She smelt the sea twisting beneath Deal pier’s concrete legs, above them the parting image of J leaning over the end railing. She heard the smoker’s cough and hoarse voice of Sylvia; and saw the outline of her back shaped in the window as she made that brief phone call to J.

‘J’s a sick man, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘He was too angry when I asked him if he was OK. Too out of character. He was never angry before. Big-voiced, loud exclamations, fruity language. But never anger. This was his raging against the dying of the light.’

‘And Sylvia?’

‘Oh she’s one of those smokers who’ll live till she’s a hundred. I said before she hates them. That’s not quite right. It’s pure, unvarnished contempt.’

‘They got rid of her, didn’t they? You’re a single woman with decades of service and then they shaft you. What’s left but revenge?’

Patrick didn’t answer and now it was his turn to stare out. Sara watched him; that elegant clean-shaven profile and funnily squashed nose. She realised that she’d never asked him what he’d done with his copy of the contract. There had been just the three signed copies; his, J’s, and Kareem’s. It was a document that Sayyid had not produced. Because he was unable to or chose not to? A step too far or a hold-back for the final play?

‘Patrick,’ she murmured.

‘Yes?’ He turned, a slight smile of some distant memory playing around lips and perfectly white, straight teeth.

‘You remember when you drove down to London to see your son’s football night?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘And the match was cancelled.’

‘Ever more mystifying, Sara.’

‘It was late that night that Morahan went for his drive with Sayyid.’

‘I don’t have the chronology with me but I’ll believe you.’

She summoned up the courage. ‘You know something? Occasionally I’ve wondered if you happen to be “Sayyid”. Or have a share in him.’

He looked at her in shock. ‘Christ, Sara, how could you imagine that?’

‘You were there. You had access. You knew – know – people.’ She wished she’d held back. A question too many, a bridge too far. ‘You’re a good man too. A very good man. And I’d understand that you’d never have told me.’

He smiled. ‘It’s all right. I’m not that good a man. Though if I’d known when this all began what I know now… ’ Her phone rang to rescue him.

She murmured the occasional ‘yes’, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘It’s the surgeon. He thinks they should operate. Now. He says his vital signs are declining and the only real solution is removing the haematoma.’

‘What’s the chances with the op?’ asked Patrick.