‘Good morning, Patrick,’ J bellowed, jumping up from a leather sofa in the back lounge of a rotunda style hotel on Cromwell Road and offering his hand. ‘How extraordinarily nice to see you.’

He greeted Patrick with a delighted but puzzled smile, as if the last thing he expected was to bump into him at this place at this time. A grey-suited man and pink-skirted woman sitting in the opposite corner and dressed for executive action whipped round with pained disapproval. ‘Just in case they might be interested,’ said J sotto voce, gesturing Patrick to sit alongside. ‘But happily that reaction says not. Coffee?’ They sat, looking out upon a narrow stretch of green lawn, two floor-to-ceiling aluminium-framed windows lending the room an ugly functionality. ‘Right. There’s stuff you need to know and stuff you don’t.’

J made a visual sweep, then produced a small silver rectangular object. In a tiny hole he plugged in the needle-like jack of a single earphone, handed it to Patrick, indicated to pop it in his ear, and switched on. Patrick found himself listening to a conversation; one voice, well-spoken and deep, was clear; the second presumably was at the end of a scratchy telephone line.

‘It was a failure,’ said the first voice.

‘I don’t understand…’

‘Too inelegant. Too unfocused. Too indiscriminate.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘It was wrong.’

The conversation cut out, replaced by a hiss. ‘That was friend Kareem,’ said J, ‘apparently showing some remorse.’

Patrick himself checked the room, removed the ear phone and returned it to J. ‘He could have been putting it on.’

‘Yes. But not in my – our – view to the person we think he was speaking to.’

‘Our?’

‘To come,’ replied J sharply. ‘He’s been caught dining out a month before with the lead bomber of 7/7, it shows he’s implicated. We’ve also now got a financial trail a criminal mile long. That’s why we decided it was time to bring him in for a chat.’ J took a final gulp of coffee and crashed the cup back onto its saucer. ‘He’s going to be your new friend.’