The smell of warm bread came to him from a bakery across the road but he continued up the hill, enjoying the sunshine and shop windows, happy to see where his feet would take him.

At first, it was just a flicker of an idea, a nagging feeling that he couldn’t quite recognise, but it grew stronger in his mind as he walked.

It had been months since his work had taken him to Bristol, and even longer since he’d been up here. There was something about this part of the city that drew him, and some good memories from a couple of summers back when he’d chanced to meet a particularly interesting woman in a tiny private gallery. They’d discovered a shared dislike for modernist sculpture – she’d joked that even bad art could bring people together. Absently, he wondered if she still lived in that same flat, the bedroom windows overlooking the Downs, but then quickly dismissed the idea.

That wasn’t the sort of encounter he was thinking about.

It had certainly been a while. And coming here today on business might be the perfect opportunity to find a new challenge. To find someone new.

He stopped outside an antiques shop, his gaze wandering across the tarnished medals, dusty uniforms and other militaria that would normally fascinate him. But not today. Instead he found himself staring at the reflection of the street behind him. The people walking by, unaware of his presence in their midst, or his scrutiny. It could be any one of them . . .

His own reflection smiled back at him – late thirties, tall and slim, well groomed, with short dark hair that showed no sign of thinning. Searching dark eyes surveyed his jacket and shirt, stylishly casual as befitted a successful sales director, but smart.

He realised now that he had been trying to distract himself all morning, but the restless excitement was growing, the sense of inevitability.

Wandering on in the direction of Clifton Down, he savoured that curious mix of anticipation and regret that always seemed to stir in him at this moment. A familiar feeling now.

He checked his watch again. Five to twelve. There was really no sense putting it off any longer. He’d already made the decision – had made it years ago – and he felt the cold thrill stirring in his stomach as he prepared himself to begin.

Okay.

The park lay in front of him. He would walk across it; all the way across. The first person to make eye contact after twelve o’clock would be the one.

He bowed his head for a moment, took a breath to calm himself and clear his thoughts, then set off.

It was a bright day, and the high, open parkland of Clifton Down stretched out around him, a swathe of green beneath a vast blue sky. Newly cut grass filled the air with a wonderful, fresh smell. The edges of the straight tarmac path were dotted with benches, all occupied, and the warm weather had even tempted people to sit out beneath the trees, though it was still quite early for lunch. He smiled again. What a glorious day for it.

A dour little man on one of the benches glanced up at him as he passed, a mean-spirited face scowling behind a tightly held sandwich, clearly unhappy at the thought of sharing anything, especially his seat. Naysmith checked his watch – 11.58. A pity, but it encouraged him to think that he might find someone suitable, someone deserving. He walked on.

This was always such an exciting part of the game. So much of it was down to skill and strategy, but here, at the outset, he would give up the control and surrender himself to fate. It could be anyone, and therein lay the real challenge.

Anyone.

This was the random factor that made the game real, that made the skill and the strategy meaningful. There were rules, of course – the twenty-four-hour head start, only pursuing one target at a time, and so on – all carefully considered to make the whole thing more interesting. But without a genuine element of chance what would be the point in playing?

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell was chiming.

Noon.

Though it might be tempting to loop back round and find the man with the sandwich, he knew that would be cheating. He had to do it properly – continue walking all the way across the park before he could turn back.

There were people on the path ahead of him. A young man came first, Chinese by the look of him, a little under six foot tall, spiked hair, slight build, listening to his iPod. Clean, white trainers. His clothes seemed too good for a student but he couldn’t have been older than early twenties. They drew closer, until Naysmith could hear the tinny beat from his earphones . . . but he passed by without ever looking up.

A moment later, a heavy-set woman in her fifties – somebody’s aunt. Greying hair, floral-print top, expensive bag. She had an aura of disapproval about her, steering herself towards the edge of the path as they came near each other and carefully avoiding his eye – her type often did. On another day, he might have felt a slight twinge of offence at this deliberate evasion, so determinedly keeping herself to herself – after all, there was nothing about him or his manner that anyone should find threatening. And yet, today, she was quite right.

Next were two younger women sitting on a bench – late twenties or early thirties, one fair-haired, the other a redhead. Both were smartly dressed, midday fugitives from an office perhaps. They were talking as he approached, catching up on gossip before they had to return to work. The redhead had her back to him as he approached, but her friend looked up as he passed, her eyes flickering to his for just a second before she continued her conversation.

She would be the one.

And now his pace faltered just a little as he bent his whole attention to her, taking in each detail, remembering, fixing her in his mind.

She looked to be of average height – hard to say while she was seated – with a relatively slim, athletic figure. Her grey trouser suit was presentable, if not flattering, and there was no ring on the hand that held her Starbucks cup.

He took another step . . .

Shoulder-length hair, straight, with cheap plastic clips to keep it out of her face, mousy with fading blonde highlights.

. . . another step . . .

Pale skin, delicate chin, high cheekbones, small nose, not too much make-up, pierced ears with small lobes. He burned her mouth shape into his mind, the slightly too pronounced pout of her lips, then gave the last seconds over to her eyes – pale grey-green with nice lashes.

And then he was past her. A fleeting moment, but that was all it took.

He never forgot a face.

One more glance at the watch – it was 12.07. She had twenty-four hours’ grace, and he had a meeting at three. Grinning cheerfully, he turned off the path and headed back towards the city centre.

Naysmith slept late next morning, and the hotel reception was busy with guests checking out when he came downstairs to catch the end of the breakfast sitting. He chose a table near the window and a nod summoned the attentive young waiter, who was immediately sent for coffee. The breakfast menu held no surprises, and Naysmith was already checking emails on his phone when the coffee pot was placed before him.

He ordered without looking up and finished tapping out a short reply to one of his subordinates. The dining room was almost empty now, just him and a few other late-risers – an overweight businessman tackling bacon and eggs, and an older couple looking around the room as they quietly ate their toast.

He poured himself some coffee and raised the cup to his nose, savouring the aroma before taking a sip. Heaven.

The place looked different this morning, sunlight from the windows infusing everything with a golden glow. He’d done his entertaining on the other side of the room last night.

The Merentha Group meeting had gone even better than expected. Jakob Nilsson, their dealmaker, was a large, friendly Norwegian with a vigorous handshake and a booming laugh – heftier and a little older than he’d sounded on the phone. He’d been refreshingly sensible about the numbers and they’d managed to agree terms there and then in his office. He wore a very good suit and Naysmith had taken to him almost at once.