paper stuff. Woody was about to ring back when there was a shout from the far end of the office.

‘Woody! Call for you. What extension are you on?’

‘4553,’ he yelled back, and waited until the call was put through.

‘Woody?’ said a girl’s voice, soft and with a Scottish burr.

‘Yeah, speaking,’ he answered, groping for a pen.

‘It’s Maggie.’ Maggie? His mind raced, frantically trying to put a face to the name and the voice. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘Me? I’m fine, fine.’ He closed his eyes and began banging the palm of his hand against his forehead as if trying to jolt his memory.

‘You do remember?’ she asked, sounding hurt.

‘Of course I do.’ He began flicking through the images in his head, searching for a Maggie.

‘The Coach and Horses,’ she prompted.

Maggie! The girl with red hair and grey eyes and the earthy sense of humour. He remembered how much he’d enjoyed being with her, though for the life of him he couldn’t recall what they’d talked about, other than the fact that she’d told him a couple of fairly risqué jokes. Would she appreciate the one about the nuns and the soap? Probably not.

‘Of course I remember, how are you?’ He tried to recall the name of her partner. Todd? Rob? Ross? It bobbed away on the outer fringes of his memory, just out of reach. Most of that evening was a blank, though he vaguely remembered putting away the best part of a bottle of a very civilised malt whisky. Had he kissed her? He couldn’t remember. There was something else as well, something sad, very, very sad. Woody’s eyes glanced at the photographs in the Sun and it all flooded back as if a dam had burst. It had been the day of the big bombing in Knightsbridge. He’d locked away the sickening images of that day, the pictures that had been too horrific to use in the paper, the twisted bodies, the severed limbs, the blood, the Retriever with its jaws clamped on its gory prize. He didn’t want to think about that day, but Maggie had been part of it and recalling her brought everything back into focus. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.