He forwarded Khan’s email. At this stage, and without a confirmed threat, it wasn’t protocol for him to meet with Khan. After that, it was time to ferry John from school to his badminton club.

That evening, and despite the glower from Josie, he took the Tube across London to Shepherd’s Bush. He wanted to relax and talk, and home wasn’t a place where either tended to happen these days.

Alison lived in a decent-sized flat which she’d retreated to after her divorce, paid for by a combination of salary, settlement and inheritance. Because her concerns about personal security went above and beyond the call of professionalism, he called ahead, letting the phone ring four times before ringing off then redialling.

“Matchbox,” he said.

“Spiker.” Her voice came to him distantly amused, as always. After they’d first met, she’d gone a year before realizing she’d misheard his surname.

The rattle of bolt and chain after she’d checked him out on the cameras was a familiar ritual. Despite the fact that there was nothing sexual between them, Julian felt a stab of guilt as the door opened, right on the heels of the rush of well-being he always got from being here.

Alison Matchell, then: middling height and a few years his senior. The taut boniness of the woman he’d first known was now filling out, as though she’d been under the pressure of some dense and punishing atmosphere throughout her failing marriage. Her blonde hair was bobbed, framing a thin face dominated by antique spectacles with mother-of-pearl-inlaid frames.

“You look brutal,” she told him, by which she probably meant just frowny. “Am I making up a bed on the sofa?”

“What? No!” And another stab of guilt, because this was exactly where he’d go if things ever got to that with Josie. Alison would have the sofa ready in an instant, a safe house long prepared for emergencies.

She gave him a measuring glance and hoicked a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge. “Does that mean no signed copy of Beguine, then?”

“I…didn’t ask. Next time, sorry.” Because, of all things, Alison was an avid reader of Josie’s books, which had not had the expected result of endearing her to Josie.

“Tell her it’s her best one. Very racy. I approve.” It was not common knowledge at work that Julian’s wife made a decent living writing erotica, another Sword of Damocles over his poor, abused dignity.

Julian took a glass and sipped. Alison’s three monitors were all on, displaying a mishmash of websites, reports and scrolling chat. “Still online?”