At that second, a tramp erupted from the undergrowth, unshaven and unkempt, covered in mud, ferns and dust, dried blood in his hair, a cheap brown bag clutched in one hand, and a wild expression on his face. ‘He looked absolutely nothing like the photograph,’ thought Rachel. ‘Any fantasies we had of meeting a suave spy disappeared on the spot.’ Ascot thought the figure looked like ‘some forest troll or woodman in Grimms’ Fairy Tales’.
