Skyprobe

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“Excuse me, please,” the man said, pushing past Shaw to the bar. Shaw knew the man had been tailing him from Savile Row. He’d spotted him for what he was outside the Civil Service Commission in Burlington Gardens. Shaw’s intention had been to take advantage of one of London’s really nice winter mornings — it was a clear day, with puffy white clouds scudding before a light wind across a blue sky — by walking through to the London Hilton where later a girl would be expecting him to buy her lunch. But the tail, who wasn’t particularly skilful, had looked interesting; so Shaw, strolling casually on into Bond Street and crossing into Stafford Street, had paused for a moment outside The Goat tavern. He had gone in. The bar was packed. Shaw had pushed through the crowd and ordered a Scotch-on-the-rocks and from the corner of his eye he’d seen the tail coming in. A roll-your-own cigarette was dangling messily from the man’s lower lip.

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