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I would have loved to print out the whole file, but unfortunately the office server used a central printing system that recorded who had asked for what to be printed. How could I explain away an apparent request from Gregory when he was out to lunch? More to the point, how would I explain sitting at Gregory’s desk and using his computer if he returned unexpectedly early?

I instinctively looked at my watch. It was ten to two. I reckoned I should be safe for at least another twenty minutes, but I had no intention of being even half that long.

I flipped through the pages of the file trying to find the names of the Bulgarian agents involved in the project, but it was a nightmare, with PDF scans of the relevant documents all in the local Cyrillic script. It might as well have been in Chinese. I couldn’t read any of the words, but I could read what I thought was a telephone number written in regular digits. I copied it down on the back of one of Herb’s MoneyHome payment slips. It began “+359,” which I knew from looking at the Internet earlier was the international code for Bulgaria.

I looked again at my watch. Two o’clock.

I opened Gregory’s e-mail in-box and did a search for “Bulgaria.” There were six e-mails, all from September two years ago. I glanced through them but nothing seemed amiss. They were about European Union money, and they were all from the same source. I copied down the e-mail address of the sender, uri_joram@ec .europa.eu, and also that of the recipient, dimitar.petrov@bsnet .co.bg. Gregory had been copied into the correspondence but there was no sign of any replies. I took a chance and forwarded the e-mails to my private e-mail address, then I deleted the forwarded record from Gregory’s “Sent” folder. I wished I could have e-mailed myself the whole Roberts file, but our security system wouldn’t allow it.

I reluctantly closed Gregory’s in-box and the Roberts Family Trust file and checked that the screen appeared the same as when I had first arrived.

I slipped out into the corridor, and no one shouted a challenge or questioned what I had been doing in Gregory’s office.

As everywhere in the offices, the corridor outside was lined with cardboard document boxes holding the paper transaction reports. I searched for the box containing those for the date at the top of the computer file.

Mrs. McDowd may not have liked policemen very much, and she was definitely too nosy about the staff’s lives and families, but she was very methodical in her filing. All the boxes were in chronological order with dates clearly written in marker pen on the ends.

I lifted up the box with the correct date and dug through its papers until I found the correct transaction report and associated paperwork. I pulled them out, folded them and stuffed them into my trouser pocket alongside Herb’s MoneyHome payment slips, before putting the box carefully back in the same place I’d found it.

I glanced at my watch once more: twenty past two. Where had those twenty minutes gone? Time I was away. But why did I suddenly feel like a thief in the night? I’d done nothing wrong. Or had I? Maybe I should just go and see Jessica straightaway when she returned from lunch. But the client, Jolyon Roberts, had specifically asked me to have a discreet look rather than initiate a possible fraud investigation that would, as he put it, drag the good name of the Roberts family through the courts.

Nevertheless, whatever else I might do, I didn’t want to be in the offices when Gregory returned from his restaurant.

I went back into my office to collect my jacket.

“Leaving already?” said Rory sarcastically. “What shall I tell Gregory?”

I ignored him.

As I walked down the corridor towards the reception area I realized with a heavy heart that I’d left it too late. I could hear Gregory and Patrick talking. I would just have to face the music.

“Ah, there you are Foxton,” Gregory announced at high volume. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

I was so mesmerized by Gregory that I hardly took any notice