He could see her sweeping round the dance floor, cat-green eyes bright with pleasure, more beautiful, more graceful in her sensible skirt than all those women who had made so much effort to please. He tried to cling to this warm, sleepy memory of her, caught up in the dance too, but it began to slip away. It was replaced by an image of Mohr’s clever, confident smile, and it was this that finally drove him from his bed. One hour and a greasy canteen breakfast later, Lindsay was perched on the balustrade of the Trent Park terrace, the sun warm on his back, in one hand a cigarette, in the other his ‘bible’ – the notes he used to prepare for an interrogation. It was always a little pantomime of sympathy, impatience, rage, and it needed to be structured carefully. So absorbed was he in this task that he did not hear the footsteps approaching from the front of the house. ‘Enjoying the sunshine?’ It was James Henderson. Lindsay turned to acknowledge him, slipping from the balustrade to his feet.
