30.

I see my four of my list of six lawyers. Henderson is my chauffeur for the day. Driving me from fancy London office to fancy London office. He waits downstairs, tightly angry in his BMW. Illegally parked, on the lookout for wardens.

I’m upstairs, getting the nicey-nicey treatment from men who bill their time at £350 an hour. The first guy seems genuinely warm, but not in a hurry. I rule him out immediately. The second guy treats me like the most unimportant part of his day. Number three: I don’t know, because he doesn’t turn up and leaves me in the hands of a junior associate, who is male but probably shaves about as often as I do.

Number four – George Noble – seems vaguely lecherous. Fat lips, fat cheeks, fleshy hands. A gold signet ring. One of those colorful ties which deeply conventional people wear if they’re eager to seem rebellious. But his acquisitive, desirous nature appeals to me.

I say, ‘How soon can I get out of here?’

‘Which country?’

‘Whichever’s fastest. It needs to be English-speaking, that’s all.’

‘Is budget an issue?’

‘No.’

He likes that response. He smiles and a thread of saliva hangs from the inside of his upper lip. My résumé – fake as it is – hardly suggests I’m in a position to be reckless about budget, but Henderson has clearly promised enough that Noble isn’t worried about payment. I don’t know what Noble believes about me, but I doubt if he’s too finicky about his ethics.

‘New Zealand is fastest.’

‘Then New Zealand it is.’

‘Your sponsor, Mr. Henderson, tells me you have quite a varied skillset.’

‘It’s a question of what we emphasize. I don’t want them to think I’m a flake.’

‘You’re a qualified speech therapist?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have worked in a registered practice for three years or more? They will check.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we’ll go with that. Do you have any New Zealand connections?’

I shrug. ‘I’m Welsh. I like sheep.’

That smile again. Then, ‘Your English is obviously fluent. Any other languages?’

‘Welsh.’

Noble raises his eyebrows, as though no reasonable government department would count that as a language.

I say, ‘The impudence of the government is appalling. Mae haerllygrwydd y llywodraeth yn ddychrynllyd. It’s proof of linguistic competence. Important in my line of work.’

‘OK, fair enough. Any criminal convictions?’

‘No.’

‘They will check.’

‘They can check all they want.’ And they can: a ‘person wanted in connection with …’ won’t show on any search that Immigration New Zealand has access to.

Noble asks a few other questions, but I should be an easy case. I’ll be a skilled migrant, the sort that New Zealand wants to encourage. He says, ‘Most delays are caused by poorly completed application forms. After that, it’s down to how quickly the authorities are able to confirm employment details and the like. Our form will have no errors in it. The rest …’ He shrugs. ‘A matter of weeks.’

When I get downstairs, Henderson is still at the wheel. A takeaway coffee in one hand. Phone pressed to his ear with the other.

Gary did get a good view of Henderson the other day in Pontcanna. He hasn’t seen Henderson around town, but says he’s on the case. He enjoys the challenge, I think. I’ve told him to patrol the town center. I’ve asked Gary to start with that little side street off the Hayes where we lost track of him once, then work outwards from there. A long job, infinitely tedious, but selling the Big Issue is the best cover you can get. And it’s not like Gary has anything more pressing to do.

Meantime, I wait by the passenger door until Henderson completes his call and allows me back.

‘Next one,’ he says grimly, putting the car into gear.

‘We can go home. I’m going to work with Mr. Noble.’

We encounter congestion and delays as far as Heathrow, then the motorway opens up. When we pass Slough and Windsor, we are travelling at eighty-seven miles per hour. When we pass Maidenhead, the needle touches a hundred and the BMW is as quiet as a church in winter.

As we cross into Wales, Henderson clears his throat and says, ‘We’re going to need you for a few days. At the end of next week. We’ll have a team of people together and I’ll need you to work with us the way you’ve been working with myself and Anna. You’ve been very helpful so far.’

I shrug. Low cloud rolls over the hills ahead of us. A grey Atlantic fretting at a stony coast. This is Wales as the Saxons first saw it. The Romans before them, the Celts before them. Low cloud and somber hills.

‘That video. I’m sorry you saw it.’

‘It’s not about seeing it. It’s that you did it.’

‘It wasn’t necessarily me.’ Henderson glances over, changing the subject. ‘I’ve got a present for you. On the back seat.’

I look behind me. Retrieve an Amazon box. It’s full of books. A Career in Speech and Language Therapy. Basic Medical Science for Speech and Language Therapy Students. Children’s Speech Disorders. A few others too.

‘In case you did actually want to work as a speech therapist. I don’t know. But in case you did.’

Henderson is less articulate than usual. A faint embarrassment sketches his cheekbones.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’