‘Are we the clichés?’ asked Sara, trying to forge a bond. ‘The Asian girls who put in the extra hours.’ She sounded false to herself – it was a thought that normally would never enter her head.

‘Before this, I was doing my first spell in private office,’ said Rayah. ‘We were all slaves there. Didn’t matter who you were.’

Sara inspected her; she must be at least in her late twenties so perhaps had come up through the ranks rather than graduate fast stream. She was smartly dressed – tight-fitting red pullover, black knee-length skirt and highish-heeled black shoes.

‘How are you finding it here?’

‘Yeah, it’s interesting. The panel members aren’t always the easiest.’

‘I’ve that pleasure to come,’ said Sara. ‘And how about Sir Francis himself? Actually, aren’t Thursdays supposed to be his late night?’ The question was innocent, but asking it provoked the thought – Rayah working late at her desk, also on a Thursday night.

‘Why are you asking me?’

Sara again cursed her leap of imagination. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry if I was out of order.’ The hole was getting deeper. ‘I meant, he seems a nice man.’

‘Sure, why wouldn’t he be?’

‘Absolutely.’ Sara realised that not once had Rayah wanted to look her straight in the eye. ‘Right, got to finish my stuff too.’ She moved away towards the corridor leading off the open-plan area, puzzled by the tone of the conversation. Perhaps she should read nothing into it except the cautious reaction of a younger woman faced by a senior newcomer.

She tried the door of the archive room. Locked. Sylvia Labone was long past any need to impress bosses with long hours. The door to the Legal office was open; she wondered if anyone had been nosing around. Surely they’d have locked it if they had – she couldn’t remember how she and Patrick had left it. Morahan’s door was shut. Part of her wanted to knock on it; she resisted the temptation and entered her own office.