His shockingly burned face split with a wide white grin. He looked like a member of some lost race; I could not believe there would be a time when his face would not shock me. He clicked the heels of his Asics trainers, and Zukov smiled for the first time. He seemed much more relaxed in the presence of Monk.

‘You do rehab here?’ I asked Monk.

‘One afternoon a week,’ he said. ‘I’m mostly down the road. I’m the senior physio at Barrington Court. Or the senior physio’s assistant. Yeah, that’s more like it.’

I had heard of Barrington Court. It was a rehabilitation centre for severely wounded veterans, most of them victims of IED blasts in Afghanistan.

‘Mr Waugh lets us use the running track on Thursday afternoons,’ Monk said. ‘Quite funny really, lending us a running track when most of us don’t have any legs.’

I automatically looked down at his faded jeans. Monk laughed.

‘Oh, not me,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got all my parts. Some of them are just a bit overcooked.’

I smiled weakly.

‘How’s he doing?’ Monk said, suddenly serious. ‘Mr Philips.’

I shook my head. ‘You know what? I really don’t know, Tom.’

Because on the other side of the playing fields I could see the flag of St George being lowered, and stopping when it reached half-mast. The phone in my jacket began to vibrate.

I pulled it out and saw that it was PC Greene, and that he had already tried to call me five times.

Peregrine Waugh was crossing the playing fields towards me, his gown flowing behind him.

But I already knew.

Piggy Philips was dead.

Chapter 19

19

I WAS WAITING for Ben King in the central lobby of the Palace of Westminster, the most beautiful space in London – a high-vaulted octagonal hall with a giant central chandelier and an intricately tiled floor, lit by natural light that pours through massive windows.

The central lobby bustled with life. Constituents waited to talk to their MP. Political journalists gossiped and snickered and fawned. MPs and peers came and went from the corridors that led to their chambers – the Lords to the south, the MPs to the north.

With its statues of kings and queens and a national saint over each of the four exits – St George for England, St David for Wales, St Andrew for Scotland, St Patrick for Northern Ireland – the central lobby felt like more than the core of Parliament, more than the place where all the corridors of power converged.

It felt like the ultimate seat of British power.

I watched Ben King emerge from the corridor that led to the House of Commons. He was in a group of men surrounding the Prime Minister. King saw me and peeled away from the crowd.