‘He’s an old friend of my late mother. Hold on, though. Are you Japanese? You sound as if you might be.’

‘You’re right,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘I might be.’

‘Are you the Japanese woman Martin’s supposed to be meeting in London this week?’

‘Yesterday. He was supposed to meet me yesterday.’

‘Me too. What’s your name?’

The pretence had to be maintained if Wada was to make any progress. ‘Mimori Takenaga,’ she said softly.

‘So you’re the woman who’s trying to identify the English guy your late father employed in London back in 1977?’

‘Yes. Peter Evans.’

‘Or maybe Peter Ellery. What are you doing answering Martin’s—’

The line was suddenly dead. There was no dialling tone. There was nothing. It was as if—

A shadow fell across Wada as she turned towards the door. A tall man was standing there, remarkably tall given that he looked Japanese. He was thin to the point of gauntness, with skin stretched tight over his jaw and brow. His eyes were so dark they could have been black, like his crew-cut hair. He was dressed in black as well: jeans and sweatshirt. In his right hand he held the telephone cable. He tossed it on to the floor as he stared at Wada and stamped on the jackplug, shattering it.

‘Who are you?’ Wada asked. There was a slight tremor in her voice, which she could only hope the man wouldn’t notice. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Mimori Take—’

‘No. You are Wada. Kodaka’s errand-runner.’

The game was up. He knew who she was. He probably knew why she was there. And he was blocking her only exit. As she watched him, his gaze slid past her to the box in the middle of the floor. With the word sarin written on it, in Japanese.

He looked back at her. ‘Tell me what you know about Martin Caldwell.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘That would be good for you. If it was true.’

‘It is true.’

He took a step towards her. She dodged round to the far side of the desk. He moved right. She moved left. Right. Left. Suddenly, he grasped the rim of the desk and heaved it bodily to one side.

The desk landed upside down on the floor with a crash, sending up a cloud of dust from the boards. There was nothing between them now. She stooped and grabbed the desk lamp, which had fallen at her feet. But as she rose, brandishing the lamp as a weapon, he was on her, closing his hand round her throat and shoving her back against the wall. With his other hand, he batted away the lamp.

‘Where is Kodaka’s Nishizaki file?’ the man rasped, glaring into Wada’s eyes as if he’d find the answer there.

‘I … don’t know … any … Nishizaki file.’

‘Where is it?’