‘… I’ll get every bent hack in the galaxy to blog about your abuse of children, with images of you doing it. None of it’ll be traceable back to me or HMG. My sources will be so well protected that Edward Snowden will award the Nobel Prize for IT to the anonymous author. It’ll take you the rest of your miserable life and every penny you’ve got to clear your name, and you won’t succeed. There’s no smoke without fire. Mud sticks. The rumours will be self-fulfilling prophesies. You’ll wish you were dead.’

  An explosion erupted in Scott’s brain. He sprang at Fraser across the table, yanked him up by his jacket lapels and head-butted him so hard that he heard the man’s nose break. The spook collapsed in a heap on the floor. Scott rushed round the table and stood over him. ‘You so much as come within a million miles of me again Fraser, and I’ll fucking kill you! So help me God I will.’

  He stamped on Fraser’s head, twice, and left the restaurant, visibly shaking.

  He was losing control.

  As he crossed the Embankment towards Westminster Station he felt a sharp pain in his right leg and was hurled into the air. He landed in the middle of the road, feeling dazed and battered down his right side. A crowd gathered and a mêlée of voices enveloped him.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Get an ambulance!’

  ‘It’s a hit and run. Call the police!’

  He sensed somebody crouching by his side.

  He turned to face the person, an elderly woman.

  She smiled at him and whispered in his ear. ‘Tut, tut . . . you really should learn to

watch where you’re going, Mr Mitchell. It can be dangerous on the streets . . . very dangerous.’

  He tried to raise his head.

  The woman disappeared into the crowd.

  He vomited.