“If you don’t mind.” There’s a waspish edge to Jez’s voice as she picks up her train of thought again: “Bob, we’re going to whitewash this meeting’s minutes, and unjustifiably blacken your name until such time as we have established exactly what Ms. Murphy and her worryingly powered-up quants are up to. At which time this committee will reconvene and correct the record. Meanwhile, we’re going to conduct ourselves as if we have swallowed her bait. And then we’re going to engineer a situation where she can’t avoid interacting with you. Are you clear on why we’re doing this? Can you cope?”

“What are you asking? Can I keep my lid on when dealing with my psycho ex from hell?”

“Essentially, yes.” This from Andy, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed in his characteristic hangdog way.

I shrug. “I’ve been married to someone else for years. I’m a grown-up: I can cope.”

“Good.” Jez glances at Andy, then back to me. “Then the rest is up to you.”

• • •

IT’S EASIER TO TAKE TIME OFF IN LIEU THAN TO FILL OUT THE overtime claim for a failed Code Blue. I go home early that afternoon, to lick my wounds and catch up on some non-classified reading. I’m expecting to spend another quiet night in with the computer, playing a cheesy MMO based in a Planescape spin-off, with maybe half a bottle of wine and a takeaway pizza for company. But at about six o’clock, just after dark, I hear the front door opening.

I’m not one to worry—our front door was reinforced a couple of years ago after I was doorstepped by a zombie from the KGB’s occult successor organization, although it’s sometimes amusing to let the Jehovah’s Witlesses get far enough inside to see the security grid embedded in the porch floor—but I heave myself out of the buttock-eating living room sofa to go and check who’s there, just in case. I needn’t have bothered.

“Mo?” I ask, as she lets the door swing closed. She’s wearing a long black dress and jacket with some kind of shawl over her shoulders, suitcase on the floor behind her and violin case in hand. She looks like she’s been somewhere in the Middle East, and she’s clearly exhausted.

“Bob, be a love and put the kettle on? Been a long day.”

“Okay.” I pad into the kitchen—I’m wearing bedroom slippers—and fill up the kettle again. She’ll be wanting tea, at a guess. “Where’ve you been? Can you talk?”

“I—yes, I can talk.” She doesn’t sound happy, though. “Later. Some other time. For now I just need tea, then a shower and change and some company to keep me awake until bedtime. It’s been a very long day.”

“How long?” I ask, trying to keep her going.