From eleven-thirty until twenty minutes past twelve, he outlined those features of the Middle Hill pack which, in his opinion, had contributed to the deposition of their leader. Hoyter took notes, puffing along behind, but still in sight – until a point was reached where Rossy embarked upon the subject of agonistic buffering, whereat Hoyter abandoned the chase and resigned himself to smiling and nodding.

His dissertation at an end, Rossy informed Hoyter he would be using a blowpipe, not a rifle. He would send Johnnie away in as humane a manner as possible.

“Very good, Sergeant,” said Hoyter. He smiled. Who did the man think he was – Tarzan? “I take it you can find your own way back.”

He was about to dial the Merchant Marine Office when the telephone rang again. He eyed the receiver. Could it be the Governor’s wife?

“Hoyter,” he barked.

It was the desk downstairs. There was some gentleman wishing to speak with him.

“Says he’s a colleague of yours, sir.”

4

They shook hands.

Wavery had asked, “Might it help if you put in a word, Weena?”

“Not in the least. He’s one of you. We don’t get on at all.”

“One minute,” said Hoyter, at the same time pointing to a chair which his secretary, a girl with a high forehead, had drawn to the desk.

He was speaking on the telephone. “Darling? I’ll be home for lunch. Did you go shopping?”

Wavery sat down. The desk was dominated by a plastic model of a neolithic skull, which Hoyter employed as a paperweight. There was a board on the wall to the right of the desk and pinned to the board a postcard from Paris, the timetable of flights to London and a motto written in green felt-tip: THE SECRECY OF MY JOB PREVENTS ME FROM KNOWING WHAT I AM DOING.

“Yes,” said Hoyter. “Just the one of me.”

The Deputy Governor replaced the receiver. He crossed his ankles. He checked his moustache. He leaned back in his chair.

“I’m all ears,” he said.

In the course of his time with the Service it had frequently irritated Hoyter that the British public perceived Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office as existing for the sole purpose of bailing them out of trouble. It was also an inflexible rule among Distressed British Subjects that they should lose their passports on a Friday lunchtime, not a Monday morning.

As Wavery explained the incident on Middle Hill, Hoyter leaned forward and rested a chin on his hand.

“I’ve never heard of an ape stealing a passport. A dog, yes.” Most passports were ruined by children scribbling in them or mothers throwing them with the jeans into the washing machine or the sea pulping them.

“I expect you gave him the stare? I’m told they don’t like that. Lucky it wasn’t a leopard.” He uttered a bitter laugh and telephoned his secretary to ask for two teas and a couple of those biscuits.

“He’s called Johnnie. If you’re interested.”