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detectives were trying to trace the man who had arranged his stay with Danny Yilmaz and promised to talk to Danny’s known friends and associates. Phone records for Danny and for Barbaros Kaya would be obtained. A team was checking CCTV cameras on all the stations of the Northern underground line serving Camden Town station.

    Later, towards eight, back at Queen Anne’s Gate, Brock put his head around the door of Kathy’s office.
    ‘Time to go home,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’ The fact was that he couldn’t get rid of the taste of that man’s blood. He’d brushed his teeth and swallowed numerous cups of strong coffee, but it was still there, a faint noxious taint. Maybe Scotch would clear it.
    The Two Chairmen at the end of the street was quiet when they arrived, a couple of women on stools at the bar and a lone drinker in the far corner. Kathy sat at a table while Brock went to order, returning with a Scotch for himself and a glass of white wine for Kathy.
    ‘Cheers.’ He felt the cleansing spirit burn down his throat and sank back into his chair with a sigh.
    She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
    ‘Wine no good?’
    ‘Oh, it’s fine, just what I needed. But I should have nailed Captain Marvel.’
    ‘Whoever he’s protecting is a lot more scary than you or me, Kathy.’
    ‘It’s frustrating.’ She looked up and noticed the single drinker in the far corner get to his feet and head towards the rear door. She had a brief glimpse of his face before he was gone and she frowned. He looked very like the Canadian from the hotel.
    Brock, seeing her expression, said, ‘Had an idea?’
    ‘No, I just . . . No, it’s nothing.’
    Later, when she got home, still troubled by the thought of the man in the pub, she phoned the duty officer at headquarters and asked for a check on the Police National Computer and the Interpol databases. He rang back as she was reheating a Thai takeaway in her microwave. John Greenslade was not a name known to either system. She asked him to check the Home Office UK Border Agency. This time she did get a result. John Greenslade, a Canadian citizen with a Montreal address, had entered the country through Heathrow ten days previously as a visitor. His occupation was given as ‘university professor’.
    Restless now, she played with her meal without really tasting it and turned on her laptop. There was only one email of interest, from Guy, a short message that looked as if it had been written in a hurry.
Hi Kathy,
Hope all goes well with you. I’m okay, but the job has gone pear-shaped. Work has stopped, and they’re moving me on, to Shanghai would you believe, where we’ve got a big project on the go. Sorry about the trip. Maybe we can meet up on the Bund. I think of you a lot. Stay safe.
Love,
Guy
    She looked up at the envelope that had been sitting on her mantelpiece for quite a while now, containing a first-class air ticket to Dubai, and felt sad, thinking of lost opportunities and roads not taken. Then she roused herself and got up to take a shower. It would never have worked out with Guy anyway.

FIVE
    O n Saturday morning John Greenslade made his way down to breakfast in the dining room at the back of the hotel, overlooking a courtyard garden. He had learned from Deb that there were only seven guest rooms in the hotel, and three of those were occupied by semi-permanent residents: a young Australian woman lawyer, an elderly English woman who had been there since the hotel opened in 1996 and who was now rarely seen outside of her room, and a retired man originally from Nepal. Apart from Emerson Merckle and himself, the short-stay guests were two couples from Leeds, who came every year at this time for the flower show. They were in the dining room now, and gave him a cheery greeting. Once they picked up his accent they told him they’d done Canada, and described their trip there at some considerable length.
    After breakfast he went back up to his room and worked on his laptop for a