He turned with the tray of drinks and the middle-aged woman on the guitar muttered something into her microphone and smiled when a drunk further down the bar yelled his approval. The accordion player squeezed out the opening bars of ‘Idées Noires’, the classic Bernard Lavilliers song about a depressed guy who just wants to run away from his life and wife. When the woman started singing, others in the bar joined her in a drunks’ choir. Templar stretched back in his chair, eyes closed, waving his hands like a conductor as he sang.

As Templar lost himself in a haze of French accordion and American whiskey, de Payns realised Shrek was staring at him with those hypnotist’s eyes.

‘You okay?’ asked Shrek. ‘You look tired.’

‘I’m drunk—is that what you mean?’

‘No, I mean exhausted and worried,’ said Shrek, his gaze shrewd.

‘Fuck,’ said de Payns, leaning back and running his hands down his face. ‘Manerie came to me.’

‘The DGS guy?’

‘Yeah,’ said de Payns. ‘He had a photo of me and Mike Moran, from SIS.’

‘Shit,’ said Shrek. ‘And?’

‘I didn’t register a CRE,’ said de Payns, referring to the compte rendu d’entretien. ‘I don’t know what he wants to do with it, but he’s a sleazy prick.’

‘Yeah, he is,’ said Shrek. ‘I saw Mike a couple of months ago at Twickenham.’

‘You know Mike?’ asked de Payns. He hadn’t been aware of the connection.

‘Sure,’ said Shrek. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Yep,’ said de Payns, reminded of how tricky it was for spies to drink together. ‘I know how it is.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

The smell of coffee and warmed pastry brought him around and he squinted through a seismic hangover at the bedside clock: 6.24. His wedding ring sat on top of the clock radio, a symbol between Romy and him. DGSE operatives didn’t wear wedding rings because it left a mark when removed, which could burn the legend of a ‘single’ operative.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back, noticing Romy was not there. For the past six months she’d been waking at five in the morning to work on her thesis before the child rituals began, but now—the thesis having been completed and accepted—it seemed early rising had become a habit.

De Payns winced against the slit of light that poured through a small gap in the curtains and tried to estimate what time he’d arrived home. He’d barely had three hours’ sleep.

The scalding water of the shower felt good on his head, and after a shave he wandered into the kitchen and kissed his wife as she handed him a large black coffee. He could see through her short nightie and he lingered in the kiss, thinking of a possible return to bed before the kids got up. He dropped his hand to her rounded hip but she wasn’t interested.