Morgan’s office was exactly what Carol would have conjured up if she’d been asked to imagine it. It was a large cubicle partitioned off from an open plan office space. The frosted glass panels that were supposed to provide an illusion of privacy had been turned into memo boards. Maps, photographs and sheets of paper with single words or phrases written in sprawling capitals in thick magic marker were sellotaped to the glass, completely obscuring its inhabitant and his activities from anyone outside the room.

The filing cabinets and cupboards that lined the walls were piled high with files and reference books. The computer on the desk was an island of straight lines marooned in a zigzag sea of paper. It all looked chaotic, but Carol suspected that Morgan would be able to lay his hands on any single document in a matter of moments. There was nothing personal in the room; no photographs of family or of Morgan shaking hands with the powerful or famous. The only thing that marked the space out as his was the jacket hanging on a peg on the back of the door. Not on a hanger, just dangling limp from the hook.

He’d met her at the lift, hustled her through the outer office so fast she’d had the chance for nothing more than the most superficial impression of an array of mostly empty desks. The occupants of the remainder barely raised their heads as they passed, then returned indifferent to their monitors or their phone calls. He’d thrown open his office door and stood back, saying, ‘Give me five minutes. There’s something I’ve got to sort out. Tea or coffee?’

She’d been sitting in the visitor’s chair for fifteen minutes when Morgan pushed the door open with his hip, a mug in each hand. ‘There you go,’ he said, putting one down on the pile of papers nearest Carol. ‘Sorry I kept you.’