‘Ah, I see. You’re wondering where Emil Coetzee is. Well, if we told you that, we’d unfortunately have to kill you,’ Rutherford said.

Tom expected him to giggle again, but he did not. Neither man even smiled. Was Rutherford being serious?

‘We’re with Secret Intelligence. We know how to do things,’ Rutherford said. Again, neither man laughed.

Tom had many jokes, good ones too, about the Secret Intelligence Unit. He was glad that he had been struck dumb, because this was definitely not the audience for them.

Rutherford began giggling again. Joseph was still not laughing. ‘Relax, Tom. Of course, we are not going to kill you. Friends don’t kill friends. And besides, what would be the point?’

What a difference a day makes, thought Tom, no stranger to clichés and hackneyed expressions, as he rolled from one side of the king-sized bed to the other. Just to think, yesterday morning he had woken up stiff and sore on the cold concrete of one of the Main Post Office’s corridors, after shivering himself to sleep the night before. He had been Tom Fortenoy yesterday; he was Emil Coetzee today – and Emil Coetzee lived the kind of life that began each morning on the world’s most magnificent mattress.

Tom lay on the bed feeling an alien feeling: contentment. He allowed himself to enjoy it as he gloried in the warmth of the duvet a moment longer before winking one eye at the midday sun. Looking at the gentle light that the cream-coloured curtains filtered into the room, Tom knew that Emil Coetzee had never, not once, allowed himself to experience and enjoy the beauty that lay before him. Emil Coetzee was always up and out before the dawn, preferring to watch the sun rise over the City of Kings from the confines of his office at The Tower rather than from the comfort of his own bed.

Tom’s stomach growled, and he became aware that he was hungry; no, not hungry, famished. Usually he ignored the grumblings of his stomach, but today he did not have to, because today he could actually do something about his hunger. He languorously yawned and stretched his way out of bed, and when he put his feet on the floor, he found a pair of navy-blue slippers patiently waiting for them. He put the slippers on and stood up, stretched and yawned again before making his way out of the room. Hooked behind the bedroom door was a morning gown with navy-blue and khaki stripes, because God forbid there could be a moment of the day in which Emil Coetzee was not somehow clad in something khaki.