Macmillan called just after ten when Steven, feeling better after talking to Tally, was watching the news on TV. He killed the sound and listened expectantly.

‘The computer people have recovered the content of a letter sent from the prime minister’s office to Tom North. ‘It impresses on North that what they call “the discovery” must remain secret at all costs until such times as Porton or Fort Detrick have come up with a way of dealing with what they term “the problem”. Make any sense?’

After considering for a few moments, Steven said not.

‘I’m going to tell the computer people to go home and get some rest,’ said Macmillan. ‘They’ve done well and with a bit of luck they’ll come up with more tomorrow.’

‘I was going to leave off telling you this until tomorrow,’ said Steven, ‘but, as you’ve called, I had a bit of a run-in with Bill Andrews of the CIA earlier on...’

Steven heard the short intake of breath at the other end of the phone which translated in his mind into, “All I need”. ‘I caught him following me. He insists he was going to warn me about Khan having gone rogue. After a bit of a chat, I think I believe him. He says Khan is part of some militant anti-India faction but he doesn’t know what he’s after.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ask him about the secret?’

‘He doesn’t know any more than we do.’

‘Pity, still, let’s hope for a more productive tomorrow.’

Steven went through to the kitchen and closed the window: all traces of his earlier guest had now gone. He felt hungry but, as he hadn’t made a visit to a supermarket for some time, wasn’t quite sure what he had in store and he thought it too late to send out for take-away food.

The fridge revealed some bacon with a slightly greenish sheen to it when held at an angle and a small slab of cheddar cheese that Sir Alexander Fleming might have been able to make a significant discovery on in another era. The lettuce looked as if the US Air Force had attacked it with Agent Orange and the duck paté might have served well in the pointing of brickwork. The cupboard above the fridge however, yielded a large tin of corned beef and a small one of baked beans which gave his morale a boost and prompted him to murmur, ‘And a Michelin star goes to... Steven Dunbar.’

As always, after a day in which a lot had happened, Steven was finding it difficult to unwind. His earlier plan to have a long soak had of course, been scuppered by the encounter with Andrews, something which had sent his adrenalin levels soaring and it was taking a long time for them to subside. He was no longer hungry; he didn’t want any more to drink; he didn’t want to watch TV but he knew if he went to bed, he wouldn’t sleep. He seemed destined to continue fidgeting until he realised there was a way he could speed the unwinding process up. He checked the weather outside from the window before changing into a track suit and trainers. It was one in the morning but he was going out for run. He would run until exhaustion freed him from restlessness.

An hour later Steven arrived back at Marlborough Court thinking he might have overdone it as sweat dripped from his face on to the floor of the lift and he experienced the slight feeling of nausea that athletes encountered when pushing themselves to the limit. It passed without incident however and was replaced by a pleasant endorphin rush once he had showered and settled down with a cold Peroni beer. He was enjoying a warm feeling of well-being when the phone rang.

Phone calls were never welcome in the small hours of the morning; no one ever phoned with good news at that time. Steven answered in trepidation, running through a range of possibilities in his head. None of them applied.

‘Dr Dunbar?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Perhaps you’d like three guesses, Doctor?’

The cultured voice and Pakistani accent made Steven’s blood run cold. He was talking to Simone’s killer, Khan.

‘You have something I want Doctor and I would be grateful if you would deliver it to me.’

Alarm bells were ringing in Steven’s head. Khan sounded too sure of himself, like a man about to show a hand of four aces. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Forget the nonsense, please. There isn’t time as you are about to appreciate. I want the memory card or the next time you see your daughter will be at her funeral.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Steven, feeling sick to his stomach. ‘My daughter? What the hell are you talking about?’

Steven stopped when a familiar voice came on the line. ‘Daddy, Daddy, there’s a bad man in the house...’

‘Jenny?’

Khan was back on the line. ‘I don’t have to warn you about involving outside agencies. That goes without saying. Start by flying into Edinburgh Airport with the card. Be there by noon and await my instructions.’

Twenty nine