As North exited the back lane three streets from the townhouse, he looked left and right. He couldn’t be sure, but by Soho he knew, Hone’s people weren’t following him. He was free and clear. If he went back to Mayfair, there’d be no trace of any intrusion in the old lady’s apartment, there’d be no old lady in the fridge – only yellow sheets and silence. And across the road where Hone kept them under surveillance, there would be no coffee cups, no ash and no spread-eagled corpse bleeding into a Persian carpet. It would be like the one-eyed man was a bad dream.