‘Well he didn’t do so personally either. In fact with my father I’m not sure there’s any difference. Strategy and tactics cover his whole life from his morning crap to his evening cocoa. Everything has to be planned out in advance or timed to the second.’

Sean shook his head once more. ‘You’re as bad as him, you know? Stubborn, obstinate, and you think your way is the only way.’

‘If I’m so awful, then why are you here?’ As she asked the question the answer came to her. Silva stopped and let go of Sean’s arm. ‘Hang on, you didn’t phone my father, did you? He phoned you.’

Sean shrugged. Didn’t say anything. They resumed walking, heading down to the Barbican area of the waterfront. When they reached the quayside they sat down at a table outside a bar and ordered drinks.

‘Look,’ Sean said once the waiter had brought the drinks over. ‘You’re right, your dad called me a couple of days ago. I just happened to have a month here in London on embassy duties, but I’d have come from anywhere if I’d thought there was a chance we might get back together.’

‘But not otherwise?’

‘No.’ Sean hung his head. He reached for his beer and took a sip. ‘Why continue to beat myself up?’

‘You’re not my friend, then?’

‘Not just your friend. I could never cope with that.’

As Sean put his beer down, Silva gave a resigned look and half smiled.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

Javed spent an hour conducting an extensive search for crimes associated with animal rights that had been committed in East Anglia. He printed out the results.

‘Here you go,’ he said, waving a dozen sheets of paper in the air, his voice tinged with triumph as if what he’d done was a major achievement. ‘The animal libbers love it up there in Suffolk. Pig units, chicken units, Huntingdon Life Sciences just over the border in Cambridgeshire. By the number of incidents it seems to be a regular hotbed.’

‘Great,’ Holm said. ‘But we’re not really looking for animal rights activists, are we?’

‘No, I guess not.’ Javed lowered the crime reports and dumped them on the table. He swivelled his chair to face Holm. ‘Pity.’

Holm reached across his desk for his old address book. The scrappy A5 booklet was full of contacts he’d made over the years, many from way back when he’d been a copper. Pre-smartphones, almost pre-mobiles, the pages were a mess of hurriedly jotted addresses and telephone numbers. Most, he realised, would be out of date, but he only needed a name or two. He flicked through the book, pausing every now and then as he tried to recall old colleagues and where they’d ended up. He was halfway through when he stopped and snapped the book closed.