She smiled archly. ‘If I know Sanders, that shouldn’t be difficult.’

There was a knock on the door of the room, and Sanders’ head appeared. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Another job.’

‘Well, you should be sorry,’ Jilly said, sounding peeved. She rose from her chair. ‘Just for that, Sanders, lunch is on you.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything to oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Jilly, taking his arm. ‘There’s this little Italian place off Regent Street …’

Hepton, marvelling, followed.

Jilly had judged things perfectly. Sanders was keen to get on in his career, and slightly in awe of his superiors. He also felt a little aggrieved at having been left out of the top-level meeting, and his attention was total as, seated at a corner table in the restaurant, Jilly began to tell him all about it. He wanted to know every detail, and she was only too willing to tell. Soon, with a few tantalising lies thrown in to make the mixture even more intriguing, she had him hooked, a child to her fairy tale. They had just finished the first course. Hepton had ordered a veal dish to follow, though he hated veal on principle.

‘That dish is very special, sir,’ the waiter had informed him, pointing it out on the menu. ‘You see, it says there it takes thirty minutes to cook.’

It did indeed warn of this, which was why Hepton had chosen it. He didn’t want to be on the telephone downstairs and have his food waiting for him upstairs, causing Sanders to realise that he was away from the table. He had to be sure of a gap between the first course and the main. So he had nodded, and Jilly had caught his reasoning.

‘That sounds good,’ she had said. ‘I think I’ll change my mind and have the veal instead of the chicken.’ The waiter had nodded, scribbling on his pad. Then Sanders had joined in.

‘Make that three veals,’ he’d said, and they had all smiled.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ Hepton said now, lifting his napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table. Sanders nodded, but hardly paid any attention. Jilly had started another story about the meeting. Hepton rose to his feet and walked towards the back of the restaurant. An arrowed sign told him that the toilets were downstairs, and he descended the staircase slowly, his heart thumping furiously.

The wall phone was not in use. It was a modern chrome effort, with a blue receiver. It accepted most coins, and Hepton searched in his pocket. He came out with one pound and seventy pence. He checked his watch. It had just crept past one o’clock. Good: the rate wouldn’t be at its most expensive. He probably had enough. He picked up the receiver, dropped in the money and saw it register on the liquid crystal display, and dialled.

‘Hello?’ said a voice on the other end.