Eventually he was given a visitor’s pass to fill in, which he did, using the name Martin Harris. Then he was shown to an office along a sweeping, red-carpeted corridor. There were many doors, bearing room numbers and sometimes the name of an individual or a section. The room Hepton eventually entered, however, had neither. A young man sat behind a desk. He stood as Hepton entered, leaned across the table to shake his hand and gestured for him to take a seat.

‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Harris?’ There was a percolator standing on a table beside the small window.

‘Please,’ said Hepton.

As the man poured, Hepton studied the room. It had bookshelves, but no books, and the desk looked to be unused. Though it boasted some papers and a box of biro pens, there was a layer of dust covering its surface, evidence that this room wasn’t often occupied. He wondered if he had walked into some kind of trap.

‘Milk?’

‘Please, no sugar.’

He was handed a cup and saucer. The young man sat down again, sipped, then looked up.

‘So then, Mr Harris, what can we do for you?’

‘Well, I’m a friend of Major Michael Dreyfuss …’

‘Yes, so you said.’

‘And I really would like to get in touch with him.’

‘Any particular reason why?’

‘To wish him a speedy recovery, of course.’

The man nodded. ‘It’s taken you a while to get round to that, hasn’t it?’

Hepton reminded himself that he had no time to play games. ‘Look,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s just something I need to speak with him about. Something personal, but very important.’

‘Oh?’ The civil servant had picked up one of the new biros and was examining it. It struck Hepton that he didn’t know who this man was.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Sanders,’ the civil servant said. ‘And you said yours was Harris.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, Mr Harris, it’s just that we have to be careful. A lot of people would like to speak to Major Dreyfuss. I’m sure you understand. Reporters from the less scrupulous newspapers, and other people. So, if there’s some way we can establish your identity …?’

Hepton cursed silently. Sanders was shrewder than he had anticipated. He shook his head. Sanders appeared to have been expecting this.

‘Or,’ he said, ‘if you can prove your relationship with Major Dreyfuss …?’

Hepton thought this over. ‘We have a mutual friend,’ he said at last. ‘Miss Jill Watson. She’s a reporter on the Herald.’

The civil servant looked up from his pen. ‘And she sent you here?’

Hepton saw the implication and shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not. She doesn’t even know I’m in London, for Christ’s sake.’