‘Chris something, right?’

‘Faulkner.’

‘Yeah, Faulkner, that’s it.’ He put his hands under the flow of air. ‘Just come in from Hammett McColl?’

‘Right.’

‘I’m Mike Bryant.’ A hand offered sideways. Chris hesitated briefly, eyeing the blood. Bryant picked up on it. ‘Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was just in a no-namer, and Shorn policy is you’ve got to recover their plastic as proof of the kill. It can get messy.’

‘Had a no-namer myself this morning,’ said Chris reflexively.

‘Yeah? Where was that?’

‘M11, around junction eight.’

‘The underpass. You take him down in there?’

Chris nodded, deciding on the spur of the moment not to mention the inconclusive nature of the engagement.

‘Nice. I mean, no-namers don’t get you anywhere much, but it’s all rep, I guess.’

‘I guess.’

‘You’re up for Conflict Investment, aren’t you? Louise Hewitt’s section. I’m up there on the fifty-third myself. She was batting your resume about a few weeks back. That stuff you did at Hammett McColl way back was some serious shit. Welcome aboard.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll walk you up there if you like. Going that way myself.’

‘Great.’

They stepped out into the broad curve of the corridor and a glass-wall view of the financial district from twenty floors up. Bryant seemed to drink it in for a moment before he turned up the corridor, still scratching at a persistent speck of blood on his hand.

‘They give you a car yet?’

‘Got my own. Customised. My wife’s a mechanic’

Bryant stopped and looked at him. ‘No shit?’

‘No shit.’ Chris held up his left hand, the dull metal band on the ring finger. Bryant examined it with interest.

‘What’s that, steel?’ He caught on and grinned suddenly, Out of an engine, right? I’ve read about this stuff.’