‘There’s something I’d like to ask you,’ said Dyer.

Updark rotated his head in a slow arc, and looked at Dyer with a groundless grin. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Whatever happened to your face?’

Chapter Eighteen

UPSTAIRS, THEY SAT ON WHITE plastic cubes at the side of a neon-lit open room. In the space around them, a dozen or so figures, some casually dressed, some in ties, were hunched over computer screens or talking by the large window which overlooked the car park. The screens were mounted on long narrow tables. From time to time someone wheeled out from under one of these tables a box-shaped white cabinet with drawers, and pushed it towards a colleague.

Dyer’s quick eyes took in: potted plants by the window, a message pinned into a sound baffle, ‘Remember your neighbours, please no curry’, no clutter, hardly any paper, and despite all the knots of conversation, an overall feeling of soundlessness.

Updark waved at a woman working at a desk in the area they were sitting in to bring two coffees.

‘Milk?’ raising her eyebrow at Dyer. She could have stepped from one of Vivien’s fashion magazines, in a short navy skirt with scarlet dots on it, and dark stockings. Her auburn hair was piled up in a dated bun, and two loose strands trailed over her ears.

‘None for me,’ said Dyer.

‘The usual splash, thanks, Lorna.’

They were waiting for someone to join them. He arrived at the same moment as their coffees. A younger man, lean, unshaven, open-shirted, in a green tweed jacket. His short brown hair looked recently cut. He had a small mouth.

Updark introduced him. ‘Roland Hissop. Iran desk.’

‘Hi,’ with a firm grip. His other hand held a clipboard.

‘Hi.’

‘John and I were at school together,’ Updark explained. ‘We’ve been catching up.’

Hissop, too, it appeared. He knew of Dyer’s work in Rio, he said. His first posting had been Venezuela.

‘I was sorry to hear about your wife,’ settling onto a cube.

‘Which one?’ asked Dyer, more sharply than he intended.

‘Oh, I thought there was only the one.’

‘Not really. But you haven’t brought me here to discuss my marriages.’

‘Quite right,’ Updark said. He had hardened back into a stern and watchful administrator, as self-contained as the biscuit tin which he now scraped open and offered round. ‘Flapjacks, anyone? Lorna made them.’

Dyer shook his head.

‘Thanks,’ said Hissop, taking two.

Updark started to reach for one, but decided against. ‘We have brought you here,’ returning the tin to the top of the white cabinet between them, ‘to talk about Rustum Marvar.’

Of course. This kidnap. It could only be about him.

Dyer took a procrastinating sip of lukewarm black coffee. ‘What about Marvar?’

‘Interrogation session,’ said Updark, ‘coming up.’ He produced a notebook and pen from his jacket. ‘You and Marvar are friends, I understand?’ He looked at Dyer enquiringly.