“And don’t tell me,” added Landen, “you have to wash your hair?”

“Very funny.”

“What work are you doing in Swindon anyway?” asked Landen.

“I wash up at SmileyBurger.”

“Sure you do. SpecOps?”

I nodded my head.

“I joined Swindon’s Litera Tec unit.”

“Permanently?” he asked. “I mean, you’ve come back to Swindon for good?”

“I don’t know.”

I placed my hand on his. I wanted to hug him and burst into tears and tell him I loved him and would always love him like some huge emotional dumb girlie, but time wasn’t quite right, as my father would say. I decided to get on the question offensive instead so I asked:

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Never thought about it?”

“I thought about it a lot.”

We both lapsed into silence. There was so much to say that neither of us could think of any way to start. Landen opened a second front:

“Want to see Richard III?”

“Is it still running?”

“Of course.”

“I’m tempted but the fact remains I don’t know when I will be free. Things are . . . volatile at present.”

I could see he didn’t believe me. I couldn’t really tell him I was on the trail of a master criminal who could steal thoughts and project images at will; who was invisible on film and could murder and laugh as he did so. Landen sighed, dug out a calling card and placed it on the counter.

“Call me. Whenever you’re free. Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kissed me on the cheek, finished his drink, looked at me again and limped out of the bar. I was left looking at his calling card. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t need to. The number was the one I remembered.