Frowning, he looked across to see where the train went after Poplar. There were just five possible stations, and two of them were main terminus points – significantly better odds.

There was really nothing more he could do until tomorrow morning – he might as well head over to the conference and get some breakfast. Yawning, he turned and made his way across to the opposite platform to await his train.

39

Wednesday, 5 September

Naysmith paid the taxi fare and added a good tip – the driver hadn’t attempted to make conversation on their thirty-minute journey and that was always a relief. Standing there on the pavement, surrounded by the steady roar of early evening traffic, he turned to gaze up at the imposing building behind him – four storeys of pale Georgian permanence, right on Hyde Park Corner.

It was an expensive place, and if his clients were staying here then they certainly had money. Considering this, he allowed himself a slight smile and made his way towards the entrance portico.

A sombre-faced doorman in a grey coat and bowler hat moved smoothly to intercept him, quietly opening the tall wooden door before him.

‘Thank you,’ Naysmith nodded as he strode up the stone steps and passed into the small entrance lobby.

Behind him, the rumble of the city was gently snuffed out as the great door slid shut, and the only sounds that remained were his footsteps on the polished marble floor. The space smelled of old wood and furniture wax, and it was accented with some lovely nineteenth-century pieces. Ornate lamp fittings hung by long chains from the tall ceiling, occasional tables carried vases filled with beautiful sprays of flowers, and carved mahogany chairs sat in every corner. He walked through to the long reception desk where an immaculately dressed man acknowledged him with a deferential nod.

‘Good evening, sir. May I help you?’ he enquired.

‘My name’s Robert Naysmith. I’m meeting one of your guests – a Mr Vernon Kapphan – but I’m a little early.’

The receptionist glanced down at his screen for a moment, then smiled politely.

‘Very good, Mr Naysmith. Perhaps you’d care to wait in the room across the corridor and I’ll let Mr Kapphan know you’re here.’

‘Thanks.’

He walked through the doorway the man had indicated and stepped into a long, bright room decorated in Regency style. Crimson and gold drapes framed the windows, matching the velvet upholstery on the low sofas, and small pedestal tables gleamed with polish. He selected a beautiful wood-framed chair that had its back to the doorway, but which commanded a good view of the foyer in the reflection of a glass-fronted cabinet.

There was a heavy stillness in the room that seemed to swell and grow as he waited. Through the window, he could see the tops of trucks and red buses as the incessant traffic slid by outside, but no sound reached him here behind the thick cream walls and spotless glazing. The oppressive silence was briefly disturbed by muted voices drifting through from reception before it returned to smother the room.

He checked his watch again, his face registering a slight flicker of annoyance as he noticed that he was no longer early – they were now late. Leaning back into the chair, he wondered how long they would be. Wealthy clients were often late, but in a way that was understandable. Time-wasters might be apologetically punctual but people who were serious – people who actually had the money to place an order – they naturally thought of themselves as customers, and felt no need to rush around after a salesman.

In any case, there were worse places to pass the time, and it was certainly better than being at that bloody conference. He’d endured another tiresome afternoon, sitting there listening to lectures given by people with limited public-speaking skills, and a particularly awful keynote speech from an enthusiastic halfwit who would probably be out of business within a year.

Naysmith sighed and leaned back, stretching out his legs and feeling the deep carpet springing against his heels. It had been another long day, another early start. Once again, he found his thoughts drawn to that sandy-haired man looking back at him from the train – an ordinary person with an ordinary life, unaware that he might be staring death in the face. Had he felt anything as he made eye contact? Did he sense that something profound had happened, even though he couldn’t know what it was? Naysmith hoped so. A moment like that must surely resonate in even the most mundane of people. He wondered where the man worked, where he lived . . . and where he might die.

Of course, he had to find him first. It had dawned on him that the man’s journey might well take him further into London than the DLR ran, that he might need to change trains. This greatly increased the odds that he would find the target at one of the two main terminal stations where the DLR connected with the Underground. He’d felt a real buzz of anticipation as he lay in wait at Tower Gateway, the ambush predator standing at the foot of the escalator, watching as passengers streamed out onto the pavement, but it had been a washout. The man had not appeared. Tomorrow morning he would try Bank station instead . . .

His eyes flickered across to the two figures that had appeared, reflected on the glass in front of him. Smiling quietly to himself, he leaned forward and got to his feet without looking round.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, finally turning to face them and extending his hand. ‘It’s good of you to see me . . .’

40

Wednesday, 5 September

Mercifully, the waiting room was empty again. He’d sat there before, angry and self-conscious, while a middle-aged woman had sat opposite him. He’d felt her eyes on him as he’d leafed through an ancient magazine, staring at him, judging him. Just sitting here meant you were tainted, damaged.

But today, there were no covert glances, no quiet coughs to disturb the breathless silence. Harland leaned forward, sifting through the magazines as noisily as possible, suddenly eager to dispel the dreadful stillness.

When Jean appeared in the doorway, beckoning him through, it was almost a relief. She was wearing jeans and boots, with the snug-fitting sweater he always seemed to picture her in when he thought of her. It highlighted her figure in a way that distracted him, and he forced himself to think of other things as he followed her into the small room and sat down.

Jean put her notebook on the table, then opened her spectacle case and pulled out a different pair of glasses to the ones she usually wore. Harland watched her put them on.

‘They’re new, aren’t they?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She glanced up at him.

‘Your glasses,’ he explained. ‘They suit you.’

Her expression softened and she smiled with a warmth he’d not seen from her before.

‘Thank you,’ she said as she retrieved her notebook. She read for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘So, how have you been?’

He returned her gaze and sighed before answering.

‘I’m still on leave,’ he said, half shaking his head. ‘A break from work, whether I want it or not.’

‘Okay.’ Jean paused for a moment, then asked, ‘And do you want it? A break from work?’

‘No.’ He found that he had answered her too quickly, too urgently. She nodded and wrote something down.

‘Why do you think that is, Graham?’ she said, sitting back in her chair and looking at him.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Is there something that you’re missing at work perhaps? Or are you just not in the mood for time off just now?’

Harland leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, gazing at the carpet.

‘A bit of both,’ he shrugged. ‘I certainly don’t like to walk out on a case halfway through. Something might come up that I need to take care of.’