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He walked to the end of platform 17, his hands by his side, intimating that he was not in possession of any kind of weapon. In fact, he was carrying a small revolver in his jacket pocket. To combat the cold, however, he wore an overcoat, and the gun, buried beneath this coat, was for use only in the direst emergency. He didn’t believe he would have any need of it.

There were no train spotters about. The end of the platform did not offer overhead shelter from the morning’s needle-fine drizzle, and he turned up his coat collar. The trains that arrived at this platform were local services from Dundee and Fife, no farther. He saw from the flickering video screen that a train was due in from Cowdenbeath. Now where on earth was that? He seemed to recall that a football team from there appeared somewhere in the Scottish league, but couldn’t be sure. Looking back up the length of the platform, he saw Phillips standing with the woman, who was held in toward him as though unwillingly. He motioned for Phillips to move farther away. It would ruin everything if Flint were to see them both. Phillips moved away quickly, right out of Partridge’s sight. He would reappear when the time was right.

There were no obstructions to Partridge’s view. He would have fifty yards’ warning of Flint’s approach. It seemed extraordinary that he should have enlisted the aid of Collins under any circumstances. Partridge was still not sure that he fully believed it. Perhaps Monmouth was playing some sort of trick on him. Well, he would soon know one way or the other. They would be here at any moment.

From out of the Waverley tunnel came a slow, tired-sounding diesel engine, pulling three dingy carriages behind it. The Cowdenbeath train, he presumed. It pulled into platform 17 and drew to a halt. A crowd of people began to disembark. This, he thought, must be Flint’s plan: he will arrive just at the height of the confusion, hoping to catch me off guard. Partridge craned his neck to search above the heads of the herd, who were now walking briskly along the platform away from him.

And so did not notice the last door of the train open and the two figures jump out, beside him in an instant.

Startled momentarily, he managed somehow to return Flint’s smile and even held out his hand.

‘Miles,’ he said, ‘good to see you. A nice trick that.’

‘We took a train out to Haymarket and another one straight back.’

‘Yes, damned ingenious, really.’ He turned to Collins. ‘And this is?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Miles, ‘I’d forgotten that any introduction would be necessary. This is Will Collins. Will, this is Mr. Partridge, the man for whom you murdered Philip Hayton.’

Partridge managed a low chuckle.

‘Well, yes, poor Philip. He was quite mad, you know. If he hadn’t died, well, he could have done great harm to the firm.’

The Irishman’s hand was like a mechanism of steel and taut wires, not a human hand at all. The eyes were glassy, as though they too had been jogged into life by a motor of tiny coiled springs.

‘Yes,’ Partridge said again, not knowing what to say.

‘You don’t seem surprised to see Mr. Collins,’ said Miles. ‘I presume that’s because Billy told you about him.’

‘Oh, well, yes, Monmouth did mention him, I think.’

‘I told you you couldn’t trust that—’ Collins was silenced by a wave of Miles’s hand. Miles turned to Partridge.

‘Where’s the director, by the way?’

‘Couldn’t make it. Poor old chap’s become a bit... well, emotional of late. No, he couldn’t risk the trip.’

‘In other words, you’ve kept it all from him.’

Partridge’s face became a parody of concern.

‘He’s past it, Miles. He doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t it make sense for someone to take over, someone who knows better than he does? Anyway, I thought it best to keep this strictly between ourselves. To save future embarrassment.’

‘There’ll be plenty of embarrassment over those tapes.’

‘Tapes?’ Partridge’s face became quizzical. Caught you, thought Miles, caught you at last.

‘Yes, you know, the tapes I made of Billy’s confession and of Mr. Collins’s version of events. Didn’t Billy tell you?’

‘Perhaps it slipped my mind.’

‘Well, they’ve been sent to the proper authorities, the PM, the press, that sort of thing.’

Partridge’s face had become the color of sticky bread dough before the flour is sprinkled on. All it needed now was the kneading. He looked quickly along the platform but could not see Phillips. Phillips would not come forward until he was sure that Miles Flint had arrived, and how could he know that, since they had not been expecting him to arrive by train?

‘Looking for someone?’

‘Well, you never know who’ll turn up at these dos, do you?’

‘Still cracking jokes.’ This from Collins. ‘Aye, you’re a tough one all right, but we’ll see just how tough.’

Miles rested a hand on the tensed arm of the younger man, and left it there.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘we should make a clean breast, don’t you, Partridge?’

Partridge shrugged his shoulders, rubbing his numbed hands together. He dearly wanted to push them deep into the woolen haven of his pockets, but felt that it was important to keep his body gestures open, unlike the heavily attacking stance of the Irishman.

‘You know,’ Miles began, ‘I was never a threat to you, never.’

‘With respect, Miles, I have to disagree. The very fact of our meeting here today is proof of that.’

‘It wasn’t until you sent me to Ireland, sent me to my own execution, that I began to piece things together, and then only with the help of Mr. Collins. I was never close to finding out your dirty little secret. It was Billy you should have been watching, Billy and his friend Andrew Gray.’

‘Gray?’

‘An American operative. He was putting a sweat on your friend Sizewell.’

After a moment’s thought, Partridge shrugged his shoulders again and looked back along the platform.

‘Well, what does it matter now? I’ve never been one for postmortems.’

‘Just so long as the executions went off all right. This all started so neatly, didn’t it? A single death, all those years ago, hidden by time as you thought. But it’s been growing, Partridge. And you can’t kill everyone.’

‘I don’t want to kill anyone.’ He pointed to Collins. ‘Except him. Give him to me, Miles, and that can be the end of it.’

‘What about the tapes?’

‘They can be recovered. It’s him I want.’

Collins made a leap forward. ‘You filthy bastard!’

Miles’s hand tightened its grip on Collins’s arm, and he looked at him the way a parent would look at an errant son.

‘I’m going to have him, so help me,’ hissed Collins.

‘This man is our enemy, Miles,’ said Partridge, ‘you must see that. He’s everything we’ve been fighting against for twenty-odd years. What’s more, he murdered Peter Saville, or, rather, one of his devices did.’

‘Pete?’

‘Blown to bits in Ganton Street.’

‘But they said in the papers that they couldn’t establish identity. So how the hell can you know that it was Pete?’

Partridge faltered, looked down at his feet.

‘Unless,’ said Miles, ‘your Cynegetics bullies, your little private army was following him. Maybe putting the chill on him, eh? Frighten him off, was that it? Yes, I’ll bet that was it. Your own little army. I’ll bet that appealed to you, didn’t it? Speaking of which, how did you inveigle Phillips’s help?’