‘That’s right.’ His voice was American. There was an innocence to it that Hepton had noted before with American accents.

‘Mr Devereux, my name’s Sanders, I’m from the Foreign Office. We’ve come to talk to you about Major Michael Dreyfuss.’

‘About Mike?’ Devereux was wide awake now. A note of anxiety crept into his voice. ‘What’s wrong? Jesus, don’t tell me he’s up and died?’

‘Oh no, he’s quite fine. But he did telephone from America. He wanted us to talk with you.’

Devereux took in all three faces individually, wary still. Then he threw out an arm and pulled the door open to its fullest extent. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said. But looking into his room, at the sprawl and untidiness there, he seemed to change his mind. ‘No, wait, on second thoughts, let me meet you in the bar in five minutes.’

Sanders seemed disapproving, but managed to keep the smile more or less intact. ‘Right you are,’ he said.

The door closed, leaving the three of them out in the corridor, much as they had been before.

‘Sounds good to me,’ Jilly said. ‘One of you men can buy me a very large drink.’ She was already heading back towards the stairs. Hepton began to follow, but saw that Sanders was staring at Devereux’s door, his bottom lip clasped between upper and lower teeth.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘How do we know he’ll come to the bar?’ Sanders whispered. ‘I mean, he could do a runner.’

‘He didn’t look the running type,’ Hepton offered, turning to follow Jilly.

Sanders watched him go, in an agony of sorts: should he stay and wait for Devereux, or follow his charges? A low growl left him, and he stalked back down the corridor after them.

It took Jilly less than a minute to finish her first gin. She examined the tall glass, still half full of unmelted ice.

‘Better make it a double next time,’ she said. She caught the waiter’s attention and he walked smilingly towards her, knowing a potentially good customer when he saw one. Jilly ordered her double, but Hepton and Sanders shook their heads. Hepton was nursing a half-pint of lager, Sanders a tomato juice. They were seated at a corner table – at Sanders’ insistence – from which they could watch the door to the hotel lobby and still have a view of the other occupants of the cocktail lounge. Not that there were many occupants to watch. The resident pianist was playing to a table of four well-dressed women, their clothes younger than their years. They applauded every tune, but quietly, politely, and he bowed his head each time, accepting gracefully, as he hoped to accept their drinks and their tips.