Frederica House, the B&B Frank arranged for us, lies at the end of a cul-de-sac in the heart of Canterbury. It’s homely, smells of dried flowers and, very pleasingly, the landlady looks and sounds like Mrs Wilberforce from The Ladykillers.
I get a reasonable night’s sleep before being woken early by my phone’s quiet ringing. I pick up and try not to sound too groggy.
‘Hello?’
‘Are you alone?’
It’s Jeremy Simmonds and I reply, ‘Yes, but I’ve got my memories to keep me warm.’
‘I meant—’
‘I know what you meant! I’m by myself. But I don’t remember ordering a wake-up call.’
‘We need to meet.’
‘I’m in Canterbury.’
‘So am I. Now, you’re in Frederica House.’
I sit up and lean back against the headboard. ‘How did you know that?’
‘The landlady is one of our sleeper agents. She’s actually a Bulgarian assassin who used to work in East Berlin.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Of course I’m joking! We just ANPR’ed your old Marina. Took about three minutes to track you down. Meet me in half an hour . . .’
I haul myself out of bed as we make arrangements for the rendezvous. Simmonds hangs up. I shower, put on a suit and tie and head over to the cathedral.
Thomas Becket was murdered here in 1170, killed in a conspiracy by assassins who were essentially working for the British authorities. The corner of the north-west transept where the priest had his skull smashed open is known as the Martyrdom, and a few paces beyond it, I find a door leading to the Great Cloisters, a tranquil courtyard that’s all stone pillars and arches around an immaculately kept square of grass. I can see Jeremy Simmonds waiting on the far edge, with two women I take to be bodyguards stood a few paces behind him.
As we shake hands, I ask if he’s had any luck tracking down Alexander Paige.
‘We’ve followed up on the ideas you gave us. It’s ongoing, of course, but things are progressing terribly well!’ He sounds confident and breezy, so I assume he’s lying.
‘OK. Do you know where he is?’
‘At this precise moment?’
‘At any moment.’
He looks pained. ‘Hate to be a mandarin about the whole thing, Novak, but the words need-to-know basis are sadly applicable to this sitch.’
‘I think I need to know, Simmonds. You know, bearing in mind the sitch is he’s trying to have me killed.’
‘Are you looking after my hip flask?’
‘Really? We’re discussing my potential murder and you’re switching the conversation to your hip flask?’
‘Fine bit of silverware that, you know. Given to me by my grandmother. Granny Simmonds. Of the Shropshire Simmondses. For my twenty-first birthday. I was always quite upset she didn’t bother to have an inscription engraved on it, but hey-ho. How did that coffee go down?’
‘It went down very well, thank you.’ Which is technically true. It went down the plughole very well. We begin to walk around the perimeter of the grass. ‘Any intel on Paige’s plans to have me taken care of?’
‘We’ve a plan in place and I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’m co-ordinating the whole operation.’
Christ! Simmonds couldn’t co-ordinate a shirt and tie, and I quietly groan, ‘I’m dead.’
‘Pardon?’
We turn a corner.
‘I was about to say I’m dead pleased you’re running point on this one.’
‘Anything for an old friend!’
I’m about to ask who he means, when I realise he’s talking about me. ‘Thanks, man. And it’s lovely to see you, of course, but I’m guessing something is wrong. For something to pull you all the way from London . . . it must be very wrong.’ We pause and both look over at the cathedral. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’