CHAPTER 11 THE LIST
We stepped inside the café. The air was thick with coffee and the faint heat of overworked laptops. Students filled every corner, some hunched over keyboards, others sprawled on mismatched chairs beneath walls lined with local art for sale.
"There," Brian murmured, nodding towards the window.
A man sat by himself, fingers wrapped around a mug of something dark. His grey cashmere jumper seemed oddly formal against the café's battered furniture. His hair caught the light, every strand in place, the sort of effortless neatness that takes a suspicious amount of effort. Not a hint of the usual tech-nerd uniform: no crumpled T-shirt, no slouch, not even a pair of battered trainers.
"Ian Blackwood?" I approached his table.
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine with a sharp
