Well, if they hadn’t left a name or a number, then it couldn’t be serious. Perhaps it was the same person who’d rung last night. Besides, why was he so sure that last night’s caller was for him?

‘Back to the chalkface.’ He drained the last of his tea, put the cup and saucer back on the table and picked up a pile of exercise books.

He did his usual detour through Holborn and round Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was, he thought, one of the most beautiful squares in London, with its luscious trees and gracious buildings. Barstow’s was on the west side of the square, and he lingered as he passed it. She finished work at five and they could sometimes snatch a cup of tea before she had to head home to Hatfield. Now it was summer the café stayed open long enough, though by that time of day the tea was stewed and the scones gone. He was seeing her in two days, but a glimpse now would be perfect. He didn’t like to loiter in case it got her into trouble. Some firms could be funny like that.

Never mind, he thought. He wouldn’t see her today. She might even have left work early. They sometimes let her do that, if there was no more typing to be done. He cycled off towards his flat, crossing Theobalds Road and turning right into Bury Place. A man was standing at the far end, just by the entrance to his building. He began to walk towards him. A tall, thin man, with bowed legs and arms looped like cup handles. He walked with a limp, but there was no mistaking him. John pulled at his brakes and shut his eyes, hoping the man would vanish.

‘My friend,’ the man said, drawing up close to John. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘How did you know I’d be here?’ A lame, manufactured response. He should have said, Get lost.

The man laughed, looked at the back of his hand, checking his nails.

‘You forget. We know everything about you.’

No. That was over. Finished. Kaput. He had expunged the debt that summer in Berlin in 1945. Thirteen years ago, for God’s sake. He owed them nothing.

‘What do you want?’

The man’s face was as pasty as ever, the scars of his acne still visible.

‘We have unfinished business, you and I.’

John was gripping the handlebars tight, white knuckles on chrome. He reared the bike up on its back tyre like an angry stallion.

‘Two words, my friend,’ the man said. ‘Bette Fisher.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ John said.