“No, but you can do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Tell Roper that Lhuzkov was hanging around having drinks at the embassy.”

“Huh. Light a match close to that one and the vodka would explode. What a clown.”

“Yes, well, that clown arranged for a couple of nobodies to take out Blake, who was rather foolishly walking down South Audley Street in the rain. Stupid because he knows it’s open season on him.”

“Here, we can’t have that. What’s the game?”

“Oh, Billy and I sorted it with a little ungentle persuasion that left one of them with only half an ear. But it was Lhuzkov who laid it on, and our old friend George Moon who did the hiring. Paid them two grand, apparently.” He gave Harry the rest of the details.

“George Moon? I didn’t realize he was still breathing. Had a nice little wife, Ruby: she was straight, he wasn’t. Right, it’s taken care of. Are you coming to the pub?”

“No, Ferguson ’s got a job for us.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves.” Harry switched off the mobile and nodded across to his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. “I’ll have a large scotch, I’m thinking. Vodka, Greta?”

She was most attractive, wearing a black silk Russian shirt and trousers and knee-length boots. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck.

“Why not?”

“A large one?”

“Is there any other one for a Russian?”

“Probably not. What about the Major?”

Roper sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, his collar turned up to his bomb-scarred face. He didn’t get a chance to say no because Dora brought the drinks on a tray and distributed them.

“Good girl, Dora,” Harry said. “What are we going to do without you? She’ll be leaving in a week, Australia. Got a daughter and two girls. Wants to test the water. Might never come back. Here’s to her.”