‘How?’

‘I want him to stop work. Completely. That’ll be twice as difficult as getting him to see a doctor. But I’m asking you to try.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Carver. ‘I really will.’

Stanley Burcher was unique and knew it and was not concerned that no one else ever would, because fame – or rather notoriety – held no interest for him. The total opposite, in fact. Stanley Burcher prided himself upon being the person no one ever saw or noticed. He was a totally asexual bachelor whose only sensuality came from his association with the people for whom he practised and the knowledge of their criminality. Total evilness – and the people he acted for in such an unusual way were totally evil – fascinated him, as anthropologists are fascinated by unknown species. Which Burcher recognized himself to be too, because he was not revulsed by anything they did. Burcher maintained a small house on the unfashionable north side of Grand Cayman, in the Caribbean, and a box-numbered office in the capital, Georgetown, because Grand Cayman was the tax-avoidance haven in which the people he represented hid their vast fortunes. However, he lived for the majority of the time in distinguished but discreet hotels throughout the world, ensuring that the affairs of his exclusive clients never attracted public attention, most particularly from any law-enforcement authority.

The Harvard Club, in which he waited that night, just off New York’s Fifth Avenue, represented an unaccustomed luxury, as did most of his regular meeting places with George Northcote. Burcher liked the meetings and he liked Northcote. Northcote was a man who, like himself, had been presented long ago with an opportunity, taken it and prospered. He was surprised at Northcote’s lateness: Northcote had never before delayed an appointment and was now running later than the rescheduled time. But at that moment he appeared at the maitre d’s station.

‘Sorry I’m so damned late,’ apologized Northcote, approaching with his hand outstretched in greeting.