‘This.’ Silva told Itchy what Sean had said and let him read the postcard. ‘Mum said Wittering had hidden secrets to be passed on from one generation to the next. I thought it had something to do with the beach in Chichester Harbour, but I was wrong. Sean is going to a trade summit at RAF Wittering for some Saudi trade deal.’ Silva pointed to the date at the top of the postcard. ‘My mother post-dated the card for the eighteenth of August. That’s today. It can’t be a coincidence.’

‘A military base and Saudi involvement? Sounds like a pie the Hopes might have their fingers in.’

‘It does.’

‘And Sean, do you think he’s mixed up in all this?’

‘I don’t know. Would he have told me about RAF Wittering if he was trying to keep it hush-hush?’

‘He might have.’ Itchy lowered his shoulders in a sign of resignation, as if he was apologising before he spoke. ‘If it’s a trap.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The descent into Heathrow was bumpy, nothing but cloud swirling outside the cabin window until all of a sudden the aircraft lurched lower and west London appeared below as they lined up for the final approach.

An hour later they were on the M25 heading round the top of London in stop-start traffic.

‘No worries,’ Javed said, his fingers on the screen of his phone. ‘The Excelsior is still a good few hours out. Plenty of time.’

Holm gripped the wheel and willed the traffic to clear. Did they have plenty of time? The issue, he thought, was Huxtable. At some point he’d have to inform her, but if there really was a mole in any branch of the intelligence services then as soon as they began to formulate a plan Taher would be alerted. Holm wanted Latif, but he wanted Taher more. For now he had to keep quiet.

They’d arranged to meet Cornish at Felixstowe and she was waiting in the port car park as they pulled in some time after twelve.

‘I want you to know I’m not happy,’ she said as Holm and Javed got out of their car. ‘You just breeze in and compromise a case we’ve been working on without a moment’s thought and now this.’

‘Sorry, Billie.’ Holm held up his hands. The need to keep things under wraps just a little longer meant getting on the wrong side of Cornish once again. ‘You know how it—’

‘Yeah, right. National fucking security. Well I can tell you if anything goes down here in Suffolk, I’m holding you personally responsible.’

‘Sure.’ Holm was no longer interested in arguing. He wanted the old Cornish back. The one who had, despite being married to somebody else – a woman indeed – ignited a tiny spark in his belly, made him feel something. ‘Shall we just get on with it?’