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viewed this eventuality with particular trepidation, since the Ministry manuals had nothing to say on the subject.
    â€œI have no choice but to put you in charge of the investigation,” Owen said. “You must be thorough, but discreet.”
    â€œNaturally. I will need to travel to Europe to begin my inquiries.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Owen suspiciously.
    â€œI will need to find out the exact circumstances of these arrests. Ordinarily I would do so through the normal channels of the Firm. Since we wish to minimize publicity, I will have to avoid these channels and use a back door.”
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?”
    â€œI’d prefer not to explain the details, if you don’t mind, but suffice it to say that I do have some contacts throughout Europe who aren’t working for anybody at the moment, and who might have access to the kind of information we need.”
    â€œI see,” Owen said, though obviously he didn’t see. “Is this all going to be very expensive?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Wyman said flatly.
    â€œWe can’t afford to finance holiday trips, you realize.”
    Wyman suddenly felt an overpowering urge to grab Owen by the throat and bang his head against the desk.
    â€œI’ll keep the expense to a minimum,” he said.
    â€œDo that,” Owen said. “There’s a recession on, you know.”

Chapter Nine
    W YMAN’S SON RICHARD lived in a squat in Hackney. He shared it with two girls and a fourth party of dubious gender called Leslie. Wyman did not know whether Leslie was a male homosexual or a female transvestite, and he was always too embarrassed to ask. So when Leslie opened the front door one afternoon, Wyman merely said:
    â€œGood afternoon. Is Richard in?”
    â€œWhy hello, Dr Wyman,” Leslie said. “Yes, he’s upstairs. Do come in.”
    Wyman entered the hallway and noted that Leslie’s hair was now a delicate shade of violet, which clashed with Leslie’s orange eye-shadow and green lipstick.
    â€œI presume he’s still in bed,” Wyman said. “After all, it’s only three in the afternoon.”
    â€œHe’s a delicate boy,” Leslie said. “He needs rest.”
    â€œHe’s always resting,” Wyman said. “Perhaps one day some one will tell me what he’s resting from.”
    â€œI’m sure you can guess,” Leslie grinned, winking an eye.
    Wyman shuddered and went upstairs.
    Richard’s door bore the legend “Abandon all hope ye who enter here”. Wyman read it, smiled, and knocked.
    â€œRichard? It’s your father,” Wyman said. “You know, the man who clears your overdrafts for you.”
    â€œCome in,” Richard mumbled.
    Wyman opened the door and beheld the cataclysm in Richard’s room. Wyman was not a tidy or fastidious man, but he was positively spartan in comparison to his son.
    â€œHi, Dad,” said Richard. He grinned sleepily from beneath a duvet, surrounded by an avalanche of books, records, dirty clothes, magazines, plates of decaying food, coffee cups, bottles and cigarette packets.
    â€œGood afternoon,” Wyman said. “I see that little has changed around here. You still wake up at the crack of sunset, your friends are still having hormonal crises, and you still have a splendid disregard for those old bourgeois concepts of order and hygiene.”
    â€œSpare me the irony,” Richard groaned. “It’s too early in the day. Have a seat.”
    Wyman waded through the rubble and found a chair that was relatively free of garbage. He sat down and offered his son a cigarette.
    â€œThanks,” Richard said. “What’s new?”
    â€œA lot, actually. That’s why I called.” Wyman lit both their cigarettes, took a deep puff and continued.
    â€œFirstly, the Firm is making me redundant, and secondly, so is the College.”
    â€œWow!” exclaimed