‘You’re aware we get thousands of pieces of information a week, most of which are never followed up? Time and time again we have people who blip on our radar but are passed over because of lack of resources. Right-wingers, left-wingers, radicals of all types intent on getting their fifteen minutes of fame. There are snippets of intelligence which, as much as we try, we can’t jigsaw together. Even with AI and a bunch of algorithms we’re missing these at the moment. You might just get lucky.’

‘You’re kicking me out of JTAC.’

‘We’re supposed to be the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, Stephen. The problem is your recent analysis has been wide of the mark.’ That flat smile again. ‘And I’m not kicking you out. I prefer to think of it as moving you sideways, OK?’

‘Sideways?’

‘Yes. You’ll remain under the JTAC umbrella, but you’ll have an office of your own, a budget and a free hand to pursue whatever leads you want within reason.’ Huxtable smiled, but the look wasn’t a good one. ‘Take some time off to think about it, OK?’

Huxtable reached for Holm’s report. She glanced at the cover before sliding the document into her out-tray. He’d been dealt with. Rubber-stamped. Filed. Her gaze moved to Holm, a quizzical expression on her face as if she was surprised to see him still there.

He struggled out of the armchair and got to his feet.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

The funeral for Silva’s mother took place fifteen days after the attack. Francisca da Silva had had a wide circle of friends and colleagues and, since she’d split with Silva’s father, several lovers. She’d never remarried though, and it was Silva and her father who’d dealt with the arrangements. Silva had been an emotional wreck and near useless, but her father approached the situation much as he’d have tackled a military problem. He created checklists, delegated various tasks to friends and family, drew up contingency plans and imposed strict deadlines. Now though, as they sat in a car following the hearse, Silva could see the effort involved had worn away at him. His hair had greyed years ago, but there were other signs of ageing that seemed more recent.

‘Friday,’ he said, aware Silva was looking at him. ‘Not a good day for a burial, but it was the only slot available. Fully booked, see? Damn good business to be in, funerals. There’s an endless supply of clients and they don’t answer back.’

Silva wasn’t sure if the reference to Friday was religious. She didn’t think so. Her father had never done God and she couldn’t see him starting now.

‘Are you OK?’ she said. He hadn’t asked her the same question. Not once in the past two weeks. ‘I mean, I know you and Mum were—’