The train bumped slowly round a turn in the elevated track before sweeping down into the little station. As it slowed, Naysmith got calmly to his feet and moved towards the doors. He stepped out of the carriage into the cool morning air of the exposed platform, allowing his gaze to be drawn up to the impressive view of Canary Wharf in front of him. Tiny aircraft warning lights blinked on the tops of the buildings, and a ribbon of steam trailed out from the pinnacle of the tallest tower, fading gently into the overcast sky.

Behind him the carriage doors hissed shut, and the train slipped away with a resonant electric hum.

Slowly, he lowered his eyes from the office blocks and turned his head to look along the platform. Several people stood waiting under the long glass roof, morning commuters staring into space while they waited for their trains. One or two had got off here as he had – a red-headed woman in her twenties with a short denim jacket and a leopard-print bag, a black businessman in a nicely cut suit listening to his iPod – others were coming down the steps from the footbridge at the other end of the station.

An older man was walking towards him – a security guard by the look of him, with the standard-issue shirt and tie, a badge stitched onto his jacket and a battered rucksack slung over one shoulder. Would he be the one?

Naysmith watched him intently as he approached but the man passed behind him without ever looking up.

A girl with a tight woollen jumper and skinny jeans made her way hesitantly down the steps, paused to study a poster on the inside of the shelter, then meandered on along the platform. She carried a heavy bag and slowed as she approached – just a few yards between them now. Her long dark hair was gathered up in a large clip, and she wore a lot of costume jewellery. If she would just look up . . .

. . . but she didn’t.

He waited there as another train arrived, passengers got on, new arrivals got off. His searching eyes moved from face to face, but nobody looked up, nobody met his gaze. Taking a sip from his half-empty coffee cup, he found that it was getting cold.

Another train, another set of people, but still nothing.

He frowned as he stood there, rocking from one foot to the other, jamming his hands down into his pockets as a chill breeze gusted along the exposed platform. This was East London. People didn’t make eye contact lightly around here.

He sighed and looked out along the tracks at the distant grey cityscape and the thin morning sun, ghostly behind the clouds. Perhaps this wasn’t going to work out as well as he’d thought. The lights of another city-bound train approached and he turned expectantly, but it swayed and rattled across the points to slide in along the opposite platform. He bowed his head in frustration. How long was he going to have to wait on this miserable strip of concrete?

The passengers were disembarking, but they were stepping out through the doors on the far side of the train. He sighed.

And then, just as he began to think that this whole thing might have been a bad idea, his gaze flitted across one of the carriage windows.

A man was looking at him. From a seat inside the waiting train, a clean-shaven man in his early thirties stared out at him with an expression of boredom. Naysmith peered at him intently. He was slight, with a weak chin and a complexion that looked pasty under the artificial lights of the train. Lank, sandy hair was swept back across his scalp, and his eyes were small and dark. He wore a blue anorak over his shirt and tie, and sat with a brown leather case clutched to his chest. After a moment, the man seemed to become self-conscious and looked away, but the contact had been made.

He would be the one.

There was a change to the noise of the motor, and the pitch of the hum rose as the train began to move. Naysmith felt a strange exhilaration as the man looked up and stared at him again, their eyes locked until the train disappeared under the footbridge and out of the station. Would the man remember him if they saw each other again? He’d certainly been aware that he was being studied . . .

. . . which meant this hunt would have to be undertaken with considerably more care than usual. Good!

Naysmith glanced up at the time on the electronic information board above him: 8.27 a.m. A twenty-four-hour head start, and a week-long conference before he had to go back home to Wiltshire. In every sense, the clock was ticking.

38

Monday, 3 September

‘Can I get you anything else?’ The waitress was a tall woman with long blonde hair that shimmered as she moved. She wore a high-collared white shirt and a satin waistcoat with black trousers.

Naysmith looked up at her.

‘Just the bill, please.’

He watched her as she walked away across the polished wooden floor, admiring the lithe tone of her body that her outfit was unable to conceal, then turned back to the balding man who sat opposite him.

‘You would, though, wouldn’t you?’ said the man, in a light Welsh accent. He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and inclined his head towards the receding waitress with an eager grin.

Naysmith smiled. ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re her type, Ken.’

It had been ages since he’d seen Ken. Slightly thinner on top, slightly heavier around the middle, but still good company. They’d worked together for three years at TTC – just long enough to secure their stock options and get out. Naysmith had moved to Winterhill and Ken, after some enforced gardening leave, had joined one of TTC’s largest competitors. Today, they’d met by chance at the conference and spent an enjoyable evening talking shop, and running up a tab on Ken’s corporate credit card.

‘Anyway,’ Naysmith continued, ‘you’re a married man.’

‘Not that married,’ Ken murmured, still gazing after the waitress. ‘Nobody’s that married.’

They laughed, and Ken poured out the last of the wine, then leaned across to hand a glass to Naysmith.

‘And what about you, Rob?’ he asked. ‘Still happily unencumbered?’

‘I’m sort of living with someone now.’

‘Really?’ Ken raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’d put up with a rascal like you?’

‘I don’t know if you ever met her. Her name’s Kim.’

‘Not that little dark-haired one you brought along to the last Christmas party at TTC?’

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Ken said slowly, leaning back in his chair. ‘You’ve fallen on your feet there, boy.’

‘Yes,’ Naysmith nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I have.’

The waitress reappeared and placed a small leather bill folder on the table.

‘My treat,’ Ken beamed, sweeping up the folder and handing it with his card to the waitress.

‘If you insist,’ Naysmith shrugged, putting his wallet away. ‘I’ll get the next one.’

Ken nodded as he took the credit-card machine, squinted at it through his glasses, then entered his details.

‘You’re still down in Hampshire or wherever it was?’

‘Wiltshire. A couple of miles from Salisbury.’

‘That’s right, I remember now. Charming place, Salisbury. Stonehenge, druids, that sort of thing . . .’

He handed the machine back to the waitress and grinned at her.

‘Thank you,’ she said with a slight nod, then handed him his card and receipt. ‘Have a good evening, gentlemen.’

Ken folded the receipt as he watched her walk away.

‘Did you see that?’ he sighed. ‘A twenty-quid tip and not so much as a smile from her.’

‘You’ve still got it,’ Naysmith laughed, getting to his feet.

‘I should’ve let you pay,’ Ken muttered.

A squall of wind caught them as they walked down the steps from the restaurant, but an evening of drinking had numbed them to the chill night air.

‘Where are you staying?’ Naysmith asked as he raised his hand to hail a taxi.