‘It’s an ugly business,’ I say, quietly. ‘You told me that when I was starting out. You said I would have times in my career when I wouldn’t be able to face myself. There would be times when I’d be offered medals and I’d prefer a gunshot to the head. It wasn’t much of a pep talk but you’ve been proven right. I’ve done things that make me feel sick but I cling to the idea I’m helping stop things getting any worse. We’ve done some good, you know we have.’

He sags a little, as if some fight has gone out of him. I wish I could just give the old sod a hug. He just looks so pitiful and ridiculous, this washed-up spook in his ill-fitting clothes and his dirty glasses, imploring me to see the world his way.

I pull a face, already unsure if I’m making a mistake. ‘Something real,’ I say, quietly. ‘What do you mean, something real?’

He looks up. The light of the torch flickers for a moment and in the sudden strobing darkness it seems as though each of the dancing shadows is suddenly alive: each raven-dark silhouette the outline of one of his past incarnations; one of the many likenesses and aliases he has stepped into and out of during a career that began before the end of the war. He reaches into the zip-up pocket of his jacket and retrieves a small silver case. He slides it open, soundlessly, and from within he removes a strip of photographic film, he pulls at either side of the case and it extends in the middle: a magnifying viewer suddenly visible in the base of the box. He hands it to me without a word. I take the torch and arrange myself so I can examine the film through the viewer.

‘What am I looking at …?’

He doesn’t speak. Waits until the image comes into proper focus and my mind fills in the gaps in the dark, grainy image. I see children. Flame. A man with dark eyes holding a naked little girl by the ankle.

‘When?’ I ask, my mouth dry. ‘Where?’ I stop myself, focusing on the most important question. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘I have a source,’ he says, quietly. ‘Absolute proof of what we suspect to be happening. Willing to talk. Willing to spill their guts about what our dear friends in Washington are willing to condone. The scale of it, Cordelia – a silent extermination and the world is just looking the other way.’

‘The world’s changed,’ I say, repeating a mantra that I’ve been hearing daily. ‘It’s not about righteousness and villainy any more. They care about expedience. Pragmatism. About maintaining our friendships and having a big old pal we can point at if anybody glares at us.’