He looked at his watch. Five-thirty. He got up, walked through the park, past amblers, joggers and dog-walkers, joined Boundary Street and headed towards the heart of West End. A man in a suit came towards him – slim and dark-haired with a businesslike stride. Reuben’s heart quickened. As the man came closer, he looked up, met Reuben’s eyes and looked away.
Reuben breathed a sigh of relief. For a minute he’d thought the man was Viktor Kominsky. Although he lived on the other side of West End, the trendier part, the chances of running into him sooner or later were pretty high. Reuben had sent a bank cheque for three thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars to Viktor, enclosed with a note. ‘I hope you will accept this in the spirit in which it is intended. In no way can it be reparation for
