Having dumped their kit at the hotel they headed for Cornish’s place. The single-storey modern house sat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by the flat Suffolk countryside. Glass and steel and crisp white walls converged on a central tower that rose out of an atrium. To one side there was a paddock with several horses, to the other a large garden with a tennis court.

‘She’s done well,’ Javed said. ‘Or perhaps her husband has.’

Holm grunted. He was beginning to regret having accepted Cornish’s invitation. The idea of sitting across the table from an ex-lover as Cornish made eyes at a man who was presumably younger than Holm, better looking, and with better prospects, was grating.

A ring of the bell at the side of the porch brought a shout from inside and seconds later the door was swinging open. Cornish stood there with an open bottle of red in one hand and a smile on her face.

‘Come in, Stephen, Farakh.’ She made a sweeping gesture. Her mood had changed from the other day as if she’d cast aside a mask. ‘Great you could make it.’

They stepped into a huge open-plan room, to one side a gleaming kitchen, to the other a dining area, beyond that several sofas arranged in a semicircle facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked fields.

‘Pleased to be here,’ Holm said. He took in the tasteful décor, the art prints on the walls, the high-end music system. Compared to his measly flat the place was unbridled luxury. ‘This is nice.’

‘Nice, boss?’ Javed said as Cornish stepped forward to greet them. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘Glad someone likes it.’ Cornish shot Holm a look but smiled as well.

They moved in and Holm glanced across to where a dining table had been set for four. Any notion that Cornish was single vanished. In a moment or two Mr Right would be striding out. Steely handshake. Beach-ready body. Blue eyes. Holm felt completely inadequate. From somewhere behind him a door clicked open. Footsteps on the tiled floor. He gritted his teeth and breathed in, determined to be magnanimous. Turned.

‘This is Emma,’ Cornish said. ‘My wife.’

‘Hi.’ Emma was blonde like Cornish, mid-thirties, good figure. ‘You must be Stephen. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Holm opened his mouth but then closed it again. He realised he’d probably say something inappropriate. Behind him Javed sniggered.

‘What a turn-up, boss,’ Javed said. ‘You’re outnumbered three to one.’

Cornish looked at Javed and turned to Holm. ‘He’s not, is he?’

‘Yes,’ Holm said. He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’

Chapter Fifteen

An hour later Silva and Fairchild were seated at an outside table in a restaurant down in the Barbican. Fairchild pondered the menu briefly and selected a seafood platter. Silva chose bass served with couscous. The waiter brought over a carafe of house white and, after Fairchild had tasted it, poured two glasses.