He hardly saw these things, yet something must have registered, for his attention returned to the white cube of the cabinet beside the bed and focused on a pair of glasses. Neither Miki nor Charles wore glasses. The round lenses and fine dark frames looked familiar. He took a step closer, feeling heat rising up through his body to his face. He found he could hardly breathe. They were his own reading glasses, the spare pair he kept in his office. He couldn’t remember bringing them up here. At his back he heard the hum of the lift, and he reached forward, snatched up the glasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Now his eyes began to dart wildly around the room. What else, dear God, what else? He heard the lift’s motor stop. As he turned to leave he noticed a glint of silver beneath the pillow by Miki’s head. He peered closer, panic rising in his chest. It looked like… it was… his silver pen, the one he’d mislaid. He heard the murmur of voices and leaned over, gripped the end of the pen between thumb and forefinger, and tugged it out from under the pillow.

‘Mr Clarke?’ A man’s voice in the living room. He straightened, ramming the pen into his pocket, and turned to face them.

2

Brock marched quickly along Queen Anne’s Gate, head thrust forward, a preoccupied frown on his face, and crossed onto Broadway. The September morning was sunny and warm, but he hardly noticed it. His current investigations were bogged down, there was a problem with his budget, and the summons to headquarters had been disturbingly vague. The bland office block was only a couple of hundred yards away from the converted terrace annexe in which his team was based, but in his mind the distance was much greater. He reached the entrance to New Scotland Yard and unconsciously straightened his shoulders as he presented his identification, signed the book, accepted a pass and took a lift to the sixth floor.