Parfit was a patient man, but also a man who enjoyed the occasional slice of action. He had, for instance, thoroughly enjoyed breaking the man’s neck at the airport in DC. He hoped one day to enjoy killing Harry. But it had to be sanctioned. Given that sanction, he was ready to fall on Villiers, Harry and the rest with the most extreme prejudice he could muster. A nod from the PM, that was all he craved right now. His men were ready to act. He’d arranged for Special Branch to turn a temporary blind eye. And he had the necessary tools of his profession to hand. A nod was all he needed. But he doubted he’d get it. All the same …

He went to the door and locked it, then crossed to the large cabinet, worked the combination and drew the steel rod out from its resting place. Pulling the cabinet open, he revealed his small but lethal arsenal. Pride of place went to his two preferred handguns, a Walther PPK and a Browning nine-millimetre pistol, the latter’s magazine already engaged, thirteen rounds ready for the firing: unlucky for some. He tested its weight. Both guns had been stripped, oiled, checked and rechecked since last use. He put them back and examined the other firearm, a Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun. Several years before, Parfit had accepted a challenge from an SAS captain to spend some time with the regiment’s Counter Revolutionary Warfare Unit as they played out a close-quarters scenario in what had become known as the Killing House. This was a closed environment in which they had to imagine three terrorists were holding a hostage. The captain’s summary of Parfit’s performance had been frank: ‘That was fucking awful. You killed each and every one of them, the hostage included.’ But then that had been Parfit’s intention, since his job usually entailed tidiness of the most rigorous kind.

Still, he had liked the feel of the MP5s used by the unit, and had acquired one, its serial number removed. Now he touched its barrel, thinking of Harry. Did he hate her so much because he saw so much of himself in her? It was a question he would rather not answer. He lifted the MP5 fluidly to his shoulder and took imaginary aim at the office door.

‘Hello, Harry,’ he whispered.

There were no windows in the canteen, and the air conditioning was working flat out just trying to dissipate the smells of cooking, of hot fat and baked beans. Sad murals the colour of mud played over the walls, while afterthoughts such as room dividers and pot plants merely added to the institutional feel of the whole. Hepton and Dreyfuss were the only inhabitants. They had been given cold stares and lukewarm tea by one of the canteen staff.

‘Too late for food,’ she’d snapped.