A little while later he began to whistle once more through his teeth. He had to make some plans now. He had to sort everything out.

At least this way he had saved her the knowledge of the pittance that had been offered to him. She would never have let him live it down.

He glanced at the clock. It was three fifteen. He wouldn’t be able to do anything just yet. He made himself a sandwich and took it into the lounge. He’d watch one of his films and relax. It had been a very trying day.

Tony Jones watched the man sitting opposite him. Larry Steinberg could get anyone anything. He was nicknamed ‘Harrods’ among the villains he dealt with because of this. If you wanted a Nepalese yak Larry would find one, and at a reasonable price. Tony watched the tiny man push his pince-nez up along the bridge of his nose, settling them just below the large lump in it.

‘I had a bit of trouble with this one, Tone, but I managed it for you as quick as I could. Needs must when the devil drives, eh? What did you say you wanted it for?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Oh, well, you obviously have your own reasons. My friends in the passport office are getting very expensive these days. But for you, a good friend, I do it for the old price.’

Tony took a brown envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk. Larry opened it and counted the money carefully. One thousand pounds exactly. Not a bad day’s work. He opened a drawer and passed a small burgundy-coloured passport across the desk.

‘I even got you one of the new EEC ones.’

Tony opened it and looked at his photograph staring out of the page.

‘Thanks, Larry. I owe you one, I think.’

He stood up, putting the passport into his top pocket. Larry watched him leave the office and then walked to the window. From there he watched Tony cross the road and hail a black cab.

Larry was intrigued.

The details in the passport were of a George Markham, from Grantley in Essex. The man already had a one-year tourist passport, as well as a ten-year passport with eighteen months on it. Larry knew that something not quite kosher was going down, but he was stumped as to what it was.

Something rang a warning bell in his head but he could not put his finger on it.

He went back to his desk and slipped the thousand pounds from the envelope into his wallet. At least he had been paid promptly. Nowadays that was something in itself.

Tony Jones walked into Sexplosion and poured himself a large Scotch. He drank it down, the alcohol biting into his throat and stomach, burning his ulcer.

The enormity of what he knew about George Markham was weighing him down. He felt sick every time he thought about it.