‘Those were a crazy few hours, even out here in the sticks. We had to lock down the port of Felixstowe and then there was…’ Cornish let her words trail off and she turned her head once more. This time her gaze was directed up the coast to where a distant cluster of huge concrete buildings surrounded a brilliant white dome. Sizewell nuclear power station. ‘You’d tell me if your investigation had anything to do with that, wouldn’t you, Stephen? National security or not?’

Holm took another drink of coffee. Swallowed. He’d spotted the power station on the drive in, even pointed it out to Javed, but for some reason it hadn’t even crossed his mind it could be connected.

‘Of course I would,’ he said.

‘So,’ Javed said as they watched Cornish drive off in a patrol car. ‘What do you reckon?’

Holm wasn’t listening. He was still considering Cornish’s question about Sizewell. He’d refused to answer her probing directly, instead keeping up the animal rights charade, but if there’d been a real threat? Something which could have harmed her? National security or not, he pretty much knew he’d have told her the truth.

As it was, Cornish had let it lie. She’d given them some more information on Ben Western and SeaPak, but there wasn’t much to go on and nothing to suggest a link to Taher. Pity, Holm thought. It would have been nice to spend a bit of time with Cornish. But that was stupid. A fine woman like her had to be married by now. There’d be kids, home life, a world away from work. Then again Holm had once known the same and it hadn’t been enough. All of a sudden he was thinking of how old he felt, of how lucky Cornish’s husband must be, of how his own marriage had ended in failure and recriminations.

‘Hello?’ Javed said as Cornish’s car disappeared into the distance. ‘Come in, number twenty-nine, your time is up.’

‘Huh?’ Holm flipped back to real life.

‘I was asking about Ben Western and SeaPak.’ Javed’s gaze drifted seawards. On the horizon one tiny smudge after another lay strung out in a line. Cargo ships awaiting clearance into Felixstowe. ‘What the hell can the murder of Western have to do with Taher?’

Holm moved towards their car. A breeze blew in off the sea, cold and damp. He’d neglected to put his jacket on when they arrived and now he felt chilled. ‘I have no idea.’

The event started at six, and as they struggled through the rush-hour crowds, Silva felt ridiculously overdressed in her black cocktail dress. In his smart suit, Sean looked like an actor about to step onto the red carpet.

‘The reception is at the National Gallery,’ Sean said as they emerged from the tube at Charing Cross and walked across Trafalgar Square. ‘It’s a private function.’