‘Of course. Our organisation, adoration of initials.’ He leaned across, lowering his voice. ‘C, M, Q… so they decided to call me J. Company humour, I’m afraid. Sit down. I’m having an American Hot. I’ve asked for tap water.’ He peered over small brown-rimmed half-moon glasses. ‘Tell me about yourself. No need to hold back. This hidey-hole is the most discreet spot in London. Try bugging a conversation in the clatter of this place.’ Patrick could see that J, his back to the corner wall, had in his sights the full swathe of the restaurant and pavements lying beyond. Patrick’s only view was of J.

He laid out the bare bones of his life: son of a rich Ghanaian; educated at English public school; law degree; City solicitor intern; now learning the ropes at the Treasury Solicitors.

‘That tells me nothing,’ said J brusquely. Patrick sagged, slicing slowly through his pizza. ‘Attitudes, culture, conscience, thoughts, prejudices. That’s what I want to know. Let’s start with the last.’

‘Prejudices?’

‘Yes. What are yours?’

Patrick slapped down his knife and fork. ‘I don’t do prejudice.’

‘’Course you do. We all do.’

‘All right, if you insist. Bad-mannered, middle-aged men asking rude and intrusive questions for a start.’

J reddened with what seemed a flush of anger, then exploded into a thunderous chuckle which subsided into a fading splutter. ‘Good chap! What else?’

‘Rich public school arseholes.’

‘Go on.’

‘Arrogant overpaid city lawyers, weasel wordsmiths, puffed-up politicians—’

‘Pakis?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Patrick softly.

‘Arabs?’

Patrick’s voice was laced with a quiet contempt. ‘Is this some kind of sick game? Whatever’s been said to me in the course of my life, I’ve never given a fuck about the colour of another man’s skin. Or his race or culture for that matter.’

‘Religion?’ continued J, unabashed.

‘Or his religion.’ In another place at another time, Patrick felt he might have punched him in the face.

‘Me neither,’ said J, taking a sip of water. ‘Sorry, always good to take a fellow’s temperature. Particularly given the task in hand.’

It was a test; he’d passed. ‘What task?’

‘Not for here. Let’s enjoy our lunch and find out more about each other. Are you a cricket or soccer man?’

An hour later, pass issued, bag scanned and through the security pods, Patrick found himself closeted with J in a small barely furnished ante-room at Thames House. He had sometimes wondered whether the dull uniform grey exterior matched what was inside; so far, the answer was resoundingly yes.

‘How did you react to the events of July the 7th?’ began J. They sat at opposite corners of a brown leather sofa – Patrick had a mounting sense of that colour becoming his abiding memory of the day.

‘I was shocked. Like everyone.’

‘Why? Something was bound to blow, wasn’t it?’