‘Just a thought.’ Harry was remembering the photo Ballatyne had shown him, of Paulton crossing a pavement. It could have been any town, any country. But not a backwoods place — it looked too smart for that. Somewhere modern, with banks and offices and lines of communication. The kind of place a former high-level spook on the run would be attracted to, to visit occasionally to collect funds and bend his ear to the ground for gossip about potential danger. Most of the cars at the kerb were nose to tail and looked sleek and shiny, exuding an air of anonymous prosperity. Except the vehicle nearest the camera: a Mercedes with its registration plate just visible.
It wasn’t much, but he’d memorized the number.
Just in case they got back safely and Ballatyne decided not to keep his word.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you about it over a drink. Then we’ve got work to do.’
