The steward picked up their bags. ‘If you’d come this way, please.’

They went through the door and out onto the concrete. The steward took them across to the jet. Boarding steps led up to the cabin door and, as they climbed the steps, the pilot appeared from within.

‘Mr Fairchild sends his compliments.’ The pilot ushered them into the cabin, Itchy having to stoop slightly. ‘It you take your seats we’re cleared to take off in a couple of minutes.’

The interior was tiny. Just eight seats in total arranged four either side of a narrow aisle. As Silva buckled herself in, she could see up front to the flight deck. The pilot was flicking some switches while the co-pilot read from a checklist. The steward stepped aboard and pulled the cabin door closed. He settled into a seat at one end as the engines whirred into life. Silva felt a burst of acceleration, and the plane zipped down the runway and soared into the air. The countryside fell away, vineyards and cornfields and the sparkling blue of a huge lake. The aircraft banked to the right and headed north-west. Half an hour or so later they were passing over the Alps and Silva allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The next possible issue would arise when they landed.

She needn’t have worried. The steward explained that flight and passenger details had already being filed and it was unlikely there would be any sort of check. He was right, and when they landed at Biggin Hill two hours later a car was waiting for them as they left the aircraft and they were whisked away, headed for Heathrow and the car park where they’d left their motorbikes. By mid-afternoon they were on their bikes and bound for the West Country.

They stopped for fuel at a motorway service station a little way past Bristol and bought food and drinks. They sat at a table by a window and Silva gazed out, waiting for her coffee to cool. The annual late-summer exodus to Devon and Cornwall was in full swing and the car park was rammed with tourists. Vehicles packed with luggage and jaded children. Surfboards and canoes strapped to roof racks. Everything seemed so mundane and ordinary after the turmoil of the last few days. Everything except an unusual black BMW with smoked windows that was parked alongside their motorbikes.

‘Ms da Silva!’ Simeon Weiss eased himself down into a seat alongside Itchy. He adjusted his glasses. ‘And Mr Richard Smith. This is a nice surprise.’

‘Is it?’ Silva turned. The female lackey who she’d seen before hovered close by. ‘Or is this harassment?’