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the absence of information made Bryant suspicious.
    ‘Why do something so dramatic?’ asked May. ‘Why not simply slap an injunction on the book?’
    ‘That would be the best way to draw attention to it, don’t you think? Do you honestly imagine governments can’t make people disappear when they want to? Looks like we’re here.’
    The taxi was pulling up in Marsham Street, the new Home Office headquarters. The building had won architectural awards, but to Bryant’s mind itsinterior possessed the kind of anonymous corporate style favoured by corrupt dictators who enjoyed picture windows in the boardroom and soundproofed walls in the basement.
    ‘A word of advice, Arthur,’ May volunteered. ‘The less you say, the better. Don’t give him anything he can use as ammunition.’
    ‘Oh, you know me, I’m the soul of discretion.’
    May’s firm hand on his shoulder held him back. ‘I mean it. This could go very badly for us.’
    ‘That’s fine, John, so long as you remember that he is our enemy. Anna Marquand was more than just my biographer, she was fast on her way to becoming a good friend; someone I trusted with the secrets of my life. And she may have paid for it with her own.’
    In the immense open atrium, the detectives appeared as diminished as the figures in a Lowry painting. A blank-faced receptionist asked for their signatures and handed them plastic swipe cards.
    Three central Home Office buildings were connected from the first to the fourth floors by a single walkway. This formed part of a central corridor running the length of the site, commonly known as the Bridge. Kasavian’s new third-floor office was in the only part of the building that had no direct access to sunlight. As the detectives entered his waiting room, they felt the temperature fall by several degrees.
    Kasavian’s assistant looked as if she hadn’t slept for months. ‘Perhaps he drains her blood,’ Bryant whispered from the side of his mouth. She beckoned them into an even dimmer room. Kasavian was standing at the internal window with his back to them, his hands locked together, a tall black outline against a penumbra of dusty afternoon light. In this corner of the new century’s high-tech building it was forever 1945.
    May glanced across at his partner. Arthur Bryant hadno interest in what others thought of his appearance. His sartorial style could most easily be described as ‘Post-war Care Home Jumble Sale’. It was usually possible to see what he had been eating just by glancing at his front. John May prided himself on a certain level of elegance, although his police salary did not run to handmade suits. When Kasavian turned, May instantly recognized the Savile Row cut of charcoal-grey cloth, the lustrous gleam of Church’s shoes, the dark glitter of Cartier cufflinks, and felt a twinge of jealousy.
    ‘Take a seat, both of you. I’m sorry about the light. Sometimes when I’m stressed my eyes become hypersensitive.’
    Bryant shot his partner a meaningful look.
Something’s wrong here
. Kasavian never revealed anything that could be interpreted as a human flaw; it wasn’t in his DNA to do so.
    Kasavian sighed and absently ran a palm against the side of his oiled black hair. As yet he had looked neither of them in the face. He stalked around his chair, picked up an onyx-handled letter opener and set it back down, then suddenly seemed at a loss. Searching about in vague confusion, he eventually planted himself on the edge of the desk and carefully studied each of them in turn.
    ‘This isn’t about your memoir,’ he said finally. ‘Our legals gave it a cursory glance when it was still proofing.’
    ‘That’s odd,’ said Bryant. ‘The galleys were locked away.’
    Kasavian waved the implication aside. ‘We let you off because it appears your early cases weren’t covered by actionable security regulations, and the department has resolved not to take a stance on your more provocative jibes. We like to think we can