Parfit’s office, too, was modern, belying his old-world appearance. The desk was cream-coloured and constructed of metal and plastic and chipboard. The chairs were made from tubular steel, their fabric a gaudy lime-green design. There was a large cabinet against one wall, protected by a steel rod and a tumbler lock. Beside it stood a smaller filing cabinet, again protected from prying eyes. The windows were covered by prodigious quantities of net curtain – to stop glass from a potential bomb blast spraying the room, as Parfit later explained. There were calendars and year-planners on two walls, and a coffee table upon which sat a teapot and three mugs, whose interiors were growing cultures not dissimilar in colour to that of the chair fabric.

And in one chair sat Blake Farquharson, though he stood when they entered.

‘Hello, Parfit.’

‘Good morning, Blake.’ The two men shook hands warmly, like old friends after a separation. ‘You’ve already met Martin Hepton. This …’ Parfit gestured towards Dreyfuss, but Farquharson interrupted.

‘… Must be Major Dreyfuss,’ he said, holding out his hand. Dreyfuss stared at it, but kept his own by his side. Then Farquharson noticed the bandage and brought his outstretched hand up to his mouth, using it to shield an embarrassed cough.

‘We had a spot of bother,’ Parfit explained. He had gone to his desk and was sifting through the mass of paperwork awaiting him. He read the top sheets thoroughly, while the rest of the room kept an awkward silence. Dreyfuss had grabbed one of the chairs and was trying to make himself comfortable. Hepton preferred to stand, and went to the window. Parfit put down the sheets. ‘Sanders’ report,’ he stated.

‘Yes,’ said Farquharson, ‘I read it while I was waiting. I’m not sure about Sanders. He’s keen, but …’

‘That’s his problem,’ Hepton muttered.

‘What’s that?’ Farquharson barked.

Hepton turned to him. ‘Your Sanders,’ he said. ‘He’s all enthusiasm, no brains. I’ll give you an example.’

‘Please do,’ Farquharson said slyly.

‘Okay, when we went to talk to Cam Devereux – who died this morning, by the way, not that you’ll lose much sleep over that small fact – the doorman at the Achilles told us we couldn’t park where we’d parked. Sanders flashed some kind of ID, which the doorman studied.’

‘Yes? Is that all?’

‘No,’ said Hepton. ‘I went back to the hotel this morning. I tried to catch a killer, and a Soviet agent helped me.’

Farquharson’s eyes opened wide, and he looked to Parfit for confirmation.

‘Vitalis,’ Parfit said in a neutral voice. Farquharson nodded.

‘And this Vitalis,’ Hepton continued, getting to his point, ‘stopped on the way out of the hotel to have a few words with the doorman; a few words in Russian.’

‘Is that so?’ Farquharson looked to Parfit again. ‘That’s a useful piece of information.’

But Parfit shook his head. ‘We’ve known about the doorman for a while.’