‘There were a lot who didn’t,’ said Charlie.

The landlord looked at him curiously, alert for mocker) then relaxed.

‘Sorry for them,’ he said insincerely. ‘I enjoyed my time.’

His glass was empty, Charlie saw. He pushed it across to halt the reminiscence.

‘Could I have another? Large.’

‘Certainly.’

Charlie knew the man would expect to be bought a drink. But he decided against it, even though it was the first conversation he had had for more than twenty-four hours. He wondered how the man would react to know he was serving whisky to someone technically a traitor to his country.

The landlord returned with the drink and waited expectantly.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

There was an almost imperceptible shrug as the man took the money and returned Charlie his change.

‘What line of business are you in, then?’ he asked, lapsing into the pub formula.

‘Traveller,’ said Charlie. It seemed the best description of the aimless life he now led. Even before Edith had been killed they had done little else but move nervously from one place to another.

‘Interesting,’ said the publican, as automatically as he fingered the moustache.

‘Sometimes,’ agreed Charlie.

The woman returned with the salad. The meat had been carefully cut to conceal the dried edges.

‘Looks very nice,’ said Charlie. Insincerity appeared to be infectious. Then again, it was always dangerous to draw attention to himself, even over something as trivial as complaining about a bad meal in a country pub. He manoeuvred himself on to a bar-stool and the landlord nodded and walked back to his group. Charlie sawed resolutely at the meat, examining his attitude.