Somewhere over the south of England en route for France, Ben Hope eased back in his window seat, gazed out at the fluffy clouds drifting by and wondered whether this was the fifth, or the sixth, such trip he’d made in the months since late December. Or maybe it was the seventh. He was losing track, much to the amusement of his associate Jeff Dekker, who never tired of teasing him about his unlikely developing relationship with, of all people, a female police officer from the Scottish Highlands. Ben would have to privately admit that the romance had taken him by surprise, too. Her name was Grace Kirk, and it seemed that he couldn’t get enough of her.

His most recent visit to Grace’s tiny, remote village of Kinlochardaich had lasted three days, which was about as long as Ben felt he could stay away from his home and workplace in northern France before he started to feel he was neglecting his obligations there. The tactical training centre he co-ran with his fellow ex-military associates, called Le Val, was tucked away in a quiet corner of the Normandy countryside and over the years had grown into a thriving little concern whose specialist services were in demand from all over Europe and beyond.

Ben loved the place and wasn’t ready to quit his job, while Grace felt the same way about her own home and career; and so for the moment at least, their relationship would be a long-distance one. It was a convoluted thirteen-hour flight that usually involved stop-offs in London or Manchester, as well as Paris or Lyon or sometimes even Amsterdam. Grace had been still fast asleep when he’d left her at 4.30 a.m. to catch the 6.33 flight from Inverness. He’d called from the airport to let his business partners know he was en route and would be home by that evening.

Now, six hours later, with the time-wasting tedium of Heathrow behind him, his next stop was Paris before he’d finally embark on the final leg of his journey home. He was looking forward to seeing Jeff (who’d be full of the usual piss-taking humour, but Jeff was like that), their colleague Tuesday Fletcher (who owed his colourful first name, as well as his eternally laid-back manner, to his Jamaican heritage), and to enjoying a nice glass or two of his favourite scotch whisky before tucking in for an early night.

Bliss. Ben was in little danger of ever succumbing to the soft life, but the temptation did present itself now and then.