She was led through a door opened by a waiter at the rear of a bar, and then swiftly closed behind them, along a concrete corridor behind the stands, and then up a flight of steps into the light, revealing a view of the ground, the green of the pitch looking perfect and clean, and somehow too close and too small to be an area where people really played international sport. A sign said this was the Tavern Stand, reserved for members and their guests. The beautiful woman whose name she would never know led her upwards still, into a balcony with a sidelong view of the wicket, where, far below, the bell had rung, and, to rising applause, the teams were coming onto the field. To the right was Old Father Time, the weathervane in the shape of an old man with a scythe, taking the bails off the wicket for the end of a game. Lofthouse had never understood why the home of cricket had put death in charge. She allowed herself to be led along the balcony to where, sitting back in the shade, were two middle-aged ladies in summer dresses. One of them looked to be of Indian heritage, a walking stick propped on the chair beside her, very long black hair tied back. The other was white, with a fringe of blonde hair, laughter lines around her eyes. They were both smiling at her, pleased by this civilized abduction.

‘We’re just getting tea,’ said the dark-haired lady. ‘Would you like some?’

‘Or hang on for an hour and we’re planning on a bottle of rosé,’ added the blonde. ‘Bit early as yet for the lady petrol.’

‘Tea, please.’ Lofthouse sat and waited as the woman who’d driven her here took the order and departed.

‘Now,’ said the blonde woman, ‘our apologies for the secrecy.’

‘I’m Rita,’ said the dark-haired lady, ‘and this is Sue.’

‘Not our real names, of course.’

‘Because those I will never hear.’

‘Exactly!’ Sue smiled as if Lofthouse was a quick learner.

‘We,’ continued Rita, ‘are, as you put it to your driver, Bob, the “funny people”, which I’ve always thought is a really flattering bit of Met argot for such tremendously ordinary civil servants as ourselves.’

‘It’s really not,’ said Lofthouse, not minded to be as gracious as her abductors.

‘Well,’ said Sue, ‘let’s pretend it is. Women were only allowed to become members here in 1998, you know.’

‘Not that we are members,’ added Rita.

‘I know who I’m talking to,’ said Lofthouse. ‘I know you tend to get access to whatever you want. Why did you bring me here?’

‘Well, your operation, Fog, isn’t progressing as fast as it could be, is it? Oh, good shot.’