‘Don’t run up too much of a bill. We always ask for the money back sometime.’ Then, having locked the boot, he was off. Dreyfuss picked up the attaché case and suitcase and hurried after him.

26

Dreyfuss was impressed by the performance. Parfit had assumed the brisk but awkward walk of the busy businessman, and even his face seemed to have grown new worry lines, his eyes proclaiming a head filled with spreadsheets and data analysis. There was no doubt about it: at the law firm, Parfit was the one who looked after the accounts. More, he made sure everybody paid.

Dreyfuss was no actor, however. He watched the other travellers intently, seeking out the potential assassin or arresting officer. There were video cameras trained on every angle of the building’s interior. Somewhere in the security room, someone would be watching him. He prayed they wouldn’t recognise him. His photograph had been in all the newspapers, hadn’t it? They were sure to spot him.

They had joined the queue at their chosen airline’s London check-in desk. The people in front of them looked innocent enough: businessmen mostly, one elderly couple, two young men travelling together. The young men had short hair and wore checked shirts and denims. They didn’t have much luggage, either. But it was the haircuts that worried Dreyfuss. They looked like regulation down-to-the-wood cuts, the kind only an armed forces barber could perfect. Dreyfuss knew; he’d been there.

When the crew cuts got to the front of the queue, he tried to listen in on their conversation with the smiling clerk. It all seemed normal. Small talk. They wanted smoking seats, and there seemed to be a problem about this. At last, their seat numbers having been allocated, they headed off in the direction of the departures lounge, watched by Dreyfuss.

‘Stephen?’

It took a moment for him to realise that Parfit was speaking – speaking to him. He was Stephen Jackson. But who was Parfit again? James Pardoe? Farlow? Yes, Farlow: James Farlow.

‘What is it, James?’ he said. He was perspiring now, and could hear his heart thumping through his inner ear. Parfit smiled at him, his eyes warning him not to panic.

‘You need to put your suitcase in here.’ He pointed to a gap in the desk where a set of rollers waited to send their suitcases hurtling down towards the baggage loading area. Dreyfuss nodded embarrassedly and handed over his case. ‘There aren’t any window seats left,’ Parfit said. ‘Is that okay?’

‘I don’t mind where I sit,’ Dreyfuss blurted. The clerk was staring at him now. Dreyfuss attempted a grin, which seemed to frighten her further.

‘Fear of flying,’ Parfit explained to her, accepting the two boarding cards. ‘He’ll be fine once we’re up.’

They walked towards the departures lounge, Dreyfuss on legs made of drinking straws filled with putty, Parfit looking a little less confident than before.