“Who is?” asked Wavery.

“The ape who stole your bag.” Hoyter looked down at his notes. “He was listed as a female until he took over the pack. In those days he answered to Margaret. They’re named after VIPs.”

“He wasn’t with a pack.”

“No,” said Hoyter patiently. “He’s been peripheralised. They don’t like the term rogue male here, but that’s what he is. He’s been kicked out by a younger man. Break up, join up, break up. That’s how it goes in these fission-fusion societies.” He waited to see if the words had sunk in before returning to his notes. “It’s the start of the mating season and his sex life is more or less ruined.”

“I see,” said Wavery.

“Lucky he didn’t bite. They can give you Herpes B.”

The girl with the high forehead entered.

“Thanks, Gill,” said Hoyter when she had gone. He lifted a stainless steel lid and stirred the contents with his pencil. “You can’t hurry tea. Biscuit?”

“Probably not,” said Wavery.

“You weren’t feeding it, were you? That’s illegal, unless you do it at Queen’s Gate.” According to Sergeant Rossy the Queen’s Gate pack were so obese they had stopped breeding. “They just sit on their backsides eating Smarties,” said Hoyter, thinking of his Governor. “They say the syndrome is not dissimilar to that of humans who have everything done for them. But you don’t want to hear this,” he realised. “You want a passport.” He poured the tea.

Thomas Wavery. A faint bell was tinkling.

“En route to Abyla, you say. I believe that’s where the apes came from originally.” Hoyter rapped the skull on his desk. “Which means us too, I suppose.”

“I’m expected today,” said Wavery.

“Been there before?” asked Hoyter. He and Mrs Hoyter had passed through on their way to Morocco and hated every moment. The dust, the flies, the Arabs themselves. They had stayed long enough to buy a video recorder – which was discovered afterwards to have a problem with its pause button – and a piece of amethyst sold to them by a child at the Moroccan border.

“Put it down to experience,” said Mrs Hoyter when the purple came off on her hands.

Wavery said, “No. I’ve not been.”

“It’s a nice place. How long’s the posting?”

“Until the Royal Visit.”

“Your last post?”

Wavery nodded. “My last post.”

Hoyter looked at him over his cup. The tea tasted of pencil. “Personnel told me nothing of this,” he went on cautiously.

“But the Governor must have warned you?”

“I don’t suppose the Governor had the least idea you were coming.”

“Mr Hoyter,” said Wavery, “Sir Lawrence not only happens to be my brother-in-law, but I spoke to him two weeks ago.”

“Dear sir,” flustered Hoyter. “People come in here the whole time saying they’re the Governor’s brother-in-law. What was it you wanted with Sir Lawrence exactly?”

“I had a lunch appointment with him. But he cancelled.”

“Cancelled his own brother-in-law?” Hoyter’s smile was almost playful.