Inside, deep red carpets absorbed sound and, by the looks of it, a multitude of burning cigarettes. The gambling must have gone on behind the padded doors. No sound of machines or roulette wheels. The only staff member I saw was pushing a trolley of clingfilmed crab.

I found the bar upstairs, one man in a red waistcoat mopping the floor. When he saw me he put the mop down and went behind the bar. I got a bottle of expensive vodka and two glasses, found a back exit, then a window that let me watch Shomko arrive and confirm he was alone.

He slammed the door of his car and walked towards the entrance. I was back behind the vodka in time to watch him arrive.

He looked uncertain, eyes bloodshot. He hadn’t shaved since the night before. He felt for his seat before lowering himself down, as if it might make a sudden move. There was ice in his moustache. He removed his gloves, kept his black woollen coat on. I poured the vodka, nudged a shot towards him.

‘To the President,’ I said, in good Russian. The language caught him by surprise. He studied me, then knocked the drink back, wiped his mouth, fumbled in his shirt pocket for a crumpled packet of Marlboro. He removed a flattened cigarette and lit it. I slid the envelope towards him. He looked inside, left it on the table.

‘What do you want?’

‘That’s just for being here, a thank you. You can take it and walk away now.’ I put the second envelope down. ‘This is if you want to help.’

He took a deep drag and rested his cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray. I refilled our glasses.

‘CIA?’

‘No.’

‘Take my number off your phone.’

‘It’s off.’

‘Show me.’

I showed him. He sat back.

‘They have a picture of you,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘They want to know who you are.’

‘In connection with what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I am someone who does a lot of business here and who cares very deeply about Kazakhstan. A man was killed in an apartment on Malakhov Street five nights ago. I’d like to know who he was and why he was shot.’

Shomko drew the envelope towards him and counted the money inside, then he split it, cramming half into his wallet, putting the other half inside his jacket. Emboldened by the currency against his heart, he relaxed.

‘I know about it.’

‘Okay.’

‘There are a lot of resources on this.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t have a name. I can try to get one.’

‘Who do people think did it?’

‘They are looking for an English woman.’

‘Where is the English woman now?’

He spread his hands. ‘Gone. She bought plane tickets using a stolen credit card. Lufthansa to Frankfurt then on to Caracas, Venezuela.’

‘Caracas?’

‘That’s right. They were never used.’

‘How many tickets?’