‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to go to lunch now. Okay?’ Then he moved quickly away towards the main doors. The man hesitated, then put the record back into its rack and followed.

Hepton was already on the pavement and hailing a taxi. Damn: the tail would have to hurry. He’d have to find a taxi too, in order to follow Hepton’s taxi. As he was about to push open the heavy glass door, a sudden high-pitched whine came from behind him. The security guard was upon him immediately, hands on his shoulders, turning him around. The tail protested, but the guard’s hands were patting his jacket, and one of them slipped into the left pocket, bringing out a compact disc.

The tail glared through the glass at Hepton, who was bending to get into his taxi. Hepton waved at him and grinned. Then the door slammed shut and the taxi moved off into the line of traffic.

‘Where to, guv?’ the driver asked.

‘First, a clothes shop,’ ordered Hepton. ‘Nothing too flashy. And somewhere between here and the Isle of Dogs.’

He reckoned he would need a shirt, jacket and casual trousers. He reasoned that he would be less conspicuous dressed smartly, and also that he needed a change of clothes in any event, otherwise his description could be circulated too easily. It was tempting to relax a little, to forget that somewhere out there Harry was waiting, ready to kill him if she must. He would use his credit card to buy the clothes: even if Villiers had access to his credit card record, it would take a little time for the transaction to come to light. Villiers knew he was in London. The least Hepton could do was make it difficult for the man to circulate a description of him. That necessitated a change of clothes. A change of hair colouring would be an idea, too. And, while he was at it, why not a change of height and weight and sex?

Despite the terrors of the past twenty-four hours – or perhaps because of them – Hepton threw back his head and laughed. The cab driver glanced into his rear-view mirror.

‘Glad somebody’s happy,’ he said. ‘Journalist, are you?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘We get a lot of journalists come into town at twelve o’clock for a drink, then have to get a taxi back half an hour later so they can start work again. Mad, those journalists are. You know the ones I mean, down at that new place in the Isle, where the Herald’s printed.’

‘Oh yes, the Herald,’ said Hepton casually. ‘That’s where I’m headed to, as it happens.’

‘Thought you were,’ the driver called, chuckling. ‘I’ve got a nose for that sort of thing, you see. A real nose. But first off, let’s see about getting you that clobber, eh?’

Part III

Ian Mather, Observer Magazine, 19 April 1987

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