He moved his head up a fraction. 'From McCane?'

'Yes.'

Why?'

I'd got it ready. 'I haven't been in the field for nearly two months, and McCane was on my level, so it must be something I'd be able to handle.'

Then one of his phones rang and he reached across to the desk. 'Yes?' Stretched out like that, he'd got one foot half out of his shoe, a hole in his sock. Then tell them to route him through Paris. And Phyllis – no more calls.' He dropped the phone and sat back and looked at me and said, 'It's not your style to ask for a mission. You tend to play hard to get.'

'Two months is a long time. I'm getting bored.' I tried to make light of it, but his eyes were on me and I knew what I looked like, cold with shock still and the nerves flickering. There was nothing you could have done. Bullshit. There's always something you can do. So I knew what I looked like, not quite your eager beaver just dying to see his name on the board again.

'How do you feel, Quiller' – and here it came -'about what happened last night? How do you feel personally?'

Tread carefully. 'It was a shock.'

'Of course. What else?

I looked away. 'I suppose I feel a bit responsible, or at least I did, for a while. But Tilney pointed out that I shouldn't blame myself, and Holmes agreed.'

'I see.' He waited until I was looking back at him. 'So you don't feel any lingering sense of guilt.'

'Not really.'

'Or anger?' Watching me carefully.