Time to go.

Naysmith quickly covered the distance and walked briskly up the carpeted steps. Pushing it open with his forearm, he passed through the glass side door and crossed the lobby with his head slightly forward and away from the reception area he knew lay just to his left. He measured his steps carefully, deliberately. He absolutely must not hurry. Pace and body language were the secret to going unnoticed.

Casually, he made his way round the corner, moving as though towards the lift, but turned quickly, nudging through the door to the stairwell with his elbow.

And now he paused, allowing the door to swing shut behind him, allowing his racing pulse to slow a little, holding his breath as he listened. But there was nothing. No sound. Nobody was following him.

He was in.

Leaning on the central banister, he gazed up through the sharp angles of the flights of stairs above him, then began to climb, slowly and silently. Occasional bumps, muffled voices and the regular hum of the nearby lifts echoed through the stairwell, but he reached the fourth floor without encountering anyone.

Almost there.

He opened the bag and drew out the gloves first. He hadn’t worn them before, to avoid attracting attention to himself, but now he pulled them on carefully, forcing himself to take the extra seconds, making sure they were on straight, fitting snugly to his fingers. Only once they were on did he unwrap the clear plastic bag that had protected the handle of the umbrella from fingerprints, screwing it up tightly and jamming it into his pocket. Lastly, he drew out two more bags and slipped them over his shoes. The fit was inexact but it would do – he knew that he couldn’t afford to track blood through the hotel corridors and the bags could be discarded if required, leaving his soles clean. Stepping to one side, he studied the floor to ensure he hadn’t dropped anything, then folded the top of the fabric bag over on itself. Testing the feel of the umbrella in his now gloved hand, he took a deep breath and listened once more.

Ready.

Shouldering the door open, Naysmith stepped out onto the fourth-floor corridor and turned left. He walked quickly but calmly, counting the numbers on the doors, adrenalin building steadily until he stood outside room 408.

Bowing his head, he took a last breath, a heartbeat, forcing his shoulders to be loose, ready. He looked up at the door. Was there a chain? Maybe, but the chances were good that it wouldn’t be latched in place, and as long as Lennox didn’t suspect anything was wrong there was no reason for him to chain the door.

He took a step forward, measuring his position, then raised a gloved hand and knocked.

‘Housekeeping.’

His voice sounded very loud in the carpeted stillness of the hotel, but it was necessary to explain the knock. Leaning forward, he exhaled slowly onto the tiny spyhole in the door, misting the glass, then bowed his head in readiness.

He pictured Lennox, just a few feet away, hearing the knock, turning and moving towards the door. The rubber gloves squeaked as his fingers tightened their grip, holding the umbrella in a low, two-handed stance like a spear. His feet were planted in a well-braced position, ready to thrust forward, to burst open the door and knock his victim back into the room.

Any second now . . .

But there was no sound from inside, only the beat of his pulse.

Frowning, he knocked again, louder this time.

‘Housekeeping.’

And waited. Again, nothing.

A cold knot of doubt began to grow in his stomach.

He knocked once more, leaning forward to remist the spyhole, the gleaming metal tip of the umbrella hovering just below the handle of the door.

At last, he heard a sound – movement, indistinct – but it was coming from another doorway, further along the corridor.

Shit.

Stifling a snarl, Naysmith spun on his heel and strode quickly back towards the lift. Pushing through the door to the stairwell, he paused for a moment, leaning against the wall as he tore the bags from his shoes and peeled the rubber gloves from his hands. Dropping everything into the fabric bag, he jogged quickly down the broad steps, his movements hastened by frustration.

Where was Lennox?

On the ground floor, he walked swiftly out of the rear entrance and onto the street . . .

. . . but it didn’t matter if anyone saw him now. Nobody cared. As he stood in the morning light, he felt the crash of anticlimax, as though the whole world had been holding its breath, but had now lost interest in him. He had done nothing. Accomplished nothing.

Knuckles whitening around the handle of the umbrella, he strode angrily along the back street, turning the corner. Ahead of him stood a red telephone box, one of the traditional ones that tourists liked to photograph themselves beside, despite the windows being plastered with cards advertising call girls. Gripping the handle, Naysmith hauled open the door and stepped inside, insulating himself from the noise of the city.

Where the fuck was Lennox?

He rammed a pound coin into the slot and dialled the number for the hotel, breathing deeply, forcing his voice to be calm as he heard the receptionist answer.

‘Hotel Park Lane. How may I help you?’

‘Ah yes,’ he smiled. People could hear when you were smiling on the phone. ‘I need to speak to one of your guests, please. Mr Lennox in room 408?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Lennox left earlier this morning.’

Damn.

‘I see.’ Naysmith thought quickly, formulating an appropriate lie. ‘Will he be returning? I just realised I have his laptop charger and I wanted to get it back to him.’

‘Oh dear.’ The voice sounded genuinely dismayed. ‘I’m afraid not. I was on the desk when he asked for a taxi back to the airport.’

Shit.

‘Thank you,’ he sighed. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

Replacing the handset carefully, Naysmith paused for a moment, then lifted the receiver and smashed it hard against the metal wall of the booth, beating it again and again until the plastic cracked and shattered.

The target had escaped him.

There was something soothing about looking out across London late at night. Lights scattered like twinkling jewels across the silhouette of the city, blurring into an orange glow on the horizon. The ebb and flow of tiny cars, the warm yellow of illuminated old buildings, and the cool white glare from office-block windows.

Naysmith sat on a cream leather sofa beside the full-length windows, gazing down on Hyde Park Corner, condensation pooling around the untouched drink on the low glass table in front of him. The twenty-eighth-floor bar was winding down now, with slow jazz filling the gaps in quiet conversations. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he checked his watch. It was five to midnight – ‘almost tomorrow’, as Kim would say. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

The day had been a blur of dreary speakers and awkward conference delegates, and he’d stumbled through his appointments like a sleepwalker. This evening there had been an industry social event at Bar Dokidogo – the sort of networking opportunity he usually worked so well – but tonight his mood had been too unsettled and he’d found himself leaving early, staring out of a taxi as it drove him back to the hotel.

He sighed and leaned closer to the glass, propping his chin in his hand as his eyes followed a tiny figure hurrying across the road below to disappear behind a building.

He’d lost targets before – it was an inevitable part of the game – but for some reason this one gnawed at him. Turning to the table, he reached out to take his glass, tracing a clear line through the mist of condensation with his finger.

Where was Lennox right now?

He sipped his drink, wondering what the man was doing, wondering how his life would unfold from here, a life that should have ended this morning. Would he ever have any inclination, some subconscious sense, that he’d been given a second chance?