A selection of well-groomed and expensively dressed individuals mingle in the foyer, huddled around in little groups. The majority have their phones out, taking selfies and live streaming their evening to their social media followers. It makes me yearn for a simpler time, before phones were glued to hands and having fun was more important than the illusion of having fun. I often hark back to the days of my Motorola Timeport with fondness, to a time when sending a text message was considered a novelty. God, I’m getting old.

Tom and I spend some time trying to identify any film stars. We wander around the foyer and he points out a few faces I vaguely recognise and reels off some films they’ve starred in. I’m amazed at how much detail he remembers and make a mental note to invite him to the next pub quiz I go to.

Just then, our attention is drawn to a commotion near the area by the escalators. Ed, the author of The Threat series, the man I recently paid a visit to, has arrived to some fanfare. A few people gather around him and pleasantries are exchanged, hands shook.

It seems that Ed is on the road to recovery. The dark rings underneath his eyes have disappeared and his skin emits a healthy glow. Gone is the deathly pallor from when we saw him last. Gone too is the oversized hoodie and tatty pyjama bottoms, replaced instead by a fitted three-piece suit and a silk bowtie.

With a smile that looks painted on, he makes his way through the crowd, pausing for some photographs before casting a sideways glance in our direction. He takes another step and does a double take, studying my face and seemingly reaching the realisation of who I am. His brow furrows as confusion flashes across his face. He changes course and approaches us, holding out his hand which I take in mine. His palm is sweaty.

‘Inspector, you had me at a disadvantage for a moment there.’ He lets go of my hand and I pull it behind my back, rubbing it on my dress to get rid of the dampness.

‘Mr Bennett, how are you?’

‘I’m getting there,’ he says, coughing into a handkerchief he has produced from an inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Still not fully recovered from the illness that kept me from the trip to Scotland and if it weren’t for the fact that this is Reuben’s night, I wouldn’t be here.’

I’m surprised. ‘Even though it’s the film adaptation of your book? This is your night too, surely?’

He waves the suggestion away with his hand. ‘Did you see the first film? It’s no more an adaptation than a complete re-write. That film had none of my DNA and I doubt this one will either. Still, as I say, tonight is all about Reuben and his vision. I may not like the film but I love him like a brother and that’s more important.’ His gaze drifts towards Tom.