"No case to answer, boy wonder," he sighs. "An unfortunate sequence of coincidences."

"Sounds like a Long Involved Explanation. No?"

Neil laughs, recalling our acronymic private code from the year we worked together. "No; it's the Totally Reliable Utterly Trustworthy… damn, what was the last word?"

"Hint," I tell him, grinning. "We never did come up with a better alternative."

"Indeed. Well, that's what it is; a Fucking Actualite, Cameron, Tovarisch."

"You serious?" I say, trying not to laugh. "All these guys who just happened to be connected with BNFL or GCHQ or Military Intelligence and just happened to croak violently within twenty months of each other? I mean, really?"

"Cameron, I do realise your Menshevik soul cries out for there to be a perfectly irrational fascist conspiracy behind all this, but the boring truth is that there isn't. Or, if there is, it's far, far too well run for it to be the work of any intelligence service I've ever encountered. There's never been any reliable hint it was anybody on our side; Mossad — arguably the only people capable of carrying out such a consistently successful campaign without leaving the scene scattered with their agency-issue trench-coats sporting name, rank and serial number sewn into the collars — had no discernible motive, and we can be even more sure of our friends in Moscow given that, since the unfortunate demise of the Workers" State, ex-KGB bods have been positively falling over each other in the rush to beat the breast and confess their past sins, and not one of them has even mentioned those five deceased sons of Cumbria and environs."

"Six, if you count the doc who did the PMs on the three Cumbrian stiffs."

Neil sighs. "Even so."

I'm thinking. This could be a fairly important decision I'm making here. Do I tell Neil about Mr Archer and Daniel Smout? Or do I keep quiet about it? Christ, this story could just be the biggest fucking thing since Watergate; a plot — if I'm reading the hints right — involving the West, or just Her Majesty's Government, or at the very least a bunch of people who were in positions to pull it off, to arm our once-staunch-ally-against-the-fiendish-Mullahs — now number-one hate figure — Saddam Hussein with nukes, back when the Iran-Iraq war wasn't all going his way.

"You know," Neil sighs again, "I have the most terrible feeling I'm going to regret asking this question, but what leads you to make this enquiry, unless it's the simple explanation that news of these five sad deaths has only just arrived in Caledonia?"

"Well," I say, playing with the telephone cord.

"What?" Neil says, in that why-are-you-wasting-my-valuable-time? voice.

"I've had a call from somebody who claims to know about this who's saying that there's another couple of names involved."

"And who would they be?"

"I've only got one of the names so far." I take a deep breath. I'll do a Mr Archer; I'll give him it a bit at a time. "Smout," I tell Neil. "Daniel Smout. Our man in Baghdad."

Neil is silent for a few seconds. Then I hear him exhale. "Smout." A pause. "I see." Another pause. "So," he says, slowly and thoughtfully, "if Iraq was involved, it's not impossible Mossad would take an interest. Though of course one of our serial self-terminators was himself of the Semitic persuasion…"

"So was Vanunu."

"Indeed. Hmm. Interesting. You do realise, though, that your informant is probably a crank."

"Probably."

"Have they been reliable before?"

"No; new source, as far as I can tell. And all they've come up with is a sequence of names. So it could easily be a crank. Very easily. In fact, probably. I mean, wouldn't you say? Don't you think it probably is?" I'm gibbering. I suddenly feel rather stupid and a little nervous.

"You said there was a sixth name," Neil says calmly. "Any hints there?"

"Well, I've got what my guy says is a code-name for him."

"And that is?" Neil says patiently.

"Well, ah…"

"Cameron. I swear I shan't try to scoop you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Of course not," I say. "I know that. It's just that… it could be nothing."

"Very possibly, but —»

"Look, Neil, I'd like to talk to somebody."

"How do you mean?"

"Somebody in the business; you know."

""Somebody in the business"," Neil says evenly.

Christ, I wish I had a cigarette. "Yeah," I say. "Somebody in the business; somebody in the service. Somebody who'll look me in the eye and tell me MI6 or whoever had got nothing to do with all this; somebody I can give this to."

"Hmm."

I let him think for a bit. Eventually, Neil says, "Well, there are always people one can talk to, certainly. Look, I'll suggest this to some contacts I have. See what their reaction is. But I know that, if I do suggest it, before they decide what to do they'll want to know who it is they're dealing with; they'll want to know your name."

"I thought they might. That's okay; you can tell them."

"Right you are, then. I'll report back what the reaction is, fair enough?"

"Fair enough."

"Good. To tell the truth, I'll be fairly interested in seeing it myself. Assuming this isn't a crank we're dealing with."

"Okay," I say, looking over my screen and trying to peer over my bookcase, wondering who I can scrounge a fag off. "Well, that's good of you, Neil. I appreciate this."

"Not at all. Now, when are you next coming up to town, or do you Picts have to apply for a travel warrant or something?"

You arrive at Mr Oliver's home in Leyton at nine, as agreed when you saw him in his shop in Soho during the afternoon. He will have had time to get back from the shop, have his evening meal, watch one of his favourite soap operas and take a shower. The maisonette is part of a brick-built terrace over a row of shops, restaurants and offices. You press the entryphone button.

"Hello?"

"Mr Oliver? It's Mr Mellin here. Mr Mellin. From this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Right." The door buzzes.

Inside, behind the sturdy, heavily secured door, the stairwell is richly carpeted and the walls are decorated with expensive Regency-style wallpaper. Ornately framed Victorian landscape paintings look down from the stairwell walls. Mr Oliver appears at the top of the stairs.

He is a plump little man with sallow skin and very black hair you suspect is dyed. He wears a cashmere cardigan over his waistcoat and trousers. His shirt is raw silk. Cravat. Slippers. He smells strongly of Polo.

"Good evening," you say.

"Yeah, hello." The second word actually sounds more like «allow» but you know what he means. He stands back as you reach the top of the stairs, and puts out one pudgy hand while looking you up and down. You wish the light — from a miniature chandelier in the hall — was a little less bright. The moustache prickles under your nose. You shake hands. Mr Oliver's grip is damp, quite strong. His gaze drops to the fat briefcase you're holding. He waves one hand. "Come in."

The lounge is a little ostentatious; Mr Oliver favours thick white rugs, black leather furniture, chrome-and-glass tables, and a TV, video and hi-fi unit which takes up most of one wall.

"Sit down. Like a drink?" Mr Oliver says. It actually sounds like "Sidahn, loy-a dring? but again you understand.

You sit on the edge of a leather seat, hunched up and looking nervous, the briefcase on your knees. You're wearing a cheap suit and you still have your gloves on.

"Um, well, ah, yes, please," you say, trying to sound nervous and unsure of yourself. Of course you are nervous, but not in the way you're implying.

Mr Oliver goes to a chrome-and-smoked-glass drinks cabinet. "What would you like?"

"Um, do you have any orange juice?"

Mr Oliver looks at you. "Orange juice," he says, and bends to look in a small fridge set into the drinks cabinet.