‘You might say so.’ For a moment it looked as if the officer would snap at Holm again, but then he sighed. ‘I think you’d better go and have another word with Detective Chief Superintendent Cornish. Tell her your crime is the Western misper case.’

‘That’s it?’ Holm waited for some clarification but the officer managed barely a nod before he turned away.

‘Helpful, this lot,’ Javed said as the officer walked off.

Silva headed for London on Monday and, thanks to light traffic on the motorway, made the journey in a little under three and a half hours. Sean was staying in a large house bordering Wimbledon Common; with the security gates and cameras the place could have been the residence of a Russian oligarch. However, the man who let her in and showed her where to park in the subterranean garage spoke English with an American accent.

‘Got a flat of my own here,’ Sean said when he met her in the reception area and took her upstairs. He gave Silva a smile. ‘Saves on expensive hotel rooms.’

Sean pushed open the door to his flat and showed her through to a luxuriously furnished living room. A balcony with French windows offered a fine view over Wimbledon Common, but the place felt like the serviced apartment it was: anodyne pictures of sandy beaches and sunsets, a few knick-knacks, plain linen. Nice enough, but impersonal.

‘Don’t you get tired of this?’ Silva said. ‘Not having anywhere to call home?’

‘I’ve got a place back in Maine.’

‘It’s rented out.’

‘And you live on an old boat.’

‘The difference is it’s my boat with my things.’

‘Goes with the territory. I’ll settle down eventually. Couple of kids. Little League. Barbecues. Wash the car on the weekend. Not ready for that just yet though.’

‘Tonight,’ Silva said. ‘Why the secrecy?’

‘I’m a secret agent, remember? Besides, don’t you like surprises?’

Silva didn’t respond. Surprises were nice when they came packaged in paper and wrapped in ribbons. Handed over with love. Not when they were buried in a muddy track and ripped someone’s legs from their body. Not when they took away a loved one.

She dumped her panniers by the door and strolled over to where the French windows stood open. She looked out across the common, aware that just a few miles to the north east, Neil Milligan was probably sitting behind his desk at Third Eye News, while to the south of London, Matthew Fairchild was likely working in his office. She thought about Milligan’s slippery evasiveness and contrasted that with Fairchild’s steely resolve. Wondered what her next move should be.