They stepped into the yard where the owner, wearing a well-padded quilt jacket and accompanied by a well-padded Labrador, was stood.

‘You boys ready to go now?’ Abu Mujahid put down the Amazon box he was about to slide into the back of the van and stood in front of it. He smiled at the woman.

‘We’re nearly done – just got to get the rest of the gear in the van.’

‘Of course. I’m in no hurry – I only popped round on the off-chance you’d gone early. I know it’s a long drive back. Bristol, wasn’t it, and it’ll be getting dark soon.’

Abu Mujahid and Asad nodded.

‘Everything okay with the cottage?’ she asked.

‘It was perfect, thank you. It’s a lovely place. And thank you for letting us stay so late – we were able to get a few hours climbing done this morning, which was hugely appreciated,’ said Abu Mujahid.

She looked pleased as she turned and walked back down the lane.

#

Half an hour later, the owner was back, rooting around in her handbag for the key. She opened the door and stepped in. Not too messy, she thought. She’d had concerns when she’d taken the booking – five boys on a climbing expedition sounded like trouble. When her husband was alive, he’d have said no. And she’d had even more concerns when she saw them face to face. But she couldn’t be picky now, and in the end, they’d been okay, nice even, she thought. Considering.

In the kitchen, she smiled when she saw the empty cans teetering out of the recycling box. Typical of students to drink cheap, nasty beer. Students and tramps. But reassuring that they drank beer. They couldn’t be too extreme, not like those angry Muslims she saw all the time on the telly. No. They were nice boys. Considering.

#

Kensington, West London

‘It’s absolutely ridiculous, Nina,’ said Lesley Hogarth, throwing the ticket onto the coffee table. It slid across the polished granite and came to a rest alongside a pristine copy of Country Life.

Strange choice for the house, thought O’Brien. A magazine that no one reads, that’s left out for show in dentist waiting rooms. Was her boss even on show at home?

‘Sorry, Lesley, but it’s a no-no,’ she said. ‘Imagine the headlines in tomorrow’s papers – particularly if the PM resigns tonight. Imagine the fun the cartoonists would have.’

‘But I paid two hundred pounds – right in the centre of the stalls. And it’s Matt Smith. Matt sodding Smith, for Chrissakes. I love Matt Smith. And Bertie’s away with the dog. I’ve got it all sorted.’

‘It’s Macbeth, Lesley. You cannot possibly go. It’s a play about regicide. Come on.’

‘Bollocks. You take it then. Have a night off…’

‘Not really into Shakespeare, but thanks. Listen, stay in tonight, work on your red lines for the meeting with Ben Thomas. Get a good night’s sleep.’ She stood up, grabbing her duffel coat and satchel. ‘And stay away from Macbeth.’