The roads seemed darker than usual, the traffic lighter. He found himself checking parked cars – for what? Men in sharp suits and trilbies smoking Camel cigarettes? He told himself to sharpen up. The gate to the churchyard was, as promised, unlocked – he hadn’t been sure as he’d never had reason to enter it at this hour. As instructed, he took the path that led around the south transept, rows of graves standing grey in the half-moon light. He made for the right angle where the exterior of the transept joined the chancel. Counting out ten yard-long paces at forty-five degrees from that corner, he found the headstone.

GEORGE MANN

BORN 12 DECEMBER 1859

DIED 21 MARCH 1895

‘PROUD OF HIS NATION, A NATION PROUD OF HIM’

He allowed himself a short smile and felt an unexpected surge of bravado. Seeing the gap between the head of the grave lid and bottom of the headstone, he slid the envelope between them.

Before heading upstairs, he googled ‘Sayyid’. A leader, a master. A man who demands respect. Although, he reflected, it could just as easily be a cover – there was no reason to suppose it was either a man or a Muslim. The one thing he did know was that, for the moment, he must play by Sayyid’s rules.

Forty-eight hours later, Morahan retraced his steps to the same gravestone. In place of the white envelope he’d left was a plastic sleeve containing a smaller brown one. He hurried home, shaking with anticipation, and slit it open. Inside was a curt message saying no more than ‘Agreed’, followed by an instruction to return to a different grave in a further forty-eight hours. He felt both wound-up and deflated.

Two nights later, as the hall clock chimed the three-quarter hour of 10.45 p.m., he called up that he was popping out again for a stroll. This time Iona emerged to glare down from the landing railings. ‘It’s becoming rather a habit.’

‘Yes, I will explain soon enough. Nothing to worry about.’

The lid on the second gravestone was, as promised, unattached. It was also heavy – much heavier than he had anticipated. With his fingertips he could loosen but not lift it or ease it sideways. He had wondered whether Sayyid was a man or woman; now, a strong man seemed more likely. He himself was in his late sixties; while his legs adequately propelled his bicycle, his arms were used to no more than lifting legal submissions.

He looked at his watch. 11.05 p.m. Iona would be agitating. He needed a crow bar or something similar; he couldn’t afford to delay and risk the morning light.

He stalked home, went upstairs and looked into her bedroom.

‘I have to go out again.’

‘It’s all right, Francis.’

‘No, truly.’ His dry voice was urgent. ‘There’s a task I need to complete. I’ll explain everything tomorrow morning.’ He paused. ‘Unless you have other plans.’