I took a breath. Closed my eyes and let my breathing settle. Then, with some reluctant hissing of tyres and the kind of clunking noise that made me glad I wasn’t the owner, I managed to pull the Allegro back onto the road and effect a painful seven-point turn.

I nursed the car back up the road and out of sight. Only when I’d put a couple of miles between myself and the crash scene did I pull in through an open farm gate and switch off the engine, killing the lights. I smoked a cigarette, fingers trembling. I checked the handgun. Two bullets were missing from the clip. I couldn’t help but think of Felicity and John, but my rational mind told me it was impossible. He’d been following me – there was no way he could have got to the house.

Finally, by the flickering flame of the dying man’s lighter, I looked through my file. Read about my successes and failures, my every assessment, my potential usefulness to the enemy. I was marked as ‘high risk’ and my political affiliations were classified as ‘potentially subversive’. Somebody had circled a line buried in the conclusions. It read: ‘… briefly considered for role within Joint Intelligence Division’s classified Angels programme’. Had I? What the hell was the Angels programme?

Then the radio crackled into life.

‘Munkar, this is Samael. Is the package secure? Over.’

I stopped breathing. Closed my eyes. There was no doubting the voice that hissed from the radio on the passenger seat.

I couldn’t help myself. I picked up the radio and spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Hello, Walt.’

CORDELIA

He recovered himself quickly. There was only the slightest pause before the radio crackled back to life and his voice bled into the dark stillness of the creaking car.

‘Mrs Hemlock,’ he said, softly. ‘Mrs Cordelia Hemlock. This is a surprise.’

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. I didn’t know what the hell was happening so I couldn’t think of anything smart to say. He wanted to make sure that anybody listening in knew exactly who I was, but as to who that listener might be, or why I was at all relevant, remained a mystery.

‘Can I presume that some mishap has befallen our mutual friend?’

I swallowed hard. Lit another cigarette with the lighter and looked again at the faint writing on its side. ‘Big D’s,’ I read, coldly. ‘Belize City. Our mutual friend got himself a souvenir.’

‘He mentioned that you’d taken it,’ said Walt, matter-of-factly, in a burst of static. I could almost hear him thinking, moving the pieces around in his head. ‘He got himself in quite the state after you left him on the train. I fear he may have one or two speeding tickets as a result of making up for lost time.’