'I think I can live with that – yes… '

It was, Henry Arbuthnot thought, a moment of almost classical symbolism – not that Dubbs would have noticed, and certainly not Albert William Packer.

The words marked the transfer of power. .. Yes -1 don't have a difficulty with what you're suggesting. You'll not find a problem with me.'

The man sidled out of the room. They heard his footsteps scramble down the steep staircase. The door on to the street slammed shut and there was the noise of a powerful car accelerating away, then the quiet that was broken only by the rumble of the machines spinning in the launderette below. It was a fine afternoon in early winter and the windows of the first-floor room were open. The launderette was always busy on a Friday and the motion of the machines shook the room above, making the dust from the files and the leatherbound books dance in the light. The room was seldom cleaned. Arbuthnot rarely used a vacuum cleaner, and he would never have allowed casual staff into his office.

Three men had come that day to visit the premises rented by Henry Arbuthnot, Solicitor at Law. He had expected a fourth visitor until he had noticed the cuffs of Albert William Packer's shirt where they peeped out from under his jacket sleeves. There was blood on them, still rich red, not yet darkened with age. It was fresh, and the fourth visitor was conspicuous by his absence.

Three men had come, and had pledged that their commercial activities would in no way impinge on the business dealings of his employer. The transference of such power – the granting by rivals of control of the capital city – should have been celebrated with a good bottle of Veuve Clicquot, but that would have offended his employer. Dubbs swung his shoes off the table and grinned then slapped the employer's back.