Our cover stories had been created by the Firm – our name for MI6 – and were adapted from our own real backgrounds. Because I’m obviously a Geordie, by my accent, my phoney address was in the correct part of the country: Castle Row, Alnwick. The first names of my parents were Derek and Mabel. The telephone number I’d use – a real one – was that of my brother, who’d been primed to tell anyone calling that Malcolm was on a job in France. Often the lads got muddled when they gave the names of imaginary parents, and, under cross-questioning, confused them with the real ones. But for me it’s easier: being an orphan brought up by my Uncle Phil, I never knew any real parents, and so had no trouble remembering Derek and Mabel.

We were off the ship in short order. Normally these days there’s practically no passport control at the Channel ports; but that evening immigration staff manned all the desks, probably for their own training, and certainly as part of our exercise. But as the crowd was lining up to go past the desks I got a lucky break. Immediately ahead of me was a stunning black girl in a lime-green top and skin-tight, lemon-yellow satin pants, lugging two bags of bottles in one hand and dragging a small, coffee-coloured kid along with the other. I didn’t deliberately position myself behind her, you understand: she just happened to be there. The point about her was that one of her carrier bags was splitting.

‘Eh,’ I went, ‘watch yourself. You’re about to lose a few bottles.’

I bent down, picked up the child and held it on my hip – a boy, by the look of him.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said sharply. ‘I’m OK.’

Probably she thought I was trying to pick her up. Maybe she didn’t fancy my fiery eyeballs.

‘No, really,’ I said, ‘it’s no bother.’

A second later we were side-by-side in the immigration queue, looking like any other couple coming back from a holiday. She smelt of lemon, too: lemon pants, lemon scent. Nice.

She was glaring at me and I saw that she was really very pretty, with a wide mouth and big hazel eyes. She looked so suspicious that I couldn’t help smiling.

‘I’ve got a kid of my own,’ I said. ‘Older than him, but much the same. It’s quite a way to carry him. Maybe you can take my passport and hand it over. How’s that?’

‘It’s a deal.’ She relented and gave a dazzlingly white smile: ‘What’s your name?’

‘Malcolm. Mal.’

‘OK. I’m Jane.’