‘Get me Downing Street, please.’ He waited for the connection to be made. ‘Hello? Ah, hello. This is Tony Poulson, assistant to Blake Farquharson. I believe Blake had a meeting with the PM scheduled for this afternoon. I was just wondering—’

‘Haven’t you been told?’ The voice on the other end of the line was curt to the point of rudeness. ‘Your boss took ill.’

‘Took ill?’

‘Had to call off. After the bloody lengths we went to to find ten minutes for him in the PM’s schedule. No one is amused, Mr Poulson. Good day.’ And the line went dead.

Parfit’s smile was part vindication, part acceptance of the betrayal. Farquharson had never intended keeping his appointment. It was a delaying tactic, as had been so much of the game thus far. Parfit had run a check on the lease on Villiers’ apartment. The route to ownership had been circuitous, cleverly so, keeping one name as far away from prying eyes as possible. The name had been Farquharson’s. He owned the flat, as he owned its former occupant.

Well, nothing could be done about that now. He could leave Farquharson for the moment. For now, he had better things to do. He didn’t doubt that Hepton and Dreyfuss would be making for Binbrook, and that if they actually got there, they would inflict at least some damage, perhaps even enough damage. He phoned Frazer again.

‘Craig?’ he said. ‘Cancel that request, will you? If your lads see the car, let me know about it. But don’t apprehend.’

The larger the web had grown, the smaller its circumference had become, almost in defiance of the physical laws. Not that laws meant much any more. Parfit put down the receiver and went to the cabinet. There was, as always, no real alternative.

35

Graeme Izzard didn’t seem surprised to see Hepton, and greeted him like an old friend. Hepton had ordered Dreyfuss to stop the red Cavalier beside the taxis outside Alfie’s café. Inside, Izzard was tucking into the all-day breakfast.

‘Morning,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘It’s late afternoon, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Dreyfuss commented. Hepton and Izzard shared a conspiratorial smile: for Izzard, it was the start of the day.

‘What can I do for you?’ Izzard asked, his mind more on the tussle he was having with a particularly tough slice of middle bacon.

‘It’s about your little device,’ Hepton began, ‘the one you showed me last night.’

‘Which one? I seem to remember I showed you hundreds.’

‘Yes, but you kept this one in a cupboard. A relic of your hacking days …’

Thirty minutes later, Dreyfuss and Hepton left the industrial estate, Hepton driving and Dreyfuss clutching a small black box topped with an old calculator fascia. An unmarked police car was idling near the entrance to the estate. Five minutes later, the call went through to Parfit.