Commander Sharpe was standing at the window of his office when Brock was shown in. As the figure turned from contemplating the panorama of the city northward across St James Park, Brock was once again struck by the way his boss seemed to fulfil the promise of his name. The same height as Brock, six foot two, he was much leaner in build and thinner of feature, and in appearance, dress and manner he was, decidedly, sharp. This impression was reinforced by his excellent memory, by the intensity of his gaze and his precise form of speech. The effect on Brock was to make him feel vaguely crumpled. He tried to remember when he’d last had his hair cropped and beard trimmed.

‘Morning, Brock. I see our friends are patching their roof again.’ Sharpe gestured towards the window, and Brock looked out to see which particular friends he might be referring to. Close by there was the Art Deco headquarters of the London Underground, beyond it the Wellington Barracks, and in the distance the rooftops of Buckingham Palace.

‘Home Office,’ Sharpe said, referring to the building to the right of the barracks. Further to the right again, Brock could make out the chimneys and rear windows of his own outpost, and was uncomfortably aware that, with a powerful telescope, Sharpe would probably be able to read the correspondence on his desk. ‘That’s the reason I wanted to see you.’

The Home Office roof? Brock wondered, but said nothing.

‘Coffee?’ Sharpe went over to a cabinet and poured boiling water into two individual coffee plungers. He carried them to the circular table on a tray with cups, sugar and cream.

‘I find this is the best way to get a decent coffee in this place. How’s the knee?’

‘Much better,’ Brock replied, automatically rubbing the joint as he took the offered chair.

‘Physio?’

‘Yes. That seemed to sort it out.’ It was over six months since he’d been attacked by a mob of skinheads in the East End, but the leg still ached at night.