‘No need to lose your temper, Mr Harris.’ Sanders was writing Jilly’s name on a sheet of paper. ‘But you’ve no proof of identity on you?’

Oh, what the hell, thought Hepton. If they’re going to check on Jilly, they’ll get my name eventually.

‘My name’s Hepton, not Harris,’ he said.

Sanders seemed satisfied. ‘But you signed the visitor’s pass Harris. That could get you into trouble, you know. Why the deception?’

‘Look, I just want to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss. If you could help me contact him …’

Sanders rose to his feet. ‘Wait here a moment, would you, please?’ He walked smartly to the door. ‘Help yourself to more coffee,’ he said, making an exit.

Hepton stayed seated, but couldn’t relax. This had seemed such a good idea at the time. There was bound to be someone from the FO in contact with Dreyfuss. It had seemed so simple … But now he had given them so much, and they had given him nothing. He got up and went to the window, pushing aside the net curtain to look out. All he saw was other windows in another building. They too had net curtains, making it impossible to see into the rooms.

He crossed to Sanders’ desk and examined it. The papers, as expected, were just blank sheets. The drawers of the desk were locked. Over at the bookcase, he wiped a finger along one surface and it came away carrying a bud of dust, which he blew into the air. There was another door, a cupboard perhaps, but it too was locked. He went to the percolator and refilled his cup, drinking slowly. What was happening? Where had Sanders gone? Would Harry walk in through the door? Had he delivered himself to her on a plate?

When the door did finally open, Sanders himself stood there, looking composed.

‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Hepton,’ he commanded, and they set off together back along the silent corridor and up an imposing staircase. There weren’t so many rooms on this second level. A large and busy reception area was the hub of the activity as people walked briskly in and out of the various offices. Telephones rang, and a few visitors sat on modern upholstered chairs, flicking through magazines.

Sanders approached the reception desk and said something to the prim woman seated there. She filled in another pass, which was torn from its pad and handed to Sanders, who in turn gave it to Hepton.

‘Sign it, please,’ he ordered, and Hepton accepted the proffered pen. ‘Best stick to calling yourself Harris,’ Sanders advised. ‘That way it doesn’t get complicated when you’ve handed back both passes and somebody tries to collate the day’s visitors in and out.’