The taxi that Strike had picked up in Charing Cross Road turned into St. James’s Street twenty minutes later, while he was still talking to the Minister for Culture on his mobile.

“A placard? What’s on it?”

“Your face,” said Strike. “That’s all I know.”

“And he’s heading for the reception? Well, this is bloody it, isn’t it?” shouted Chiswell, so loudly that Strike winced and removed the phone from his ear. “If the press see this, it’s all over! You were supposed to stop something like this bloody happening!”

“And I’m going to try,” said Strike, “but in your shoes I’d want to be forewarned. I’d advise—”

“I don’t pay you for advice!”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” promised Strike, but Chiswell had already hung up.

“I’m not going to be able to go any further, mate,” said the taxi driver, addressing Strike in the rearview mirror from which dangled a swinging mobile, outlined in tufts of multi-colored cotton and embossed with a golden Ganesh. The end of St. James’s Street had been blocked off. A swelling crowd of royal watchers and Olympics fans, many clutching small Union Jacks, was congregating behind portable barriers, waiting for the arrival of Paralympians and Prince Harry.

“OK, I’ll get out here,” said Strike, fumbling for his wallet.

He was once again facing the crenellated frontage of St. James’s Palace, its gilded, diamond-shaped clock gleaming in the early evening sun. Strike limped down the slope again towards the crowd, passing the side street where Pratt’s stood, while smartly dressed passersby, workers and customers of galleries and wine merchants moved aside courteously as his uneven gait became progressively more pronounced.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pain shooting up into his groin every time he put his weight onto the prosthesis as he drew closer to the assembled sports fans and royal watchers. He could see no placards or banners of a political nature, but as he joined the back of the crowd and looked down Cleveland Row, he spotted a press pen and ranks of photographers, which stood waiting for the prince and famous athletes. It was only when a car slid past, containing a glossy-haired brunette Strike vaguely recognized from the television, that he remembered he had not called Lorelei to tell her he would be late to dinner. He hastily dialed her number.

“Hi, Corm.”

She sounded apprehensive. He guessed that she thought he was going to cancel.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes still darting around for some sign of Jimmy. “I’m really sorry, but something’s come up. I might be late.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and he could tell that she was relieved that he was still intending to come. “Shall I try and change the booking?”

“Yeah—maybe make it eight instead of seven?”

Turning for the third time to scan Pall Mall behind him, Strike spotted Flick’s tomato-red hair. Eight CORE members were heading for the crowd, including a stringy, blond-dreadlocked youth and a short, thickset man who resembled a bouncer. Flick was the only woman. All bar Jimmy were holding placards with the broken Olympic rings on them, and slogans such as “Fair Play Is Fair Pay” and “Homes Not Bombs.” Jimmy was holding his own placard upside down, the picture on it turned inwards, parallel with his leg.

“Lorelei, I’ve got to go. Speak later.”

Uniformed police were walking around the perimeter fencing keeping the crowds back, walkie-talkies in hand, eyes roving constantly over the cheerful spectators. They, too, had spotted CORE, who were trying to reach a spot opposite the press pen.

Gritting his teeth, Strike began to forge a path through the pressing crowd, eyes on Jimmy.