‘I don’t need a table, thanks, James. Just a drink.’

‘Camilla. Where have you been, darling? Love the hair.’ Keith Short was a journalist and she had featured several times in his gossip column. ‘What about dinner? I’m hanging around in case any of these visiting chappies from Africa goes on the rampage, or comes up with something colourful for my piece on Wednesday. There’s a certain aristocratic English beauty, who fancies a little dark meat of an evening. I hear she might drop in. I’ve got a photographer here in the hopes that she becomes marvellously indiscreet.’

‘What a lovely profession you’ve chosen, Mr Short,’ she said, only half amused.

‘And aren’t you glad of it, my love, when I write you up in my little square of newsprint. What about dinner, then?’

‘I’m booked up later on, thanks,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to find ways of enlightening the public all by yourself.’

‘I suppose I will. So tell me, where have you been hiding of late?’

‘I was in Kenya for several weeks.’

‘These blokes upstairs are from there – the ones I’m keeping an eye on.’ Keith signalled for another drink. ‘James here tells me they’re having themselves a high old time.’

‘They’re all like that,’ declared the barman. ‘These visiting spivs are all the same, no matter where they come from. You’d never credit how much booze they put away. Rivers of the stuff. I thought those places in Africa were all broke. They always say they need money and they come over here to beg for help, else they’ll starve. That’s what you read in the papers. Well, all I can say, just between us, sir, is they could probably run a whole country on the amount they spend on limousines and suites and booze in this place alone. And expensive women. They have those shipped in, the minute they arrive.’

‘Do they spend much time in the bar?’ Camilla said.

‘Nah. Everything is sent up to the suite. Phone never stops ringing. Been at it for a couple of days, this lot. James, a bottle of Glenfiddich for four six three. James, a magnum of Dom Perignon for four six three. James, could you take care of the Armagnac they want in four six three. The best, always the best, and I’ll bet the bills go to Whitehall, so you and I can pay them out of our taxes.’

Camilla finished her drink and left the bar. When the door of the lift opened on the fourth floor she stood still, suddenly unsure. Then she stepped out and walked slowly along the carpeted corridor, looking at the discreet numbers on the bedroom doors. When she knocked there was only silence and she felt deeply agitated, so that she had to put up her hand and steady herself on the door frame.