"We don't have a command structure," said Adam, chewing his nails.
"Is this about the big chair?" I said, getting up from behind White's desk and offering him the seat.
"No it bloody isn't."
I went over to Adam and took his hand from his mouth and squeezed it.
"Just think of it like the holiday before an election when there's briefly no government. Belgium once went for two years with no government and nobody noticed. It's only for a few days."
He instantly snapped out of it and his demeanour returned to normal.
"Sorry. Right, what's on the agenda?"
"I have to give evidence against Imran and his cronies tomorrow, very boring. However, we do need to maintain a presence at the court just in case whoever was funding them decides to show up and spring or eliminate them. Then there's the usual job of coordinating all the information coming in and assessing it. Your department I think, John?"
"Oh," he pouted, "please miss, please can I go out and kill some terrorists?"
"When you've done your homework you can go and kill whoever you like. Right, John, you stay here and get on with that, we'd better go and sort out Operation Court House."
"That's not very original," said John, sitting down in the big chair and switching on the computer.
"I haven't had enough coffee yet to come up with anything original. And don't you dare light up in here, you know the boss has the nasal passages of a sniffer dog."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Come on, Adam, let's get some coffee and go to your office."
Two hours later we had assigned and briefed the agents for my court appearance. It was only the magistrates and would probably be over in half an hour, but if anyone were planning to spring the gang it was the softest target. They wouldn't expect a magistrates to be surrounded by heavily armed guards, but it fucking well would be tomorrow.
Just as I was beginning to consider a long lunch and a couple of glasses of wine, John burst in.
"We may have a problem," he said, wheezing, I hoped, from the effort of running up the stairs. "Peterson has disappeared. He hasn't been home since he was released eight days ago. His wife has just been doing her best to perforate my eardrums down the bloody phone."
"Why has she waited so long to report it?" I asked.
John couldn't help grinning.
"Apparently she doesn't want him back but she needs her housekeeping money."
"How utterly romantic," I said. "Does this have anything to do with us? I don't want to waste any time on that creepy old fucker."
"The CIA were very keen to pick his brains not so long ago, weren't they?" said Adam. "Now he's lost his job he has nothing further to lose - maybe they've tapped him again and he's defected."
"Shit, I hadn't thought of that. I'd better ask the boss about this one."
I phoned White and had a brief and fairly terse conversation.
"Well?" said John.
"To paraphrase," I said, "he wants us to find him and give him a good talking to. Come on, we'll get lunch on the way - I'll need enough energy to kick his arse if he's up to anything he shouldn't be."
After stopping off for a bucket of fried chicken, we went to the taxi firm that had picked up the old man from prison.
Adam went in, while John leaned out of the back window smoking and I tucked into the chicken.
"Surely the local coppers should be doing this?" he intoned between puffs.
"Margery didn't call them, she called us. She seems to think, even now, that she's entitled to go above the police for help."
"But this is a domestic matter, surely?"
"Unless Adam's right, and he had found himself some new employment."
"Do you think he has?"
"I wouldn't put anything past the old creep. I honestly don't think he has any principles at all."
Adam emerged from the taxi office brandishing a small piece of paper.
"They dropped him off at this hotel. Do you know it?"
"I know the street," I said, "doesn't seem like Peterson's sort of place. Cheap b&bs I think."
Adam drove off and I finished the chicken.
What the hell was Peterson doing living in a b&b when he had a big, posh house to go back to. Oh yes, Margery and those awful children.
"No, he hasn't had any visitors," said the girl behind reception. "In fact, he hasn't left the hotel since he got here. I don't think he's changed his clothes. We wondered if we should call someone but it's none of our business really."
"Don't you have to be out of your room during the day in these places?" I asked.
"We have a residents bar and TV lounge open twenty four hours."
"Now I see why he's here," I said. "One last thing. Have you seen him talking to anyone in the bar?"
"No, he barely says a word to anyone - we all just leave him alone."
"Is he in the bar now?"
"No, he was in there until about five this morning so I heard. In fact, he'll have to leave his room soon for us to clean it."
"Okay, thank you, we'll remind him of that. Come on, let's cheer him up with a visit."
We trooped our way through the grim, dimly lit corridors until we found his room. I knocked loudly on the door.
"Alright," a croaky voice said, "I'll be out in a minute."
We waited for a couple of minutes. When Peterson finally shuffled out of the room I barely recognised him. For a brief moment I actually felt sorry for him - he looked a shadow of his former shadow. Then again I don't suppose a few weeks in prison would do my complexion any good either.
He barely seemed to register who we were at first. His eyes were bloodshot, he was even thinner, and he looked to me as if he were in the mid stages of dying from alcohol poisoning. Much as I disliked, even loathed him, it angered me that the management of the establishment had let him get himself into this state.
"Fucking hell," said John, "you look like shit."
"What do you want?" he muttered. "I don't work for you anymore."
"Your wife phoned me this morning and melted my ear," said John. "We're just checking you haven't defected."
"Defected? To where?"
"Anywhere," I said. "Look, get a grip, Peterson. Go home or to a hospital but you're not staying here."
"I'm going to the bar," he said but as he tried to walk away from us he collapsed in a sorry heap.
I called an ambulance, had a good, satisfying shout at the manager of the flea pit, and then went for the glass of wine I'd been promising myself.