‘I just wish …’ But she didn’t finish the sentence. Hepton was looking sad, and right now she felt like cheering up the whole world. She came to him and hugged him to her. Then pulled away to examine his face. ‘We’re going to be all right too, aren’t we, Martin?’

‘Of course we are,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. He reached into his pocket and brought out the kitchen knife. ‘As long as we’ve got this,’ he said. Jilly recognised it.

‘That’s from my kitchen!’ she cried. Then she laughed and hugged him again. ‘What were you going to do with it? It’s as blunt as my editor’s sense of humour.’

‘I don’t know,’ Hepton said. He was still studying the knife, trying to answer her question. ‘I think I was going to kill Villiers with it.’

‘Ugh!’ said Jilly, giving a little shiver. ‘What happened to him anyway?’

‘He can’t be found in the building,’ Sanders explained, his voice taking on a tone of apology. ‘We’re still looking.’

‘But how hard?’ asked Hepton. ‘How hard are you looking? Who else is in on this thing besides Villiers and Harry? It seems to stretch halfway around the world as it is!’

Sanders’ voice became a monotone. ‘You can trust me,’ he said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you like anything? More tea? Something stronger?’

‘I could murder a gin,’ said Jilly.

Hepton realised that his own throat was dry. He nodded.

‘Two G and Ts then,’ said Sanders, opening the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

True to his word, two dusty glasses were delivered by a bemused security man a few minutes later. Hepton sank his in two gulps, then sucked on the tiny slice of lemon. Jilly savoured hers, reclining in Villiers’ chair, her feet on the desk.

‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘And don’t we deserve it,’ observed Hepton.

The door opened again and Sanders re-entered, looking pleased with himself.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s about that knife of yours.’

‘The Sabatier?’ Jilly’s face was quizzical.

‘That’s right,’ said Sanders. He was unbuttoning his jacket. ‘Anyway, you won’t be needing it now.’ He tugged the left side of his jacket open. Strapped beneath his shoulder was a brown leather holster, from the top of which peeped the butt of a small, fat handgun. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what we need. Especially when dealing with Harry. Now, shall we go?’

23

On the way to the Park Lane Achilles Hotel, Sanders told them about Harry.

‘It was four or five years ago. I’d just joined the department …’

What department? Hepton was tempted to ask.

‘I remember meeting Mr Parfit for the first time. He struck the fear of God into me.’