Gently he said: “I was going to phone Tilson, to see if he knew.”

Holmes is like that: he manoeuvres you around till you shit on your own doorstep and then says now look what you’ve done.

“Tilson won’t know,” I said with an edge. Tilson was in Briefing, and therefore one of the last people you go through on your way out to the field. “Only a director could have slapped me on standby when I’m due for leave and you ought to know that. How long have you been here?”

“Longer,” he said, “than you.”

I went out of his office and left the door open, going along to Debriefing. I passed Matthews near the stairway, leaning backwards behind a stack of files he was carrying. “Who’s got in?” I asked him.

“Where from?”

“Anywhere.”

He didn’t answer right away and I couldn’t tell whether he was considering the question or deciding not to say anything. He kicked open a door and called back: “Have to ask Tilson.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and I began worrying again. Matthews normally told you things, if he knew them, and if he didn’t know them he simply said so. This morning he was being evasive, like Holmes, giving me the same Tilson routine. Tilson was the traditional backstop for questions of any kind except those concerning your briefing: you might just as well ask a brick wall.

I found the big squareheaded character in Debriefing and he was surprised to see me and I could understand that, because he knew I wasn’t in from a mission, and that’s about the only time you ever go in there.

“Hallo, sir,” he said brightly. “How are things going?”

“Who’s just got in?”

He thought about this, without taking his eyes off me. He was an ex-Yard man with the knack of looking at you as if you’d got a lump of custard on the tip of your nose and he didn’t like to mention it.

“I expect you’re looking for Briefing, aren’t you? This is — ”