‘I’m British, Kareem. Let me continue my narrative. British intelligence hires you to be its servant; and believes it will always be your master. But the reverse has happened. MI5, maybe MI6 too, teach you all their tricks – you become a super-agent, skilled and drilled, and you now deploy those tricks to defuse this potential threat to your ultimate ambitions. The Sayyid files are not the product of an idealistic whistleblower; they’re planted by you to cause disruption. The death of Sir Francis Morahan is contrived by you, tailor-made so that conspiracy theorists can point the finger at an MI5 panic-stricken by the leakage of secret files and the possible consequences. Yes, MI5 is worried – perhaps it is they not you who threaten Patrick. But when an “accident” befalls my father as he intercepts an intruder, who is that?’

‘I would never do anything to harm you, Sara,’ said Kareem. ‘I once told you that.’

‘You already harmed me, Kareem. Finally, we come to J. It’s a deliberate drowning. I remember what Morahan said to me. “I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I don’t believe our intelligence services shoot people in the head or drop them out of helicopters, or out of boats with lead in their boots.” Perhaps he was right. Perhaps MI5 doesn’t. But there’s someone who does – or whose henchmen do it for him. You, Kareem. You. And you end up the winner. The Inquiry is smothered. You’re out of danger. You remain the hero whom your lover continues to parade as the saviour of the nation. You – and she, for her success suits you so well – emerge unscathed.’

She stopped, exhausted. Kareem’s eyes bore in – despite herself, she felt that charge of seventeen years ago. ‘Have you forgotten,’ he said softly, ‘surely not, the message you received on the night of July the 6th 2005? As you try now to harm me, how can you deny that I would never harm you?’ Patrick glanced at Sara; her head was in her hands.

‘Yes,’ continued Kareem, ‘you have nothing to say to that. But here you have much else to say. You are a clever woman, Sara. How much might we have achieved together? Even yet, you might understand me. So before I leave you to bide your time in this lonely place, I will, in return, tell you not yet a further narrative but a story. Having created your own fantasy, I hope you will enjoy it and appreciate its compatibility.’

This time he stood, circling the platform as he spoke, delivering his epilogue.