He frowned, but did as she bade. She removed her jacket, raised her shirt and pulled down an envelope wedged between the shirt and skin of her back. ‘You can turn round.’ She approached him. ‘Inside this is a photograph of a group of people taken fourteen years ago.’ She handed him the envelope and then pulled one small package out of one trouser pocket, and a second from another. ‘One of these contains an audiocassette, the other a recorder to play it back on.’

Patrick prised the photograph from the envelope. As he held it up, she moved to stand over his shoulder. ‘That woman,’ she said, touching the back of the head with her fingernail, ‘is me.’ She moved her finger to the right. ‘That man is the connection I have that Sayyid referred to.’ She removed her finger. ‘That person lies at the heart of whatever it is we’re trying to reveal.’

Patrick was staring rigidly at the photograph, apparently dumbstruck. He removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and looked at it again, this time for longer. He was shaking, searching for words.

‘I’ve seen this photograph.’

She was electrified. ‘What?’

‘This must be what they’re scared of. Perhaps they lost control of it. Of him.’

‘You recognise him?’

‘If I’d thought for one second you’d ever set eyes on him, let alone known him, I’d never have pushed. It’s not safe, we don’t go any further.’

‘No, Patrick, that’s a decision we make together. First of all, you have to explain.’

‘You see, I was there at the beginning.’

Chapter 16

16

A moment frozen in time, senses dulled, sounds stopped.

A world tipping.

Patrick saw it in her eyes. ‘Let’s get out,’ he said, jumping up. He glanced out of the window. A low blanket of grey. ‘Grab your coat.’ He snatched his own off a hook. ‘This is no place to talk, can’t see through the walls.’

Without waiting for her reply, he was on his way. She gathered her bag, took her red mackintosh, and followed. As she passed the open Archives door, she peeped in, catching Sylvia Labone’s eye and the glare of her frown – should have kept her eyes ahead. She caught up with Patrick at the stairs, racing to match him. Once outside, he inhaled deeply. If they’d looked up and round, they’d have seen Sylvia watching them from her office window.

‘Where now?’ she asked.

‘Where’s the safest place to drive if you’re speeding?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Past a police station.’

Heading in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge, traffic noise covering, he began to speak.

2005

‘There’s someone who wants to meet you,’ said Keith Barron, head of the Treasury Solicitors.

‘Someone, sir?’ said Patrick.

‘It’s all right, Patrick, you don’t need to do “sir”. This someone is one of our friends from Thames House.’

‘The Security Service.’