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himself away. She closed the door behind him with a final goodbye, and he adjusted his tie as he went to the car. He unlocked the door to the Rover and got in. He looked at himself in the driving mirror and smoothed down his hair before using the breath-freshener again. The Rover started first time and as he edged it forward the bomb went off, blasting through the wheel-arch and taking off both of his legs in a burst of fire and exploding metal.
    Detective Chief Inspector Richard Bromley was filling his briar pipe from a weathered leather pouch when the phone on his desk rang.
    â€˜It’s the front desk, sir. He’s here again.’
    Bromley groaned. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’
    â€˜I’ve done that, sir. He says he’ll wait.’
    â€˜Tell him I’ll call him when there’s any news.’
    â€˜I’ve done that, sir.’
    Bromley groaned again. He’d had the same conversation more than a dozen times over the past three weeks but he always hoped that it would end differently, that Nguyen Ngoc Minh would just give up and go home. It had started with phone calls to the general enquiry office, but somewhere along the line somebody had told him that Bromley was handling the case. Nguyen began telephoning him twice a day, once at nine o’clock prompt and again at five o’clock, asking for Detective Chief Inspector Bromley, always polite and deferential. When he first spoke to Nguyen, Bromley felt sorry for him and when he asked how the investigation was going he did his best to sound optimistic. That was his mistake, he realised, he should never have raised the man’s hopes. Nguyen explained what had happened to his wife and daughter, quietly and seemingly without emotion, and he told Bromley that the men responsible must be caught. Bromley had agreed and said that they were doing everything they could. Nguyen had thanked him and asked that Bromley call him when the men had been caught. He’d said ‘apprehended’ but had pronounced each syllable separately as if reading the word for the first time. Five seconds after replacing the receiver, the inspector had forgotten all about the man with the strange name and the awkward English. Until the next day when he rang again. He was just as polite, always calling him ‘Detective Chief Inspector Bromley’ and never raising his voice. He simply repeated the questions once more. Was there any news? Did they know who had set off the bomb? Were the police about to catch the men? When? He listened to Bromley’s replies, which were less optimistic this time, told him how important it was that the men were found, thanked him, and rang off. He rang again the following day. And the day after. Bromley stopped taking his calls and forgot about him.
    Three days after the last call he was told that there was someone waiting for him at reception. It wasn’t unusual for people to arrive at New Scotland Yard with information that might be useful for the Anti-Terrorist Branch, but he was surprised that the man had asked for him by name because most of his informers wouldn’t have wanted to have been seen within a mile of the building. It was Nguyen. Bromley told the man on reception to send the old man away, but he had simply sat down on one of the hard grey sofas and waited. He’d waited until the main offices had closed and then he’d left, only to return the following day. He’d maintained his vigil for more than a week, never making a fuss or doing anything that would justify ejecting him from the premises. He just waited. Bromley had been impressed by the man’s stubbornness, but he was also hugely irritated by it. Several times he’d had to walk through reception while he was there and he’d glanced at the slightly built Oriental sitting with his hands in his lap, head lowered like a monk at prayer. Once he’d looked up as Bromley passed and he’d bitten down hard on the stem of