‘Right, I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but . . . ’ He flicked the pages in his diary. ‘I would say the references to hotels are when a film premiere is taking place. There would be a number of press launches, cast and crew, and then, usually after a premiere, they would have a champagne buffet celebration.’

‘So these were all movie premieres?’ Jane asked.

Daniel continued flicking through the diary. ‘Yes, I’d say so. I may have been at a couple. I mean, they weren’t all Foxley’s independent premieres. You know Ivor Summers has quite an impressive film company.’

Spencer leaned forward. ‘What do you make of him?’

Daniel scrunched up the napkin and tossed it into a waste bin. ‘Well, let’s say I wouldn’t like to argue with him. He’s a heavy hitter.’

‘Would you say the Summers brothers are untrustworthy?’ Spencer asked.

Daniel laughed. ‘I would say that is putting it mildly. I know for certain that Charles was becoming disenchanted with them.’ He gestured to various film posters in his office. ‘Charles was getting packages together, but with the last projects there was a lot of ill-feeling about how the brothers were taking the lion’s share. He brought the actors to the table, the script, writers, director; but I know when they won an award at Cannes, Charles’s name wasn’t even mentioned.’

Daniel’s phone began ringing.

‘Do you mind if I get to work? If there is anything else I can help you with, feel free to ask.’

He picked up the phone and his usual abrasive tone was instantly replaced with a syrupy cooing. ‘Oh, my darling. I just have to congratulate you. What a brilliant performance.’ He put his hand over the receiver and rolled his eyes. ‘She was fucking dreadful,’ he whispered. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy.’

Spencer and Jane went back down the corridor and turned right, heading towards Simon Quinn’s office. The small cubicle room was in complete disarray. There were stacks of ten-by-eight photographs on the floor, and many of the framed photos had been taken down and were leaning against the wall. His desk was piled high with files and more photographs while he was on his hands and knees, putting things into a large cardboard box beneath his desk. As they entered, he sat up and hit his head on the edge of the desk, swearing.

Jane stepped over photos of the young, beautiful girls and asked if he could double-check some dates, which she needed to confirm were connected to KatWalk. Simon was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with ‘Kiss’, with the white, ghoulish face of Gene Simmons on the front.

He looked at the two typed pages Jane handed him. ‘Oh shit, I don’t know. I’ll have to have a look at my ledger because I can’t remember who we sent and who we didn’t.’