In a moment of weakness and without telling her, I had agreed to split the royalties fifty-fifty with Hawthorne. That was what he had demanded from the start and I’d found myself acquiescing without consulting her first. Hilda was also annoyed because she had failed to persuade Hawthorne to let her represent him. They had spoken once on the telephone but she hadn’t met him yet. So she was stuck with ten per cent of fifty per cent . . . which was a much smaller percentage than she would have liked.

Tamara Moore, sitting opposite her, was Random House’s publicity director: a very intense and formidable woman in her early thirties. There was a laptop open in front of her and her eyes hadn’t left the screen. At the same time, she was holding a fountain pen, twisting it in her slender fingers as if it were a weapon. Briefly, she looked up. ‘How are you, Anthony?’ she asked. Before I had a chance to answer, she introduced me to her assistant. ‘This is Trish. She’s just started.’

‘Hello.’ Trish was about twenty years old and looked tired. She had a wide face with frizzy hair and an easy smile. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I loved High Fidelity.’

‘That’s the next meeting,’ Tamara muttered, quietly.

‘Oh.’ Trish fell silent.

We spent the next ten minutes chatting but it was hard enough to make even the smallest of small talk when all of us were waiting for the door to open and for Hawthorne to appear. Inwardly, I was seething that he had let me down. Finally, Graham turned to me, tight-lipped. ‘Well, there’s not a great deal to talk about without Daniel here, but we might as well get started.’

‘Nobody ever calls him Daniel,’ I said. ‘He’s just Hawthorne.’ This was met with silence. ‘I could try his mobile, if you like,’ I added.

‘I don’t see that there’s any point.’

‘I have a lunch at twelve thirty,’ Hilda said, giving me no support at all.

‘We’ll get you a cab,’ Graham said. ‘Where to?’

Hilda hesitated. ‘Weymouth Street.’

‘I’ll see to it.’ Trish tapped the instructions into her iPad.

Tamara pressed a button on her keypad and an image of the front cover of The Word Is Murder flashed onto a screen. It was a signal for the business to begin.

‘We can at least talk about our strategy for the end of the year,’ Graham said. ‘When can we expect proofs, Tamara?’

‘They’ll be in at the end of the month,’ Tamara replied. ‘We’ll be sending fifty copies to bloggers, reviewers and key customers.’

‘Radio? TV?’

‘We’re just making approaches . . .’

‘What about festivals?’ I asked. ‘There’s Edinburgh, Harrogate next month, Norwich . . .’ Everyone looked at me blankly so I went on: ‘I enjoy doing festivals. And if you really want people to meet Hawthorne, surely that’s the best way?’