Leandro spun, unmarked, into the Dragon half, and was again denied the ball. Control, pass, control, pass, the Dragon forwards kept it out of his stretch – thundering down on him when he did force an interception. He floated over one pass, wasted another.

Even now, Dyer was plotting his next progress report that he had undertaken to write to Nissa at the end of each term. He would tell her that their son had ended this term on a high. Dyer saw no gain in mentioning Vasily’s bullying earlier. Aside from being selected for the school football team, Leandro had improved in his academic work, history in particular. Commended for his test on Trafalgar, Leandro had climbed over Paula’s fence to thank her. He liked a bit of a fuss so that he could flaunt his modesty, admitting to his father only late in the day that he had received assistance as well from Beatrice. Who would have thought this at the start of term?

The whistle blew at half-time with neither side having scored.

While the teams changed ends, a group of Dragon parents standing beside Dyer moved away … exposing Gilles Asselin.

He was talking in a frantic voice on his phone.

‘I’m ringing totally the wrong number. It’s Gilles, I thought you were someone else. Sorry about that. Take care. Bye.’

He saw Dyer, and stiffened like someone about to be photographed.

‘Jean …’ crushing his gloves.

One look at his face.

No longer a pike sizing up a parr. No longer on any podium.

Out of his throat rumbled the words: ‘Do you have it?’

‘No.’

‘I thought you did,’ with a sad gulp. ‘I got you wrong.’

He had not believed Dyer. His hunches which, until now, had profited him so acutely had whispered into his over-receptive ear that Dyer was sitting on Marvar’s epoch-defining information – why else would Dyer have made that dedication in his book: To Rustum Marvar, who may have solved everything? Why else would the waiter in the St Giles Café have overheard Marvar rise abruptly from the table where he had been scribbling on his fourth paper napkin, muttering: ‘I’ve done it, I’ve done it …’ Why else would Marvar have texted his wife: Now I may have done something!

Calculating that even if Marvar didn’t capitalise on what it was that he had done, then Dyer was bound to, and therefore would need to act on it as soon as possible, Gilles had asked himself: ‘Who’s going to be affected by nuclear fusion? Let’s short them. Big governments that rely on hydrocarbonates. Companies like BP, Exxon. Venezuelan debt.’

Gambler that he was, Gilles had shorted everything that lay within his global financial compass to short, borrowing ‘right up my Wazoo’, he admitted to Dyer with a ruined smile. ‘I poured shitloads into speculation about where next.’ He had sold out of coal mines, bought up deserts … He was heading south fast.