Jay took great care with his false identities. Each one was tied to a real birth certificate and National Insurance number, generally belonging to someone who had either died or moved abroad. Then it was backed up with as complete an online profile as he could manage. None of them had any connections to his own legal ID.
This identity—Owen Ingram—wasn’t a London resident. Jay had booked him a hotel room in Soho, not far from his impending rendezvous with Anya Clay; in addition to backing up his cover, it made for a good place to prepare.
Jay owned exactly one suit, which he’d thought was fairly decent until he met Moran—who, at present, was locked into a disapproving orbit around Jay as he stood in front of the room’s full-length mirror, dressed in his shirt and trousers.
“I know for a fact you can afford a tailor,” Moran said.
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