I stepped in front of him, parted a velvet curtain on the far side of the coat-check and walked into the bar first. The electronic beats that had seeped outside deepened and expanded, filling the cavernous low-lit joint with a disconcerting, undulating rhythm. Centre stage was an island bar, orbited by beautiful women and older, manicured men. The walls were lined with paintings – all the same size, all reworkings of the same drowning-man motif in different shades of red and blue, pink and white. Limbs twisted. Mouths gulped. Silent screams engulfed in a horror-kitsch art-aquarium. Above them, at the far end of the room, a glass staircase led to a mezzanine. Short skirts flashed above the parapet. A DJ kept the beats going on a set of turntables behind them. It was busy, but not crowded – the atmosphere fine-tuned to make men in their forties feel as young as their girlfriends. There’s nothing quite so effective as the promise of eternal youth to part men from their money.

‘You find the bathroom; I’m going to get a drink. Remember what I said about how to do this?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, but he looked suddenly unsure of himself.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be grand.’

He headed off, back straight, avoiding the clusters of drinkers orbiting the bar. I took my time and spiralled around the perimeter, checking out the paintings and the people who might purchase them, eventually winding up at the far end of the bar, where there were no tables and no punters to hem me in. After pretending not to see me for an almost-but-not-quite unprofessional moment, the barman drifted over and jerked his head towards me. He looked like he should have been shaking down customers out the back, not shaking cocktails for them behind the bar. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Six-four, two-twenty pounds and ripped. It was like looking at a hologram of my younger, fitter self. I rolled my shoulders and felt the wound left by the shooter in the cottage pulling at itself. I remembered, again, that I needed a shave. Right then I didn’t feel even forty-two, never mind twenty-two.

‘Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. A double. And, hey, is it OK if I use the house phone? I left my cell in the cab. Pain in the arse.’

He looked at me in such a way as to leave no doubt that I was, leaned over and handed me the receiver from a wireless landline docked beside the till. As he did so, his shirt gaped open at the neck. Hanging there on a gold chain was a traditional three-barred Russian cross. I thanked him, squinting over his shoulder at the expensive bottles lined up behind him. Individual labels drew into focus: vodka. A lot of vodka.