She knelt in front of him, her thin fingers fumbling with the sodden laces as she loosened the shoes and helped him out of them.

‘How many times have I told you . . .’ She looked up at him, her frown melting away as she caught his expression.

‘Oh, don’t look like that,’ she sighed, a weary smile breaking onto her face. ‘I can always dry them on the radiator. Come here.’

And then she let the shoes drop and gathered him in her arms, holding him close. It felt different now, but it still felt good. She still loved him and he wouldn’t let that change. If he was careful, if he didn’t say anything silly, she would keep loving him. It would be like a really difficult game . . .

‘We’re here, mate.’

Naysmith came to with a start and blinked into uncertain wakefulness. Raising his head from where it had been resting against the rear door, he sat up and nodded to the taxi driver’s deep-set eyes watching him impassively in the rear-view mirror.

‘I must have dropped off,’ he frowned, noting the fare and reaching for his wallet.

‘That’ll be my beautiful smooth driving,’ the cabbie said, without enthusiasm.

Naysmith drew out a couple of notes and passed them through the open hatch in the security glass. Then, stifling a yawn, he gripped his small travel case and opened the cab door. The constant rumble of traffic noise from Park Lane assailed him as soon as he stepped out onto the tarmac, but the early evening air was cool and refreshing after his doze. Straightening his jacket, he glanced up at the soaring tower of the hotel, then extended the handle on his case and trundled it round behind the taxi.

The wide revolving door eased him inside with a whisper and he walked down the three broad steps to the familiar expanse of the foyer, shoes marking out a muted rhythm on the marble flooring. Diffuse lighting bathed the dark, wood-panelled reception desk with a calm aura. Sitting behind it, a raven-haired woman in a smart navy blazer gave him a professional smile as he approached.

‘Robert Naysmith,’ he said, standing his case up on the floor beside him. ‘Three nights. It may have been booked via the CRM conference?’

‘I won’t keep you a moment.’ The receptionist nodded to him, then glanced down at her screen as she tapped in his name. She had a nice voice – soft but confident – and quick, clear eyes that he watched as she studied her computer, enjoying their sparkle as she turned her gaze back to him.

‘Mr Naysmith. It’s good to have you back with us, sir.’

Always that same line.

He was sure it came up on her screen, a prompt for regular visitors with the right sort of privilege card. Other people might have been disappointed by such realisations, but not him. Seeing the wiring under the board – knowing the world for what it really was – filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction.

‘You’re very kind,’ he said.

She handed over the key card.

‘I’ve given you room 1201. The lift is just over there and it will take you to the twelfth floor. If there’s anything we can help you with . . .’

‘I appreciate it, thanks.’

He inclined his head to her slightly, then reached for his case and turned towards the lifts.

The room was quiet and cool – clean lines and carefully chosen colours, all of it framing the generously broad windows. They looked out with an unobstructed view across the treetops of Hyde Park, a swathe of dark green across the grey city. Naysmith sat on the window sill, his forehead resting on the glass as he stared down at the street far below, the silent ebb and flow of the traffic, the tiny figures drifting along the pale pavements.

Little people.

He sighed and eased himself to his feet, turning away from the window, eyes adjusting to the comparative dimness of the room.

First things first.

He lifted his case onto the luggage stand and unzipped it. The edge of the small white envelope protruded from a side pocket, and he stared at it for a moment before pushing it firmly back down.

Out of sight, out of mind.

From the case, he drew out three clean shirts, which he held up and inspected for creases, shaking each one so that the sleeves could move freely. Opening the wardrobe, he retrieved a handful of wooden hangers and made sure to smooth the front of each shirt once it was on the rail. Underwear and socks went on the shelf above, as always. Lastly, his clear plastic ziplock bag of airport-friendly toiletries, which he took through to the large, well-lit bathroom.

Placing his toothbrush in the glass by the sink, he paused to look at himself in the mirror, leaning forward to correct a patch of hair that was sticking up from where his head had been slumped against the inside of the taxi. Restless eyes stared back at him as he studied his own expression, a mask that he alone could see through. Frowning, he walked out of the bathroom and switched off the light.

The sun was sinking below the London skyline now, throwing long shadows across the floor, and he suddenly felt conspicuous, pacing in the stillness, trapped by the silence of the room, which was becoming oppressive. Hesitating for a moment, he checked his watch, then gathered his jacket from where he’d laid it carefully on the bed and opened the door to step out into the quiet, lamplit corridor.

Waiting for the lift, he thought briefly about going to the bar, but it was too early – the unaccompanied women came for their nightcaps and their bar-stool conversations at the end of the evening. There would be time enough for that later if he was so inclined. His hand hovered over the small touch screen, about to tap in 28 – the floor for the restaurant – but he knew that he wasn’t really hungry. He paused, then touched ‘L’ for Lobby. A well-spoken recording murmured ‘Going down . . .’ as he stepped inside for the descent to ground level. A walk, and some air to clear his head, was what he needed now.

The sky seemed darker as he stepped out from under the entrance canopy and passed between the waiting taxis, the idle rattling of their engines hurrying him forward. On a whim he turned right, following the broad pavement along the tree-lined curve of Park Lane towards Marble Arch, but turned into the Mayfair side streets before he had gone far.

Ugly modern architecture quickly gave way to Regency terraces with grand entrance porticos; iron railings freshly glossed and gilded; basement windows that squinted up at the feet of passers-by. Manicured window boxes reflected in the shine of expensive parked cars, while bursts of loud laughter echoed back off the old stone of blue-plaque buildings. He stepped around the cigarette-bound throngs that filled the pavements outside the bars, his thoughts drifting ahead of him like the wisps of their smoke.

Veering off Curzon Street, he cut along a narrow alley, forcing his way through the press of people that shuffled between the pavement cafés. There was a casino round the next corner – he’d visited it a few times, and done well there. Was that where his feet had been taking him? He slowed as he approached it, pausing a few yards away from the entrance to think, allowing the bustle of people to flow around him.

Little people.

Gazing up at the casino sign, he frowned, then started to walk on.

It wouldn’t do. He wanted a real challenge, something to wake him and set his heart racing. A game where the stakes were more than a few digits on a credit card receipt.

At the end of the street, he could see The Ritz – the distinctive arches, the illuminated columns – and the crawl of traffic inching its way along Piccadilly . . .

Of course.

It was perfect. Down to the end of the street and turn right, and there the game could begin. He would follow Piccadilly back down towards Park Lane. The first person to make eye contact would be the target.