Percival Godliman had brought a small camp bed from his home. He lay on it in his office, dressed in trousers and shirt, trying without success to sleep. He had not suffered insomnia for almost forty years, not since he took his final exams at the university. He would gladly swap the anxieties of those days for the worries that kept him awake now.

He had been a different man then, he knew; not just younger, but also considerably less… abstracted. He had been outgoing, aggressive, ambitious; he planned to go into politics. He was not studious then; he had reason to be anxious about the exams.

His two mismatched enthusiasms in those days had been debating and ballroom dancing. He had spoken with distinction at the Oxford Union and had been pictured in The Tatler waltzing with debutantes. He was no great womaniser; he wanted sex with a woman he loved, not because he believed in any high-minded principles to that effect, but because that was the way he felt about it.

And so he had been a virgin until he met Eleanor, who was not one of the debutantes but a brilliant graduate mathematician with grace and warmth and a father dying of lung disease after forty years as a coal mine worker.

He had taken her to meet his people. His father was Lord Lieutenant of the county, and the house had seemed a mansion to Eleanor, but she had been natural and charming and not in the least awestruck; and when Percy's mother had been disgracefully condescending to her at one point, she had reacted with merciless wit, for which he loved her all the more.

He had taken his master's degree, then after the Great War he taught in a public school and stood in three by-elections. They were both disappointed when they discovered they could not have children; but they loved each other totally and they were happy, and her death was the most appalling tragedy Godliman ever knew. It had ended his interest in the real world, and he had retreated into the Middle Ages.

It had drawn him and Bloggs together, this common bereavement. And the war had brought him back to life; revived in him those characteristics of dash and aggression and fervour that had made him a fine speaker and teacher and the hope of the Liberal Party. He wished very much for something in Bloggs' life to rescue him from an existence of bitterness and introspection.

At the moment he was in Godliman's thoughts, Bloggs phoned from Liverpool to say that Die Nadel had slipped through the net, and Parkin had been killed.

Godliman, sitting on the edge of the camp bed to speak on the phone, closed his eyes. "I should have put you on the train…"

"Thanks!" Bloggs said.

"Only because he doesn't know your face."

"I think he may," Bloggs said. "We suspect he spotted the trap, and mine was the only face visible to him as he got off the train."

"But where could he have seen you… oh, Leicester Square."

"I don't see how, but then… we seem to underestimate him."

Godliman asked impatiently, "Have you got the ferry covered?"

"Yes."

"He won't use it, of course-too obvious. He's more likely to steal a boat. On the other hand, he may still be heading for Inverness."

"I've alerted the police up there."

"Good. But look, I don't think we can make any assumptions about his destination. Let's keep an open mind."

"Yes."

Godliman stood, picked up the phone, and began to pace the carpet. "Also, don't assume it was he who got off the train on the wrong side. Work on the premise that he got off before, at, or after Liverpool." Godliman's brain was in gear again, sorting permutations and possibilities. "Let me talk to the Chief Superintendent."

"He's here."

There was a pause, then a new voice said, "Chief Superintendent Anthony speaking."

Godliman said, "Do you agree with me that our man got off this train somewhere in your area?"

"That seems likely, yes."

"All right. Now the first thing he needs is transport, so I want you to get details of every car, boat, bicycle, or donkey stolen within a hundred miles of Liverpool during the next twenty-four hours. Keep me informed, but give the information to Bloggs and work closely with him following up the leads."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep an eye on other crimes that might be committed by a fugitive: theft of food or clothing, unexplained assaults, identity card irregularities, and so on."

"Right."

"Now, Mr Anthony, you realise this man is more than just a conventional murderer?"

"I assume so, sir, from the fact of your involvement. However, I don't know the details."

"It's a matter of national security, important enough to keep the Prime Minister in hourly contact with this office."

"Yes… uh, Mr Bloggs would like a word, sir."

Bloggs came back on. "Have you remembered how you know his face? You said you thought you did."

"Oh, yes and it's of no value, as I predicted. I met him by chance at Canterbury Cathedral and we had a conversation about the architecture. All it tells us is that he's clever. He made some perceptive remarks, as I recall."

"We knew he was clever."

"As I said, it does us no good."

Chief Superintendent Anthony, a determined member of the middle class with a carefully softened Liverpool accent, did not know whether to be peeved at the way MI5 ordered him about or thrilled at the chance to save England on his own manor.

Bloggs recognised the man's conflict-he'd met with it before when working with local police forces-and he knew how to tip the balance in his own favour. He said, "I'm grateful for your helpfulness, Chief Superintendent. These things don't go unnoticed in Whitehall, you know."

"Only doing our duty…" Anthony was not sure whether he was supposed to call Bloggs "Sir."

"Still, there's a big difference between reluctant assistance and willing help."

"Yes. Well, it'll likely be a few hours before we pick up this man's scent again. Do you want to catch forty winks?"

"Yes," Bloggs said gratefully. "If you've got a chair in a corner somewhere…"

"Stay here," Anthony said, indicating his office. "I'll be down in the operations room. I'll wake you as soon as we've got something. Make yourself comfortable."

Anthony went out, and Bloggs moved to an easy chair and sat back with his eyes closed. Immediately, he saw Godliman's face, as if projected onto the backs of his eyelids like a film, saying, "There has to be an end to bereavement… I don't want you to make the same mistake…" Bloggs rea1ized suddenly that he did not want the war to end. That would make him face issues, like the one Godliman had raised. The war made life simple: he knew why he hated the enemy and he knew what he was supposed to do about it. Afterward… but the thought of another woman seemed disloyal.

He yawned and slumped further into his seat, his thinking becoming woolly as sleep crept up on him. If Christine had died before the war he would have felt very differently about remarrying. He had always been fond of her and respected her, of course; but after she took that ambulance job, respect had turned to near-awestruck admiration, and fondness turned to love. Then they had something special, something they knew other lovers did not share. Now, more than a year later, it would be easy for Bloggs to find another woman he could respect and be fond of, but he knew that would no longer be enough for him. An ordinary marriage, an ordinary woman, would always remind him that once he, a rather ordinary man, had had the most extraordinary of women…

He stirred in his chair, trying to shake off his thoughts so that he could sleep. England was full of heroes, Godliman had said. Well, if Die Nadel got away… First things first…

Someone shook him. He was in a very deep sleep, dreaming that he was in a room with Die Nadel but could not pick him out because Die Nadel had blinded him with a stiletto. When he awoke he still thought he was blind because he could not see who was shaking him, until he realised he simply had his eyes closed. He opened them to see the large uniformed figure of Superintendent Anthony above him.