‘Fair or not, most of Europe went on high alert because of you lot and yet nothing happened. Then you cancelled the alert and when the attack happens it’s somewhere completely off the radar.’ There was a pause before Palmer continued. ‘You might like to start devising some elaborate excuse for the Spider on why you fucked up on this one, OK?’

Holm shivered as Palmer ended the call. The Spider. Real name Fiona Huxtable, Holm’s immediate boss and the deputy director of MI5. The Spider lived on the fifth floor at Thames House and spun sticky webs that could trap the unwary. Like many female arachnids, she enjoyed eating the male of the species alive, although in Huxtable’s case it didn’t involve sex beforehand.

He tossed the phone onto the sofa. In the bathroom he splashed water on his face and groped in the cupboard for a can of deodorant. The aerosol hissed out as he sprayed himself and he was struck by the thought that no amount of deodorant was going to prevent the stink Huxtable was going to kick up over this.

Silva turned away from the car park and back to the job in hand. She walked round the corner to where depressing flats stood above tired shops. She opened her postbag and took out a bunch of letters. Flat 2. She stuffed the letters into the slot, heard them fall onto the mat, let the flap clang shut, turned away.

The uniform. Red and blue, and she really hoped the boy in the car park aspired to be something more than a postal worker.