That afternoon, the Phoenix were playing the Dragon. The schools had been rivals for years. A big turnout was expected.

Traditionally, both schools fielded their first and second XIs. The touchlines thronged with parents who had children in the teams. The largest group of spectators was made up of Phoenix parents and teachers. A victory against the Dragon had a taste of its own.

Dyer arrived in good time for once. He waved to Leandro as the teams filed out. The clock chimed two, and the games kicked off.

Leandro’s team very nearly conceded a goal in the opening minute. Only a desperate punch from Pierre Asselin diverted the ball. He saved two more strikes in quick succession, his teammates clustering into the goalmouth to congratulate him. They looked nervous, outclassed.

The Dragon continued to dominate. Time and again, the Phoenix defence failed to push the game into their opponents’ half. Leandro, at centre forward, was unemployed for long stretches. He burst unchecked into an empty space, called for the ball, and when it was intercepted ran back.

Pierre stopped a fourth near-goal with his knees. This unconventional save somehow galvanised the team, and the Phoenix started to rally. They played better, more fluently.

Leandro raced up and down. Dyer’s eyes followed his son until he wasn’t looking at him. He was watching him, but he wasn’t looking at him.

Dyer glanced, at last, over to the other pitch.

Katya stood talking to the father in the black beret. Her profile was haughty now. Entrenched in her superior passivity.

The two were watching the second XI. In the event, neither of their sons had been promoted to replace Samir. That honour had gone, instead, to Henry Puckey.

A baseball cap all of a sudden blocked Dyer’s view. Shuttling between both games, with his carroty hair and insatiable smile, Ralph Cubbage had no child playing in either team.

Already, Dyer had registered the coded manner in which the cellist’s father had greeted Updark. Not long after that, Cubbage had paused to speak to Gilles in earnest, nothing-to-do-with-football tones. Now, he monitored Katya and her wild-haired companion, who, it had dawned on Dyer somewhat late in the day, was none other than Marvar’s professor at the Clarendon, Bruce Whitton.

Dyer’s eye was caught by a figure approaching in a fur hat and a long white-and-blue scarf. He looked like a Brazilian construction boss, stumpy and round-stomached, his leather jacket dark and shiny as the Chevrolet that Vasily boasted his father had imported from Havana. His shoes with chains across the toecap lent a dapper touch.

He was marching over the grass towards Katya. Cubbage, noticing him before she did, lowered his head and nonchalantly rotated his cap.