On the table to his left was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a glass containing ice which had not yet melted, a silver Zippo lighter engraved with his name, a crystal ashtray with the singed butt of a Marlboro cigarette resting on its rim, and a computer printout, three columns wide and thirteen rows deep, detailing names and dates and places. His right hand lay on his lap, wrapped around an antique Luger pistol. An undried fresco of brain and blood and bone covered the wall behind his head. On top of the television, a digital camera had been positioned, pointing at the chair. Its red record light was on. James Sawday stopped typing, looked up from the screen of his laptop and checked his watch: twelve-fifteen. His hand squeaked against the cab window as he wiped the condensation away and gazed outside. The warehouses, hotels and car parks of Heathrow airport had been replaced now by the imposing façades of Knightsbridge department stores. The traffic was boot to bumper, but still a blessing compared to the gridlock he’d grown used to in LA.
