The movement of turning, fast, buffeted Josh Mantle into a woman standing behind him, pressing close to him in the queue. He had been far away, his mind, in the last moments before the voice had cut into his consciousness, in the office in the high street of Slough — the morning, the partners, his desk empty, the papers for the day’s court appearances not laid neatly out. It took him time, two seconds or three, to locate the voice. ‘Thought you’d be here. The obvious way would have been to hire a car ten hours ago and get straight up there, or to take the first train. Good thinking, Mantle, and what I’d anticipated.’ The old railway station had been cleaned. There was a polished floor, flowers in pots, new counters and computers for issuing tickets, fast-food stalls, newspaper and magazine stands. Progress had reached the railway station of Berlin/Lichtenberg, so that a veneer covered the past and obliterated history. ‘Always best to make your own agenda, not to let the opposition set it for you.
