The secret war, the scientific struggle, depended on that. Spying was a performance and the costume, the voice, the initial entrance were as vital as the lines themselves.

Death was funny like that. It lingered like an hourglass, grains of sand slipping through with unstoppable momentum. Pleasures must be seized, opportunities taken.

The first twenty years of life, he was starting to realize, were all external. Spots, grease, hormones – the bumpy ride to adulthood. The next twenty were all internal, far more difficult to catch.

According to the papers, he had unwittingly committed the cardinal sin of being pale, male and stale. None of the above seemed likely to change in the immediate future.

‘Check the statute book, Professor. The Coroners and Justice Act 2009.’ ‘Refresh my memory.’ ‘Clearly prohibits any monetary gain by the description of a crime. Little thing called an “exploitative proceeds order”. Mainly ex-cons looking to cash in. But it comes in handy for us spooks now and then.’

‘A hot war’s better than a cold one. At least everyone knows the score.’

‘Just nothing. One whiff of my arrival to the DGSE or DGSI and you’ll be posted to outer Mongolia with drone attacks as mood music. Do we understand each other?’

Max almost laughed. It was known in media circles as the ‘Lorraine Kelly defence’. The Scottish TV presenter had successfully avoided paying HMRC back-taxes by claiming that ‘Lorraine Kelly’ was an on-screen persona and therefore not related directly to herself as a private individual.

Max took out the card again and paused over that penultimate line: Dry-clean thoroughly. It was spy speak for counter-surveillance, shrugging off a watcher.