He mused to himself that he really should have brought them up from Surrey’s pannier a little sooner, but it had given him the chance to chat to Julian the Heavy. ‘Not packing today, Julian?’ he had asked cheerily, well within earshot of the patrolling policeman and the remnants of the paparazzi, smoking and sipping Pimms like spectators at a summer event. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Julian had shrugged, his eyes black behind the dark glasses, beads of perspiration standing out on his shaven head, a mad dog and an Englishman, all in one, in the midday sun. Maxwell had gone through the motions for him, a little over-the-top perhaps, of pumping a pump action rifle and blasting the air in front of him. Julian had looked on amazed. He didn’t own a pump-action and the shotgun he did own he only carried at night, so what was all the pantomime about? George had thought temporarily about putting one on the cheeky bastard, but it was a little open for that.
