‘That’s the impression I get,’ Parfit agreed. ‘They’ve got to be building something underground.’

‘Such as?’

He shrugged again. ‘If we knew what COFFIN stood for, we might get an answer.’

‘So,’ Dreyfuss said, pointing at Farquharson, ‘are you going to go see the PM?’

Farquharson was flustered. ‘What with?’ he exclaimed.

Dreyfuss got to his feet. ‘With everything you’ve got. It all adds up to quite something, after all, doesn’t it? Drag the PM up to Buchan if you have to, but do something!’

Farquharson looked to Parfit, but saw in him no ally ready to leap to his defence. He examined his trouser legs thoughtfully and picked a thread from one. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can. May I use your phone?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Parfit.

Farquharson picked up the receiver and punched out a few numbers. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘it’s Blake Farquharson here. Any chance of a word with the chief? Yes, I’m afraid it is urgent. Urgent as in very.’

Hepton and Dreyfuss were given leave to visit the canteen, situated in the building’s basement.

‘I’ll get someone to show you where it is,’ said Parfit.

‘We’ll find it,’ Dreyfuss snarled. But he calmed almost immediately and apologised. ‘I’d just like Martin and me to have a little time to ourselves, to talk about, well, Jilly. Is that okay?’

Parfit looked cowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if it seems we’re not doing enough to locate and free her. I admit it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff, but we are trying. Try to relax a little. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘No rush.’

Whether irony was intended or not, Parfit caught some in Dreyfuss’ words. No rush indeed. Farquharson had gone off to Downing Street. The prime minister had agreed to give him a ten-minute interview, starting at quarter past four, which barely gave him time to gather together the relevant details and assimilate them. Still, actually gathering the details was a job for Farquharson’s PA, Tony Poulson. Poulson would be panicking right about now, and the thought pleased Parfit greatly. What Farquharson saw in the man was quite beyond him. He had even instigated his own highly furtive investigation of Poulson’s past and private life, but with precious little success: the man was as clean as a nun’s conscience. But then how clean was that?

He sat behind his desk, wondering if he should have insisted on accompanying Farquharson to Number Ten. He stared at his door, thinking of Dreyfuss and Hepton. Pity the canteen wasn’t bugged, but no member of staff would have stood for it …